The threshold's light faded behind them.

  Alph’s boots gripped a corroded brass plate, warped and cracked by centuries of shifting stone. His runic lamp spilled a sickly amber light across the chamber, illuminating skeletal supports jutting from walls and ceiling—like the ribs of something ancient and dead. The air tasted of ozone and copper, heavy enough to cling to his tongue. His breath fogged, not from cold, but from the thick, motionless air, untouched by wind for ages.

  Rugnir moved first, crossbow at the ready, eyes cutting through the dark beyond the lamp’s glow. His steps were precise, testing the floor before shifting his weight, fingers brushing the brass ribbing to gauge its strength. Thorfin followed, shield high, axe angled for instant strike or block. His armor whispered with each step, a low metallic hum that settled into the thick shadows.

  Haldrix stepped forward. His prosthetic arm whirred, brass fingers brushing the jagged ribbing. Amber eyes followed the fracture lines, the carved grooves etched into the metal.

  Haldrix’s fingers traced the metal’s surface, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. "Controlled stress fractures. Look." His knuckles rapped the support—once, twice—the hollow thunk ringing through the chamber like a death knell. "The Founders knew load distribution better than any modern artificer. When this section failed, it wouldn’t collapse. It would contain itself."

  Alph studied the mechanism, his mind cataloging the engineering. Discipline warred with wonder; he forced focus onto function. The ribbing had held for centuries. That mattered more than beauty.

  The chamber opened into a corridor. The lamp’s light shattered against surfaces too many to count. Brass pillars, corroded and jagged, rose like broken teeth. Carved channels lined the floor—too exact to be random. He recognized them as conduits. They had once carried energy, or perhaps some fluid. Now, they were empty, the paths of whatever had flowed through them long abandoned.

  Rugnir raised a fist. The group halted.

  His fingers drummed once against his crossbow. His gaze locked onto the shadows pooling in the alcove thirty paces ahead. The crossbow lifted in a single, seamless arc. The mechanism snapped shut. Bolt seated. Ready.

  "Movement," Rugnir whispered. "Upper left."

  Alph's lamp swung toward the alcove. For a moment, there was nothing but darkness and the whisper of air moving through broken spaces. Then something emerged.

  It was skeletal—articulated brass joints and plating forming a vaguely humanoid shape, stretched too tall, limbs bent at unnatural angles. A lesser cousin to a Sphere Guardian, or a forgotten maintenance construct left to rust. Its head turned with a grinding shriek that set Alph’s teeth on edge.

  Rugnir fired. The bolt struck the creature’s shoulder joint. Sparks erupted. Thorfin charged, shield first. The impact sent the construct crashing into the dark. His axe rang against metal, a sharp clang that faded into silence.

  More shapes moved in the periphery.

  What followed was not a battle but a grinding, efficient dismantling. Rugnir's bolts found weak points in the constructs' plating with the precision of someone who understood the target intimately. Thorfin advanced, shield absorbing impacts meant to disable, axe finishing what the bolts had started.

  Haldrix hung back, his prosthetic arm raised, fingers splayed as if reading something in the air itself. His lips moved silently, and twice Alph saw faint runes flare to life in the darkness, small explosions of light that disoriented the constructs long enough for Thorfin to close the distance.

  It took perhaps five minutes. The echoes died. The darkness reclaimed the alcove.

  Alph’s hands stayed steady on his crossbow. He hadn’t fired. His role was light—nothing more. To them, he was an apprentice, not a warrior.

  "Clear," Rugnir announced, though his crossbow remained ready.

  They pressed deeper.

  The corridor wound downward in gentle switchbacks, each turn exposing chambers and mechanisms halted mid-motion. Haldrix stopped before a massive gear assembly jutting from the wall, its teeth smoothed by centuries of stillness. He murmured about ancient constructs and how they worked but Alph caught only pieces.

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  The air grew colder. The ozone thickened.

  Ahead, the tunnel yawned into a cavernous chamber. Alph’s lamp failed to pierce the far wall. Something immense hung overhead, its shape hinted only by the way shadows curled around it.

  Haldrix’s fingers drummed against the brass plates of his prosthetic, the whir of servos cutting through the silence. "Joint assembly. Primary articulation point."

  Thorfin’s shield dragged across the stone floor as he leaned forward. "What kind?"

  The brass-plated fingers twitched, gears whirring like angry hornets as Haldrix traced invisible lines in the stale air. “The true workshop.” His voice held the weight of fact.

