The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to filter into the cell, and there was no way to hide the anomaly in Astar’s body. He stared in shock at himself—his body was emitting a faint, glowing gray mist. And it wasn’t just him who saw it. Every nearby prisoner had turned to gape at him in disbelief.
He looked down at his glowing skin, then up at Dalanar, who stood frozen, as if expecting something extraordinary.
“Shit… a Premarch, for real…” Dalanar muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Did no one scan you before sending you to the mines?” he asked again, suspiciously.
Astar opened his mouth to respond—but his thoughts tangled. The words tumbled out on their own, but not in the language he knew. It was the language he’d heard all throughout the mines, but had never once spoken.
“I… don’t know,” he said hoarsely, the unfamiliar tongue flowing naturally. A wave of shock and confusion surged within him.
Dalanar narrowed his gaze further, as though trying to catch a lie.
“You were faking this whole time?” he asked sharply, his voice dropping into something low and irritated. “You understood me all along and just played the fool?!”
“No, I…” Astar instinctively touched his throat, panic rising. In that moment, the most believable explanation struck him—amnesia. Focusing, he began to explain, carefully choosing his words.
“I… I don’t remember anything. Not the language, not my past. Just now…”
He hesitated, trying to phrase it right.
“Just now, I remembered how to speak. After what happened to me… a moment ago. I was in some strange place, not in this reeking cell…”
He trailed off, still reeling from the confusion.
Dalanar looked him over skeptically. The tension in his posture remained, but something in his eyes flickered—recognition, perhaps.
“Lost your memory? Forgot even the language?” he muttered, almost to himself.
“That’s right,” Astar nodded, doing his best to appear sincere. In his mind, he reminded himself that this was the only explanation that could be accepted.
Dalanar squinted, then said with a mix of caution and reluctant relief, “Alright…”
Astar nodded again.
“Believe it or not, I’m just as shocked,” he added, his hands still slightly trembling.
For a moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the soft rustle of movement in the cell.
Then, Dalanar suddenly turned toward the other prisoners, his presence shifting into something sharp and commanding. His gaze scorched across the room.
“Not a word of this gets out! Not one breath about the Fool breaking through!” he growled, his voice low and menacing. “If anyone talks—I’ll tear their fucking throat out myself.”
The cell fell into a tense, frozen stillness. Fear thickened the air like smoke. One of the prisoners—a lizard-like humanoid with sharp, angular features—took a step back, then suddenly, as if triggered, let out a piercing scream.
“GUARDS! THERE’S A PREM—”
His cry was cut short.
The nearby prisoners, horror and fury etched on their faces, lunged at him, shoving filthy hands over his mouth, as if trying to smother the betrayal before it reached the world outside.
“Shuv!” Dalanar launched himself forward like a predator. In a single, fluid motion, he leapt at the lizard-man, his hand flashing toward the traitor’s throat.
With brutal precision, Dalanar struck him in the larynx. A sickening crunch rang out—a wet, bone-snapping sound that made Astar’s blood run cold. The scream dissolved into a gurgling, rasping gasp. The traitor’s eyes bulged as he dropped to his knees, grasping for air that wouldn’t come. Blood sprayed from his mouth, painting the floor and nearby prisoners with red and green.
The body twitched, then collapsed forward with a loud thud. A dark pool spread beneath it—thick and glistening.
Astar instinctively turned away, fighting a wave of nausea. The foul stench of the cell, now mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood, seared his throat. His hands trembled as he clamped them over his mouth, willing himself not to make a sound.
“Anyone who dares screw with my plans… will share his fate,” Dalanar said coldly. His voice was a whisper of ice, steeped in threat. He straightened, wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, and turned toward the rest of the prisoners.
“If you want to live,” he continued, his eyes glinting, “you’ll forget what just happened. Forget the Fool’s breakthrough. Otherwise…” He jerked his chin toward the bloodied corpse.
The prisoners, as if under a spell, hastily nodded. Their faces reflected a mix of horror and submission.
Astar could barely keep his stomach down—his insides churned with revulsion at the gruesome scene—but he swallowed the weakness, gritting his teeth. Only one thought echoed in his mind: “Survive. At any cost. No matter the madness around me.”
Dalanar, as if nothing had happened, calmly wiped his hands on the filthy rags covering his body and crouched beside Astar. His gaze had returned to that calm, penetrating stare—the kind a beast gives when it’s sizing up prey or an opportunity. He leaned in slightly, as if examining a newly found advantage.
