Down in the depths of Blackspire, the air is as heavy as Voryn stands amidst the wretched masses, his tunic tucked at the tail of his breeches, shoveling through ice coals with mechanical precision. The ceaseless grind of labor dulls the mind, but it cannot silence the torturous echo of his thoughts. Crowded as he is, there is no solace, only the agony of memory.
Every so often, his eyes dart to her—at times a fleeting glance, but she never meets his gaze. Once, she saved his life. Now, she seems to will herself blind to his existence. Voryn can only speculate that she blames him for Zias's death. A loss they both bear but mourn in silence. He hadn't even known she cared until Zias was gone. In the past, she would at least look at him—brief, burning exchanges that were indecipherable to any other but herself. Now, there is only an empty void where their shared grief should have been. It barely bothered him when he did care, but now no longer.
The monotony of Blackspire is maddening, a relentless rhythm broken only by the spiral's descent. When it comes, it brings new souls to the furnace's maw. But the intervals between these descents are vast, stretching endlessly in the dark where time has lost all meaning. Voryn can't calculate how long he's been entombed. Winters have passed, many—that much he knows. How many? He can no longer say. There are no stars to mark the nights, no sun to guide the days. Only darkness.
The infernal wardens dictate everything—when to eat, when to sleep, when to toil. Their guttural commands rouse prisoners from their open cells and send them in procession to the furnace's jaws, where exhaustion cleaves at their bodies until they return to collapse on the stone floors. Most endure. Many do not.
As they march back from a bleak cycle, a man near Voryn's age stumbles to his knees. His scream pierces the hot air, raw and jagged, drawing the attention of none. Voryn's gaze flickers to him, noting the grotesque disruption along the man's spine, a sickening deformation as if his very bones had been snapped out of place. An ingrafter, Voryn realizes—likely torn from the man's body without care or mercy. Ingrafters, products of the Fifth Quadrant, are fused to their wielders, powering advanced tools and weapons with their own magic. The opposite of the weaponry he used to wield that is empowered by the arcanal currents themselves—dependent on the quadrant.
The man's trembling hand rise in plea, but the others keep moving, their faces empty of compassion. Voryn passes him too, unmoved. A sound like that would yank at his instincts, but now there is no such pull. A warden steps forward, snarling a guttural spate. The hiss of searing flesh follows, and the man's agonized screams tears through the dark once again. Voryn doesn't turn. He walks on, the sloughed stirring, a shadow of the ghost of a demand that lost its sway.
And yet not all share his resignation. When the infernal warden grabs Voryn by the scruff of his neck, dragging him from the line of prisoners, it sends a ripple through the cavernous silence. No one is ever taken from the toil unless they are dead or dying. Heads turn, curious and wary, but no one dares move—except for her. The woman, Arla—Zias had named her—snaps her gaze toward him, her eyes alight with sudden, reckless intent.
Voryn meets her gaze, shaking his head. silent command. Don't. The warden yanks his head forward, jerking him out of sight.
The spiral descends, its ancient mechanisms groaning as the platform rises to meet it. Voryn's body is still, but his mind churns, assaulted by shards of memory—his failed escape with Zias and the agonizing consequences. The arcane ascent feels endless, every turn of the spiral pressing against his chest like a phantom weight. Finally, the platform halts at the surface level, and the air feels thinner, sharper. Voryn hesitates, bracing for the searing agony his brand will unleash the moment he steps forward.
The warden shoves him, and he stumbles. No pain. Confusion knots his brow. Still, it does nothing.
They move through the peak of Blackspire, the labyrinthine corridors silent but oppressive, as if the walls themselves are watching. Voryn's ears strain for any sound for both man or monster or worse, but there is nothing. His chest tightens when he spots it: a faint glow ahead, the westering light of the sun. Real light. True light. His breath catches, unseen tears stinging behind his eyes.
The warden marches him forward, into the presence of a waiting figure at the threshold. A man enshrouded in dark velvet stands in the dying sunlight, his hood shadowing most of his face. Then he lifts his head. King Salis. The warden stomps back into the shadows, leaving Voryn to peel free of the crepuscule but it is as though the darkness itself clings to him. His silhouette sharpens into view like a predator forced into the light. His figure emerges with a gritty beard that spills to his chest, streaked with the grit of the pit.
The king had expected to see remnants of a man and yet Voryn's muscles are even more sculpted than before his imprisonment. But the truth is exactly what the king foresaw, for the eyes betray what the body will not. His eyes are dark, hollow, a void that echoes deeper than the hellish depths he was dragged from.
The king studies him, his expression veiled, though his voice carries an edge.
"It seems only one of us has been touched by time," Salis remarks. His face is marked with new creases, scars etched by the passing years. It strikes Voryn, then, how long he has truly been gone.