  Rugnir’s breath caught. "You mean—"

  "Precisely." The old runesmith kept his gaze fixed on the space between them, amber eyes burning with an unreadable intensity. He turned his stare fully on Alph. "Recall what I said about the broken sphere guardians. Back when we entered the Undermantle."

  Alph’s fingers tightened around the lamp's handle until the metal bit into his skin. A memory surfaced with the precision of a fresh-cut edge. He recalled those undecipherable, self-sustaining rune circuits; the true secret schematics remained hidden within the workshop where they were first assembled.

  Haldrix’s beard rings pulsed once, bright as struck flint. "And now you’re standing in that very workshop."

  The lamp’s glow cut jagged shapes from the dark as Alph held it still. Haldrix’s fingers ripped through brittle scrolls, brass plates rattling against stone. Schematics flashed by—faded, fragmented, half-devoured by time. Thorfin grunted, heaving a rusted chest onto the slab. Hinges shrieked as he pried it open. Dust swirled in the lamplight, stirred by their hands. The air reeked of rot, laced with the metallic tang of lingering ozone from the battle.

  Haldrix muttered, unrolling a brittle schematic. “Magnificent. Untouched.” Rugnir stood at the workshop’s entrance, crossbow steady, eyes fixed on the dark. His wiry frame melted into shadow. He tilted his head. A faint scrape echoed from the tunnels—barely a breath against stone.

  A side door groaned on ancient brass hinges, the metal scraping a harsh protest. A wave of stagnant air flooded the workshop. A lone dwarf stood in the threshold.

  Rugnir snapped his crossbow toward the newcomer’s chest. Thorfin planted his boots and raised his shield; his axe caught the lamplight as he cleared the rusted chest. Haldrix froze, his amber eyes narrowing to needles as he pinned the stranger in his gaze.

  Alph shifted the lamp, the light catching a dwarf built like a slab of mountain granite. Heavy gauntlets encased his hands, the metal scarred from a thousand impacts. Even for a dwarf, his build was stocky and broad; his forearms rippled with the density of a pit fighter. A flattened nose, broken and badly reset, sat above eyes that moved with a slow, predatory precision. He stood with a balanced weight, his gaze missed nothing as it swept the workshop.

  Another team wandering the corridors would mean nothing. But this dwarf was alone and carried no tools. That detail was a warning. Alph’s instincts screamed.

  The man’s gait snagged his attention; it was the coiled readiness of a predator. He recognized that walk. He had seen it in Rook. He had seen it in Nylessa when she was hunting.

  Alph watched the newcomer's gaze lock onto Haldrix. Recognition flared in those predator's eyes, followed by raw greed. The dwarf took a step forward.

  The movement confirmed it. Alph screamed, "Assassin!"

  Rugnir and Thorfin gripped their weapons, their eyes wide as the stranger lunged. The dwarf blurred into a sprint and closed the gap to Thorfin in a single heartbeat. A heavy, metal-gauntleted fist slammed into Thorfin's shield; the impact sent him crashing backward into the brass pipes lining the wall.

  Haldrix advanced, his prosthetic arm blazing as runes ignited.

  The assassin’s charge toward Rugnir died mid-stride. His knees struck the floor like dropped hammers, spine bowing under an unseen weight. Haldrix’s brass fingers curled into a fist. The air hummed—then split. A jagged spear of lightning tore from nothing, slamming into the dwarf’s back. His armor blackened. His beard caught fire. The stench of scorched flesh filled the workshop.

  Haldrix showed no mercy. A second bolt tore free, its jagged white arc searing the chamber’s rusted ribs in a flash. The air crackled, sharp with ozone, raising the hairs on Alph’s arms.

  The strike landed with a wet, heavy thud. Muscles locked. Bones shattered under thermal force. The assassin made no sound—he simply crumbled into a blackened husk. The discharge erased him. No predator remained, only smoldering cinder. The coppery stench of scorched blood and wet ash hung thick in the workshop. Haldrix stood victorious.

  Rugnir rushed to Thorfin's side as the shield-bearer staggered upright. Haldrix huffed, and his amber eyes locked onto Alph. The old dwarf had caught on. He's dissecting me. A cold weight settled in Alph's gut. How had he noticed the assassin before a master hunter like Rugnir? I overplayed my hand.

  Alph’s Slayer senses screamed. Every hair on his neck bristled—not from ozone, but from something colder, closer. A presence slid behind him, silent as a shadow, fingers poised to strike. His muscles tensed, reflexes sharpened by layered professions—but too slow. The blow came before he could turn.