“Well then, talk to me, Fool. What clan are you from?” he asked, voice edged with insistence, though not without a note of sympathy. “Since you’re human, you were probably born in the northwest of the continent. I know plenty of human bloodlines and clans—even the minor ones. Maybe I’ve heard of yours.”
Astar slowly lifted his gaze, trying to fight off the nausea still clawing at his throat.
“I… I don’t know,” he replied, doing his best to sound believable. “I don’t remember anything. Not my past, not the present, not… my clan. Honestly, I don’t even understand where I am.”
Dalanar frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“Nothing? Not even a hint?” he pressed, tilting his head.
Astar shook his head.
“The only thing I can recall… is memoria,” he said quietly, his voice rough, like someone just waking from a long coma. “The Source of Memoria… the Ancestral Memory. And some kind of strange technique.”
“Technique?” Dalanar perked up, his eyes glinting with predatory interest. “What kind?”
Astar hesitated. The memories of the technique were vague, broken, but one thing he remembered clearly was its name.
“I… I don’t even know what it does,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully. “But it’s called the Corruption Devouring Technique.”
“The Corruption Devouring Technique?” Dalanar echoed, squinting as if measuring the weight of the words. “Interesting. I know most of the famous techniques created by human clans and bloodlines… but I’ve never heard of yours.”
He leaned back, resting against the wall and crossing his arms, falling into thought.
“The name sounds grand. Maybe someone slapped a mighty title on something worthless,” he muttered.
After a moment, he shook his head and added:
“Well, most likely your bloodline was insignificant, or the technique came from a lesser ancestor. Happens all the time—not everyone’s lucky enough to connect with a powerful forefather. Ha!” he laughed, tilting his head. “Doesn’t matter! What matters now is that you’ve become a Premarch!”
Astar didn’t respond. He could feel Dalanar staring at him, as though trying to peer into the very core of his soul. For a moment, it seemed like the man could see more than he let on.
And in that moment, flickers of memory sparked in Astar’s mind—fleeting, like lightning flashes—images of thousands bowing before a man with a scar across his face… Given what he had seen, he was fairly certain that Dalanar’s comment about a lesser ancestor didn’t line up with reality.
“I don’t understand a damn thing… but better to keep quiet,” Astar thought, slowly regaining his mental footing.
“Listen, Fool,” Dalanar said suddenly, his voice carrying a note of something warmer—almost friendly, something that hadn’t been there before.
“I remembered my name,” Astar interrupted abruptly. “Call me Astar. The nickname Fool doesn’t really suit me.”
Dalanar didn’t object. He simply nodded with a look of understanding. He was brutal and direct, but not a lunatic who bullied without reason.
“So your name’s Astar…” he murmured. “Alright, Astar. We’ve got interesting times ahead. And your past? Doesn’t matter now. What matters is what you can do now. And I’ll help you find out exactly what that is.” He smiled slightly—but it was the kind of smile that held more thrill than kindness.
Astar simply nodded, keeping his thoughts hidden. All he could do now was hold his ground and hope to slowly learn more about this world. Now that he somehow understood the local language, he finally had the means to expand his view of the surrounding madness.
Dalanar narrowed his eyes, as if weighing something important, then leaned in and began to speak softly—just loud enough for Astar to hear.
"Since you’ve become a Premarch, we’ve got a much better chance of getting out of this shithole," Dalanar began, clenching his fingers as if he could already grasp that elusive freedom. "This mine? It’s nowhere near a place of priority. There are no real memoria crystals here—just scraps of ore they squeeze crumbs from. There are hundreds of mines like this one, barely guarded."
Astar listened, trying to stay calm even as tension coiled tighter inside him. Was he really talking about an escape? Madness.
"There are three Gray Mnemarchs inside," Dalanar continued, emphasizing the weight of their rank. "They’re serious opponents, but not invincible. If we create enough chaos, they won’t be able to control the entire prison. And the guards—those at Warrior level—will be completely disoriented in the confusion."
"Sounds like you’ve been planning this for a long time…" Astar said cautiously, doing his best to keep his voice level.
Thinking back, he realized how many times he’d seen Dalanar quietly speaking with prisoners from other cells—while eating, while working side by side.