Voryn's throat tightens. He hasn't spoken in countless winters, not since Zias's death, and the words feel foreign, scraping like rusted iron. Still, he forces them out.
"Why are you here?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy and accusing. A thousand unspoken words linger behind it, but Voryn says no more. The king does not answer immediately. He simply stares, as if searching for a fragment of the man Voryn once was, hidden beneath the scars, the grime, and the ruin.
"Not of my own accord," he begins. "I was certain you would be a withered thing, but clearly not even the Blackspire could break you. Not entirely. To be forthright, I ask you to do your king and kingdom one last service."
Voryn scoffs at the outrageous request as he turns away.
"In exchange for your freedom," the king says quickly. "A full pardon."
Voryn pauses with his back to him, then glances at his shoulder, signaling him to continue.
"A remarkable event has transpired in your absence," Salis begins. "The Goddess Elyandra has come to us, inhabiting a mortal vessel—a chosen girl. Her power, immense and divine, is just as unstable and erratic. The opposition, as anticipated, is fierce, but far more vicious than we could have foreseen."
Voryn stands motionless, his back to the king, the words filling the silence like droplets of water in a cave pelting the floor. Still, he listens but does not turn.
"The Dominium struck a devastating blow not long ago," Salis continues. "They launched an assault on the sanctuary in Aeloria, where she was hidden. The entire stronghold was razed. There were no survivors, save one—the most devoted who lived just long enough to deliver the child to us before succumbing to his grave wounds. She must now be taken to Crownpoint for her safety."
Voryn's response is biting. "A goddess, yet she cannot protect herself?"
Salis's jaw tightens. "In the vessel of a child," he repeats, his tone forceful. "Her power is immense, but her magic is volatile and dangerous. She needs guidance, protection. She needs you."
Voryn's gaze fixes forward, his voice poisoned with bitter resentment. "There are countless beings in this realm who wield magic far beyond my means. Yet you seek the aid of one who wields nothing but a blade?"
"Magic can be manipulated," Salis counters swiftly, his voice gaining a sharp edge. "We have seen you do it the best with a hardened ability to resist magical effects through physical discipline and your enchanted gear. You have a specialized skill set in neutralizing and countering magic and even using their magical tools against them."
The silence stretches, the king's words sinking like stones into a black lake as he waits for an answer that struggles to come.
Finally, Voryn speaks, his voice dragging like sword against stone.
"Protection does not come cheap."
The king recoils from revulsion, his expression twisting with disgust. "You dare demand payment? You should consider it an honor to stand at the side of Her Holiness, to serve her cause without cost."
Voryn turns his head slightly. "How long?"
Salis falters, the question catching him off guard. "What?"
"How long," Voryn repeats, his voice deeper, darker, "since I've been damned?"
The king exhales, reluctant to answer. "A little over a decade."
The weight of those words strikes like a hammer, and Voryn releases a breath, the sound trembling with fury and grief. "Then you will repay me," he says with chilling clarity. "For every summer, winter, and spring you've stolen from me."
Salis's face hardens, his tone venomous. "For your treachery, you deserve nothing—not even the chipped coin from the bottom of a beggar's sack purse."
Slowly, deliberately, Voryn turns to face him. His eyes, black voids of endless torment, bore into the king's with a dark ferocity that makes Salis falter. The king's defiance crumbles into reluctant silence, yielding without word.
"And one more thing," Voryn says, his tone sharp as a blade. "The release of another prisoner. A woman. She—"
"I know who you mean," Salis interrupts, his voice cutting. "The only woman condemned to Blackspire in either of our lifetimes."
"You know her?" Voryn asks, his voice carrying a curious tinge.
"I know of her," Salis admits. "Her reputation is fearsome than yours."
"Then why not enlist her?" Voryn challenges.
The king's expression flickers as he wills himself to say the words. "Because you are more skilled. But she is more ruthless. A seafarer, a slaver, infamous for the horrors she wrought. I was said that she would set this contraption on slaves to keep their eyes wide open whilst she burnt them for their skulls."
Voryn's lips press into a grim line, then shakes his head with silent disbelief. It can't be. He refuses to believe it. He knows that the woman has a lethal edge to her silence, reserved as he, but nothing that reeked of savagery. She risked her own life to save Zias and defended their rearguard during their escape attempt. And the only reason why he is alive to even think of it is because she kept the burns on his back from searing through flesh to consume his insides.
"That is my price," Voryn says in finality.
The king disregards it. "You would risk wealth and freedom for her?"
"I won't have to," he says with quiet certitude.
King Salis yields a weighty breath. "You ask a high price."
"Because I am in the position to."