Another hour passed before Mirak finally stood at the entrance to the labyrinth. His body slumped against the cold stone wall, his strength waning with every breath. His head pounded relentlessly, the migraine from earlier digging deeper, clawing at his skull.
"Oh, you look awful," Kord's voice rang out, sharp and unsympathetic.
"Feel just about as bad as I look," Mirak grunted. He straightened himself against the wall, though his legs trembled with the effort. The headache wasn't going away anytime soon.
Kord's expression softened ever so slightly. "Lock's been preaching about your skills," he said. "That's not an easy thing to do for one of his kind."
Mirak pushed off the wall with a groan, falling into step beside Kord as they entered the labyrinth. The dim, flickering light cast jagged shadows along the corridor walls. "You don't seem too interested in the details," Mirak said, testing Kord's intentions with a casual tone. "Don't you care what happened?"
Kord shrugged, his pace steady and unhurried. "I prefer hearing it from the source—if you're inclined to share."
Mirak bit back a sigh. How could he even explain something like Transference? Atta, flows, boundaries—it was all so esoteric, even to him. "It's not exactly something I can sum up in a few words," he admitted. "You'd need to understand flows first."
Kord smiled faintly. "I'll pass. Let the Sorcerers have their fun. I'm sure Czenth will want to hear all about it, though."
They continued walking, the labyrinth's twists and turns becoming familiar. The air grew cooler as they descended deeper into its heart. Kord broke the silence after a moment. "Lancelot's been briefed. He seems very pleased. The fall of the glass wall has stirred Koona like never before—frightened the common folk right to their bones."
"The Revenant aren't hidden in the shadows anymore," Mirak said, his tone distracted. His thoughts flickered back to the strange, oppressive feeling in the church. That lingering murkiness refused to leave his mind.
Kord nodded. "It was only a matter of time before we stepped into the limelight. This is all part of Lancelot's plan."
"It's a long plan," Mirak muttered, his voice tinged with skepticism.
Kord chuckled. "The best plans always are. The truly great ones are crafted so carefully that no one realizes the goal has been achieved until it's too late."
Mirak wanted to argue, but the weariness in his body kept his words at bay. Instead, he offered, "Most of what we've done so far feels more like spite than strategy."
Kord paused at an intersection, glancing briefly down each corridor before turning right. "Lancelot rewards each of us in time," he said. "Isn't that why you're here?"
"And what do you think my reward will be for this mission?" Mirak asked, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I tore down a wall. What's that worth to him?"
Kord shrugged again, his nonchalance unwavering. "Lancelot has a habit of knowing what we want before we do. Keep him happy, and he'll treat you well."
Mirak didn't respond. His exhaustion made the prospect of arguing with Kord seem pointless. They walked in silence until they reached the Hall of Glass. As the heavy doors slid open, the hum of excited chatter hit Mirak like a wave.
The Hall of Glass was alive with energy. The Revenant sat in their designated chairs, some boasting of their newfound rewards: resin chunks, glinting trinkets, intricate machines. Though thieves at heart, they reveled in the spoils of their efforts, each prize a testament to their skill.
Lancelot rose from his seat at the head of the table. His movements were slow and deliberate, exuding an air of command that stilled the room. His smile was a masterpiece of calculated charm. "The Sorcerer of the hour finally graces us with his presence," he said, his voice carrying easily over the murmurs. "Now that you've arrived, we can finally bestow the last reward."
Kord slipped into his chair without a word, leaving Mirak standing awkwardly at the center of attention. Lancelot's gaze never left him, his eyes alight with an unreadable glint.
"Lock told us of your... unique use of Atta," Lancelot continued, clapping his hands together. The sound resonated sharply, echoing through the glass-paneled hall. "You've made history tonight, Mirak. Never before has a wall in Koona been brought down, and you alone can claim that accomplishment."
There was a soft clink as one of the attendants stepped forward, placing a wrapped cloth on the table in front of Mirak. Lancelot gestured to it with an elegant wave. "Accept your reward," he said, his voice honeyed and inviting.
Mirak hesitated, his eyes narrowing. Slowly, he reached out and flipped the cloth aside, revealing a finely crafted metal hand. Its design was intricate, almost otherworldly, the craftsmanship unmistakably Orcish.
"A metal hand?" Mirak said, raising a brow.
The room went silent. More than a few of the Revenant leaned forward, their eyes fixed on the gleaming appendage.
Lancelot laughed lightly, the sound almost musical. "This is no ordinary hand. It was forged in Mukard, the oldest of the Orc strongholds. A masterpiece of their craft. You've done a great service, and I would repay you in kind."
Mirak's gaze flicked to Czenth, whose own metal hand rested on the table beside him. "Czenth already has one of your metal hands," he pointed out.
"Ah, but his was crafted for a very specific task: disabling the palace doors. Yours, however, is a symbol of trust. With this hand, you would have the favor of the Orc strongholds, their resources, their protection. It would make you whole again."
Mirak stared at the hand, unmoving. His own hand, weak and aching, throbbed with phantom pains. The thought of being whole again—of holding books without fumbling, of performing tasks without struggle—was tempting. But something about it didn't sit right.
Slowly, deliberately, Mirak placed his hand on the metal appendage... and pushed it back toward Lancelot.
The room froze.
"I can't accept this," Mirak said quietly.
Lancelot's smile didn't falter, though his eyes darkened with intrigue. "Truly?" he asked, his tone smooth and unreadable. "You're certain?"
"Yes," Mirak said, his voice steady.
For a moment, silence hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall. Then, Lancelot laughed again, softer this time. "You are an anomaly, Mirak. No one has ever turned down one of my gifts."
Mirak met his gaze without flinching. "I'd prefer books. And maybe a bit more resin."
Lancelot clapped his hands together, the sound breaking the tension like shattering glass. "As you wish," he said, his tone still pleasant, though his smile seemed a touch more calculated now. "I'll see to it that your request is fulfilled. You've earned it."
He turned to address the rest of the Revenant. "Volim will lead the next set of missions," he announced. "I will be capitalizing on the fear the wall's destruction has sown. My time will be occupied in the coming weeks, but I trust you all to maintain the momentum we've gained. The seeds have been sown—it's time to reap the harvest."
The Revenant murmured their agreement, but Mirak's gaze remained fixed on Lancelot. Something about his tone, his phrasing, didn't sit right. The man was always in control, always calculating, but this felt... different.
As Lancelot left the hall, Mirak couldn't shake the feeling that they were all being swept along by a current they couldn't see.