"More than a year," Dalanar smirked, eyes gleaming with resolve. "But the chances were slim. The people here are crushed and broken. Their strength isn’t even a shadow of what it once was. Even if we made it outside, the abyssals would tear us apart. Or at least, they would have—if not for your breakthrough. Ha!"
Astar said nothing. The idea of escape seemed absurdly dangerous, but a part of his mind surged at the thought of freedom. He had spent his whole life working, grinding, taking risks just to achieve independence and a life of peace. Being a mine slave? That was never going to cut it.
But there were still so many things he didn’t understand… And before he could ask, Dalanar pressed on:
"We have a chance now. Your breakthrough—that’s the signal to act," he said confidently, a satisfied grin tugging at his lips. "If we don’t try now, there might not be another opportunity. I’ve been preparing for this—mapping weaknesses in patrols, analyzing shift routes, crafting a plan. But we lacked the power to push past the protective barrier. Now? We have it."
"What if something goes wrong?" Astar asked, his voice faltering. He knew that in their position, any move was like leaping off a cliff blindfolded. Back on Earth, he’d been brave. Here… his mind was struggling to cope.
"Then we die," Dalanar replied coldly with a shrug. "But is that worse than rotting here for the rest of your life?" He leaned in, his voice lowering to a whisper. "You said you don’t remember your past? Then forget this place too—and start over. Show me what you’re capable of."
The words rang like a challenge—one impossible to ignore.
Astar exhaled slowly, fighting through the whirlwind in his head. Bits of thoughts, broken memories, and the chaos of this terrifying new world all clashed inside him. He looked up at Dalanar, who seemed ready to launch a rebellion at any moment.
"Wait," Astar said, steadying his tone. "I need to understand… my role. Who are the Gray Mnemarchs? What are these abyssals you mentioned? And this… barrier—"
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
He paused, trying to find the right words so he didn’t sound like a complete fool.
"—What kind of barrier do we have to get past?"
Dalanar frowned, and for a moment, something like doubt flickered in his eyes.
"Are you serious?" he asked, leaning back, studying Astar’s face intently. "You don’t remember even that?"
"Nothing at all," Astar admitted, the tension rising again inside him. "All of this sounds like madness to me… I don’t even know what the world looks like outside these walls." He hesitated, then added, "Or where we even are."
Dalanar straightened sharply, his face shifting into something between sympathy and gravity. He looked as though he was weighing how to explain the most basic truths.
He sighed and closed his eyes briefly.
"What do you know?" he asked, just to be sure.
"That there’s something called memoria in this world—some kind of energy or substance," Astar began, trying to piece together the fragments he'd been given. "That it comes from the Source of Memoria… and that all living beings receive their soul from it. And after death, the soul returns to that source. And… that descendants can gain parts of their ancestors’ memories?"
Hearing that, Dalanar exhaled heavily and started to speak again.
"Alright, listen up. In this world, memoria is the foundation of everything. Almost all living things can use it, at least on a basic level. But there are those who can develop it—fill their bodies and souls with it. When they reach a certain threshold, they become Mnemarchs."
He paused, his voice tightening slightly.
"Gray Mnemarchs are those who’ve crossed the boundary of mortality… the beginning of the Mnemarch’s path."
At that moment, something inside Astar shifted. Old instincts seemed to click into place. It felt like a problem had arisen in one of his marketing campaigns—something he had to assess quickly, distill into the core issue, and fix. In moments like those, emotions were a hindrance. You had to be sharp, clear, decisive.
And now, that part of his mind—the strategist, the survivor—began to awaken.
"Can you explain where you and I fall in the power hierarchy?" Astar asked clearly and directly.
Even Dalanar looked mildly surprised at the shift—but it clearly pleased him, because he smiled and replied:
"Alright, let’s put it this way... At the bottom are all mortals who either use memoria only at a basic level, or don’t use it at all. Above them are the Warriors, who can channel a bit more memoria to enhance small parts of their body. All our guards are basically that," he began, laying it all out in logical order. "Next comes a sort of intermediate stage—the one you’ve just reached. Beings like you are called Premarchs—those who have gathered enough memoria to connect with the Source of Memoria and, if lucky, receive the memories of an ancestor. You went through a natural initiation. If you focus your attention on the space between your brows, you should be able to see your Soul Vault."
