The Prism drifted deeper into Triterius.

  No walls confined them. No ceiling pressed down. The cavern stretched in every direction without horizon or limit. Black glass floors extended endlessly, a flawless mirror reflecting an impossible night sky: Saturn’s rings tilted at impossible angles, Jupiter’s storms churning in crimson and gold, meteor showers falling in scripted rain across the reflected heavens. The sky repeated below in perfect symmetry, so the ship seemed to hang between two identical voids, one above and one below, with no way to tell which was real.

  Floating obsidian ziggurats drifted in slow, silent procession — hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions — massive stepped pyramids of black stone, edges sharp as knives, surfaces etched with faint violet-gold runes that pulsed in hypnotic rhythm. Some rested on the glass floor like ancient monuments half-sunk in mirrors. Others floated freely, their bases trailing thin threads of liquid shadow that flowed upward into the dark. The ziggurats stretched off into the distance in every direction, fading into a haze of black-on-black until the eye could no longer distinguish one from the next. Endless. Infinite. A city of gods long abandoned, or perhaps never finished.

  Rivers of liquid shadow flowed upward from the floor, defying gravity, coiling around the ziggurats in lazy spirals before vanishing into the dark above. Forests of petrified bone-white trees rose in groves across the glass, branches frozen in mid-reach, chiming softly when the upward rivers brushed them — a low, mournful bell-note that echoed forever in the silence.

  And everywhere — mold slime.

  Thick, living, bioluminescent gray-green film coated every surface. It crept across the black glass in slow waves like breathing skin, glowing faintly in veins that pulsed in perfect time with the Autarch Bell. Viscous strands wept from the undersides of floating ziggurats, stretching downward in glistening sheets before snapping back like living tendrils. Shallow mirrors of slime pooled on the floor, reflecting the impossible sky in sickly green. The air tasted wet and metallic, like old copper atomized and combined with patchouli. The slime moved — subtle, deliberate, alive.

  The mold in their lungs burned steadily — a slow fire spreading with every breath.

  A shadow detached from the nearest ziggurat — a winged figure gliding toward them on stone wings. It approached with slow, deliberate grace, landing on the Prism’s forward hull with a soft thud that echoed through the deck. A gargoyle — massive, carved from obsidian and bone-white stone, eyes glowing faint violet-gold, wings folded like a cloak. It crouched there, patient, watching the bridge through the viewport.

  The Autarch Bell chimed — warm, almost affectionate.

  The gargoyle answered with a low, rumbling voice that vibrated through the hull.

  “Old friend. It has been long since your chime rang in these halls.”

  Metial’s smile widened, not his own. “Tharok. You have not changed.”

  Tharok’s stone wings rustled. “Nor have you. The Bell still sings the same song.”

  The Autarch Bell pulsed again — brighter, warmer.

  Tharok tilted his head. “You seek the forger.”

  “Yes.”

  Tharok’s voice was steady, almost gentle. “He is not in Triterius. No living soul knows where he is. Not here. Not in the upper strata. Not in the deep roots. He is gone from this place, and the echoes do not remember where.”

  The Autarch Bell’s glow flickered — then flared, violet-gold light flooding the bridge in a sudden, angry pulse.

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  Every muscle in the crew tensed involuntarily. Enkidar’s talons locked on the controls. Sari’s hand froze on the torsioner. Nix’s wings snapped rigid against his back. The mold-slime on the walls surged, veins glowing brighter, tendrils lashing once before retracting. The reflected sky warped violently, storms churning faster, meteors falling in jagged, angry arcs.

  The resonance pulse lasted only a heartbeat, but it left them gasping, bodies trembling from the forced contraction.

  The lesser serpent Bell at Enkidar’s hip hissed in pure fear — a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the bridge.

  Nix dove into Enkidar’s vest, burying himself against the feathers, voice muffled and shaking.

  “We came all this way for nothing.”

  Sari leaned against the console, breathing hard. “It’s angry. The Bell is angry.”

  Metial’s smile never wavered. The Autarch Bell dimmed slightly — frustration cooling, patience returning.

  Tharok’s stone wings rustled again. “I am sorry, old friend. The forger left no trace. Triterius holds only memory. And memory fades.”

  The Autarch Bell chimed once — soft, resigned, almost polite.

  “Thank you, Tharok.”

  The gargoyle inclined his head. “The halls are open to you, always. But he is not here.”

  The Autarch Bell pulsed — a final, gentle acknowledgment.

  Metial turned to Enkidar. His voice was calm, layered, expectant.

  “Turn the ship. Toward the Hades Gardens. The question is not finished.”

  Enkidar exhaled slowly. His talons loosened on the controls. The lesser serpent Bell hissed once more — quieter now, defeated.

  The Prism’s engines flared — low, reluctant — and the ship turned, drifting away from the endless ziggurats, toward the darker reaches of the cavern.

  The mold-slime watched.

  Tharok watched.

  The Autarch Bell glowed brighter — content once more.

  It had asked its question.

  And the Prism — crew, mold, and all — was already answering.

  The ship sailed onward, the black glass floor giving way to a gradual slope downward. The ziggurats thinned, the reflected sky dimmed, and the mold-slime receded slightly, as if reluctant to follow too far.

  Ahead, a new gate shimmered into view — a narrow archway of intertwined roots and obsidian, pulsing with faint violet light. The phase field around the Prism rippled as it approached.

  Enkidar adjusted course. “Second gate. Hades Gardens lies beyond.”

  The Prism passed through without resistance, the archway folding around the hull like a curtain parting.

  The world changed again.

  The darkness lifted to reveal a vast strata of crimson and gold — a cavern lit by enormous ruby veins that ran through the rock walls like rivers of frozen fire. The veins glowed from within, casting warm, bloody light across the space. Massive stalactites of ruby hung from the ceiling, dripping slow, viscous light that pooled on the floor in shimmering puddles. The air tasted of iron and heat. The mold-slime on the hull hissed faintly, retreating from the ruby glow as if burned.

  Sari stared through the viewport. “Ruby veins. They light the way.”

  Nix peeked out from Enkidar’s vest, eyes wide. “It’s beautiful. And terrifying.”

  Enkidar’s beak clicked once. “The Hades Gardens lie ahead. Whatever waits there… it knows we’re coming.”

  The Autarch Bell pulsed once — soft, expectant.

  The Prism sailed deeper into the crimson strata, the ruby veins growing brighter, the darkness falling away behind them.