Astar tensed. That definitely aligned with the sensations he’d experienced before…
"So not everyone receives ancestral memories? And how does the choice of ancestor happen?" he asked thoughtfully.
"Usually only those with high potential can form a connection like that. I'd say about a third of all Premarchs succeed. As for how the ancestor is chosen... I believe it's all about resonance—the character and essence of the ancestor and the successor have to be compatible. Then the connection forms."
After thinking for a moment, Astar closed his eyes and followed the advice. Dalanar, clearly understanding the natural curiosity that came with awakening one’s Soul Vault, fell silent.
Within seconds, Astar’s awareness drifted elsewhere. His consciousness opened to an inner space—a realm of darkness pierced with gentle twinkles like distant stars. It resembled the Source of Memoria he'd seen before, but here the central focus was a swirling blue-white nebula. It spun like a miniature galaxy, wrapped in stillness and mystery. It was the vortex of memoria he had absorbed throughout his time in the mines.
But the strangest part of this silent place was the black tablet floating nearby. Its surface was cold, matte, and emitted a faint vibration, as though the void itself pulsed with its rhythm. Strange glyphs were etched clearly into its surface—glyphs Astar understood. They read:
"Corruption Devouring Technique."
“Holy shit… I really did receive that bizarre technique. And now it’s just… stuck in my head forever?” Astar thought, unsure how to even process it.
“They said I had to activate it… but how?” he thought, guessing he needed to feed it memoria.
At that moment, the swirling nebula near him responded, releasing a bright strand of white energy that floated toward the technique. But as soon as it touched the tablet, it let out a faint sizzle—and nothing happened.
"Guess that’s not it..." he muttered to himself mentally. "Dammit, how do I get back to reality?"
Instantly, glowing currents began to whirl around him, and the space wavered like water in the wind. The feeling of weightlessness shifted into a sudden drop—and then a sharp jolt, like someone yanked him back into his body.
Astar’s eyes flew open. Light and sound flooded in as if a curtain had been ripped away. His consciousness slammed back into his physical form, leaving behind only the memory of that weightless state. Apparently, the process of entering and exiting the “Soul Vault” wasn’t all that difficult—it seemed tied directly to his will.
"Shall we continue?" Dalanar asked with a grin.
Astar didn’t reply—he just nodded.
"I used to be a Premarch too," Dalanar went on. "But when I was captured, my link to the Source of Memoria was severed. Now I’m more on the level of a Warrior. To regain my strength, I’ll need to escape first—then spend a long time recovering."
"Premarchs are far stronger than regular Warriors," he continued. "They can infuse memoria into their entire body. More than that, a small amount even begins to leak out of them."
"By building up memoria and using Memoria-Cultivation Techniques, Premarchs begin forming a core within their Soul Vault. When that happens, even more memoria starts to flow outward. You can start attacking from a distance," he added, gesturing animatedly to demonstrate. "That core becomes the foundation for further growth. That’s when one becomes a Mnemarch. The weakest of them are called Gray Mnemarchs."
"The weakest?" Astar echoed.
"Of course. Gray Mnemarch is the start of the path beyond mortal limits. After them come the Blue Mnemarchs, then the Violet Mnemarchs," he rattled off. "There are two more stages after that, but those are closer to legend—we don’t even bother talking about them..."
Upon hearing all this, Astar’s head was spinning. He didn’t understand much, but he could clearly feel something inside him had changed—and those changes felt... incredible. And now he was being told that there were things in this strange world even more wondrous?
"Can you explain the limits of my power and the power of the Mnemarchs more clearly? I don’t quite understand what they’re capable of…" Astar murmured thoughtfully.
Dalanar answered with a strange counter-question:
"Do you remember what a city is?"
Laser-focused on the conversation, Astar didn’t falter.
"I think I do... It’s a place where many beings live together, not trapped like we are now. There are streets and houses…" he mumbled, piecing it together.
"Right. I asked to see if you’d understand my examples," Dalanar said with a smirk. "At your current level, you can probably tear through the metal bars of this cell, break through a wall, or smash down a tree. Now, as for Gray Mnemarchs—their attacks can affect a wider area. Using combat techniques and external manipulation of memoria, they can easily level a small house. And Blue Mnemarchs? They could tear down several houses at once—or flatten an entire city block."
Hearing this, Astar shook his head in disbelief. Everything Dalanar said sounded like fantasy. According to him, the power of a Blue Mnemarch equaled a massive explosion capable of destroying multiple buildings. Astar couldn’t even imagine what that would look like, or if it was real at all. But for some reason, something within him stirred—an interest, even a flicker of excitement.
“If I’d grown up in this world… maybe the path of a Mnemarch would’ve tempted me,” he thought, surprisingly.
It seemed Dalanar had no intention of describing the higher stages of Mnemarchs—but based on how the power scaled, Astar wasn’t sure he wanted to imagine it anyway.
"Now about the abyssals," Dalanar continued, his face darkening. "They’re creatures born of abyssia—a substance that’s the opposite of memoria. No one knows where it came from or why it’s slowly consuming entire regions of the continent. But the creatures it spawns… they’re pure nightmare. Mindlessly cruel. They kill anything that moves—so they can devour its power, and with it, its soul."
"They’re everywhere—but they don’t come inside cities, or places like this mine. Because they’re held back by memoria barriers. And the second we escape… we’re going to face them."
"Wait," Astar interrupted, frowning. "Outside the barrier? So we’re under… some kind of dome?"
"Exactly," Dalanar nodded. "A barrier made of memoria protects us from abyssals. It’s maintained by sacred structures called Temples of Memoria. Each temple is created and maintained by the Church of Memoria, and they require constant resources. Without them, the world would fall into chaos. But to escape… we’ll have to step outside that protection. And out there—" he pointed at Astar, "you’re our best shot. All we need to do is reach the nearest city and its barrier."
Astar tried to digest all he had just heard. His head throbbed from all the new terms and the terrifying descriptions.
"And you’re sure this will work?" he finally asked, his voice laced with more skepticism than belief.
Dalanar leaned in closer, his expression growing solemn.
"I know this much: either we try, or we rot here. You choose which sounds better," he said, then added after a pause, "The path from this mine to the nearest city is classified as only third-level danger. There shouldn’t be any abyssals stronger than a Premarch."
Astar gave a silent nod. One thought pounded in his mind: “A choice? What choice? I want my freedom!”
He shut his eyes, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of information. His mind, trained to break problems into parts and find solutions, began compressing the chaos into manageable clusters. “Memoria. The Source of Memoria. Ancestral Memory. Mnemarchs. Temples. Barriers. Abyssals. Escape plan…”
“Alright… Maybe it’ll help to think of this in medieval terms. Though I don’t even know what this world really looks like. Doesn’t seem anything like modern Earth…” he reasoned inwardly, trying to find logical footholds.
He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes—and met Dalanar’s steady gaze.
"Let’s say I agree," he began, trying to keep his tone even. "We escape, we reach the nearest city. But we’re prisoners. What’s to stop the city’s authorities from locking us up—or worse, executing us on sight?"
Dalanar chuckled, as if he’d expected that question. His expression softened slightly, though his grin still had a predatory edge.
"A good question, Astar," he admitted, scooting in a little. "But that’s where you can rely on me. You see, I wasn’t always just some stray prisoner. I used to lead a small, dangerous crew. We hunted weak abyssals and sold their cores. Sometimes… we took on less savory jobs too, if the coin was good… That’s exactly why I’m here, ha-ha. In any case, I’ve been expected in the nearest city for a long time now. My people are waiting for their leader to return."
“You sure about that?” Astar frowned. “It’s been what, a year?”
“A year and three months,” Dalanar replied easily. “And yes, I’m sure. My people know what loyalty means. We were planning a big job when I got captured. But I left very specific instructions in case something went wrong. They were to go underground, lay low, and watch. As soon as we reach the city’s outskirts, they’ll be there. And they won’t just greet us. They’ll give us clothes, hide us, and help us disappear.”
Astar felt a bit of tension ease in his chest. Dalanar’s plan sounded wildly risky—but it wasn’t senseless. Still, doubts lingered inside him.
“What’s to stop them from turning us in to the authorities for a reward?” he asked, closely watching Dalanar’s reaction.
Dalanar’s grin widened, turning almost sinister.
“That thought’s never crossed their minds. They know I keep my word. And they know I don’t forgive betrayal. If they ever planned something like that, they’d already be rotting in some nameless ditch.”
His tone was calm, but the icy conviction in his voice made Astar shiver. Instinctively, he glanced toward the corpse slumped in the corner of the cell—the one Dalanar had killed without blinking. The expression of terror frozen on the man’s face said it all…
“Alright,” Astar said after a pause. “Let’s say your people do help us. Then what? We just hide?”
“At first, yes,” Dalanar nodded. “We lay low, gather resources, recover our strength. After that… we’ll see. Since you don’t remember anything, you could join my group, Astar. We’ll make some coin, and then slip off to another city—somewhere no one knows us. But for now, survival is the only priority.”
Astar gave a silent nod. His mind kept racing. If they escaped… if the group actually existed… if the path to the city wasn’t too dangerous… if the abyssals didn’t attack—
Too many ifs. But something deep in his gut told him the risk was worth it. Truthfully, he had no other choice.
Astar frowned, sorting through scenarios in his head. It all sounded like madness—barriers, abyssals, people waiting for them beyond the city’s edge. But what worried him most was what would happen if the plan failed.
“Sounds good,” he said cautiously. “But what if the abyssals do attack? I… I don’t remember how to fight,” he admitted, trying to keep his voice steady, even though he felt completely helpless inside. “I don’t even know what to do in a situation like that.”
Dalanar let out a dry snort, but there was no cruelty in his gaze.
“Well, that’s not exactly great news,” he said, scratching his chin, “but it’s not the end of the world either. Listen, Astar, we don’t need you for finesse or clever tactics. If the abyssals show up, your job’s simple—break through their defense and kill. We’ll distract them, and you just hit as hard as you can. Ideally—with a pickaxe, right in the skull.”
“A pickaxe?” Astar repeated in disbelief. The image Dalanar painted seemed absurd.
“Exactly,” Dalanar nodded. “Abyssals have tough bodies, but as a Premarch, your strength far surpasses a mortal’s. For us, a pickaxe is the best weapon we’ve got—unless we manage to steal swords from the guards. The key is, don’t hesitate. One strike to the head or neck, and most low-tier creatures will die.”
“And if they don’t?” Astar asked flatly, his questions opening the door to ever more horrors.
“Then you hit them again,” Dalanar said with a shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “But you’ll be surprised by what you can do now.” He leaned in, his expression serious. “A Premarch’s strike is no joke. You’ll smash their skulls faster than you can realize what you’ve done. So don’t worry. We’ll handle the distraction—you just focus on delivering the blow.”
Astar stayed silent, absorbing it all. Every part of him wanted to reject this insane plan—but his rational mind knew there was no alternative.
“And don’t forget,” Dalanar added with a sly grin, “if anything goes wrong, I’ll be right there watching. I won’t let you screw up our one shot at freedom. On the contrary—you’re our golden ticket out of this hell.”
The words were a strange mix of threat and encouragement, but Astar simply nodded. All he could do now was hope he truly could pull it off.
He nodded again, forcing himself to commit. He understood that his decision didn’t just affect his own life—it carried the hopes of the other prisoners too. Despite the danger, Dalanar’s plan was the only light in the madness surrounding him.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll do what I can.”
Dalanar nodded with clear satisfaction, as if that was exactly what he’d been waiting to hear.
“Good, Astar,” he said, then added with a faint smile, “but for now, keep acting like before. Play the mute fool. If you suddenly start spouting clever thoughts, the guards will start asking questions—and that’s the last thing we need.”
Astar nodded once more. Now that he could understand the local language, playing the fool felt somewhat humiliating—but he understood that maintaining his cover was far more important.
“And don’t forget to keep sucking on those rocks,” Dalanar added with a smirk. “Everyone’s already too used to your weird little routine, ha-ha.”
“Got it,” Astar replied dryly, forcing himself to return to that blissfully vacant expression.
Dalanar straightened up, his face turning serious.
“Since things are heating up,” he said, glancing around the cell, “I’m going to accelerate the plan. I need to contact the other cells. We already have a few arrangements in place, but there hasn’t been a good moment—until now. When everything’s ready, I’ll let you know.”
Astar noticed Dalanar’s voice grow quieter, and his eyes scanned the room, gauging the mood of the others.
“The lizard was new—he didn’t know anything. But everyone else in this cell is in on it. So remember,” he continued, “if any outsider starts getting suspicious, we’re finished. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”
Astar nodded a third time, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders. He tried to calm himself, reminding his mind that this was just another task to complete. Only this time, the stakes were life and death—he had never gambled everything like this before. This time, the cost of failure was far too high to take lightly.
