Gaist nodded. Kulxak shrugged her titanic shoulders. The weaponsmaster opened his hands. The dragon flashed a brilliant ruby, then yellow. Gaist tapped his temple. The dragon reared back, its scales a vibrant citrine. They continued the discussion, or perhaps argument, in total silence.

“I think it’s working,” Heraldin hissed.

“And that’s strange, right?” said Gorm.

“Right?” said Laruna. “It shouldn’t work.”

Yet it was. The basics of body language were far older than Mankind itself, let alone the dragon, and so Kulxak seemed to understand Gaist’s meaning well enough. Likewise, reading the threat displays of dragon-kin was etched into the primordial brain of every hero, and since every display that a reptile the size of a barn makes is at least a little threatening, the weaponsmaster held his own in the debate.

Eventually, the weaponsmaster turned to the bard and shrugged, then moved to follow Gorm off the dais.

“The dragon will stay,” Heraldin said, trotting after him. “She wanted to anyway. Some sort of unfinished business or something.”

Gorm glanced behind him. “And how can ye get all that from⁠—”

He caught Gaist’s eye, and the weaponsmaster gave him the most absolutely clear glare he had ever been on the receiving end of. More than a werewolf’s predatory sneer rejoiced in a hunt; more than a giant’s confident grimace boasted; even more than a gazer’s central eye said “death beam,” Gaist’s face said that if Gorm was so thrice-cursed dense as to not understand basic nonverbal cues, he should just shut up about it and accept the wisdom of those who could.

“Oh. Right.” Gorm was both mollified and mortified. “Well, good. We’ll see her on the other side.” He managed an awkward bow to the dragon, and the others followed suit.

Kulxak inclined her head toward them.

“We’ll be back,” said Gorm, “Once this is all settled.”

The dragon looked at Gaist, who shrugged and made a very succinct gesture. Then, apparently satisfied, she curled around the ring of statues and wrapped herself in her huge, battered wings.

“So can I assume there’s some sort of plan here?” Jynn asked as the heroes charged through the great grove of stone pillars.

“More like an idea and a deadline collidin’,” said Gorm.

“That’s more of a plan than we usually have,” said Heraldin.

“Does it account for that strange blue light?” asked Laruna.

“Uh,” said Gorm, slowing to a trot as he rounded a pillar.

Several of the stone trees were covered in glowing azure liquid that ran up and down the better part of their trunks through the intricately patterned carvings on their surface. The luminescent flow drew similar designs along the walkways surrounding the pillars before pouring off them in shimmering waterfalls that lit the endless darkness below.

“It ain’t acid,” said Gorm, withdrawing the toe of his boot. “Let’s go.”

“You’re just going to run over it?” asked Jynn.

“Well, I ain’t drinkin’ it or splashin’ it on me skin,” said Gorm, already stamping through the stream. “And we should be quick, in case there’s fumes.”

“But we don’t know what this water is,” said Jynn. “This could be powerful magic, or latent prophecy, or the work of divine or demonic agents, or⁠—”

“Could be anything. Could be the residue of that barrier fallin’, or some ancient trap halfway to bein’ sprung. But I ain’t got time to sit here studyin’ it, because the one thing I’m sure of is that it could attract attention from above.”

“You think it’s divine, then?” asked Laruna.

“Nope.” Gorm stopped at the largest of the stone grove’s pillars. He pointed to the doorway on a landing with a stone spiral staircase at its base, and followed the masonry all the way to the ceiling of the great cavern. “I’m more confident than ever them stairs wind up somewhere in the mountain behind the palace.”

“Johan,” snarled the pyromancer.

“Aye. I been wonderin’ how that bastard and his Golden Dawn got that magic contraption down here,” said Gorm. “The one they tried to use on that magic barrier. I mean, they didn’t carry it into the dungeon. Not by the path we took.”

“It didn’t seem like anyone walked the path we took at all… oh!” said Heraldin.

“Exactly!” said Gorm, tracing the pathways branching out above them. “Also explains how Johan pulled off that surprise entrance at his own funeral. Ah. There!” He pointed to one of the archways out of the cavern and followed the path all the way back to the large spire. “That’s our way out. Quiet now. I bet there’s a bloody huge echo in here.”

The heroes fell silent as they started up the spiral staircase. Gorm was relieved to find that the glowing water had remained outside the tower, and they progressed quickly and quietly up to a second landing, where he led them out onto dry stone.

“If Johan knew about the barrier, that means he’s been here before,” said Laruna as she exited the staircase.

“But why did he want to get into the prophetic vault?” asked Heraldin, following.

“No idea.” Gorm pulled a thick, square packet wrapped in brown paper from his red rucksack. “Safest to assume it’s for no good, and that we’ve only so long before he knows it fell. We alert him too soon, and he can go after the dragon, frame her for burnin’ all them citizens, get whatever he was after, and get away with it all.”

“Then we probably shouldn’t take these stairs into the middle of the palace,” Laruna noted.

“Aye.” With the package appropriately positioned by the rear of the bottom step, the Dwarf stood and tucked a small, brown cylinder into his belt pouch. He pointed to several upper walkways extending from the staircase. “We’ll take a side passage to somewhere above the Ridge, sneak back into the city, and get ready to strike a decisive blow.”

“How does one prepare to fight a king in his own castle?” asked Heraldin.

“With numbers.” Gorm was already headed along the path.

The bard and weaponsmaster shared a puzzled glance. “Numbers?” said Heraldin.

“We just reached the heart of the biggest dungeon on Arth and found out there’s no loot.” Gorm took a deep breath, and felt a spark of excitement travel down his spine. “It’s time to get finance involved.”

“It all comes down to the money. That’s the thrice-cursed unfairness of it, but it’s a truth nonetheless.” Duine Poldo’s whiskers bristled as he spoke. “With a paid advocacy team and a⁠—”

Feista Hrurk shook her head and set the arbiter’s letter down on her desk. “The guild won’t take my case, Mr. Poldo,” said Feista. “I spoke with Jirada of the Bone Eaters at work; her son was slain by gold-hounds two years ago. She spends every giltin she earns on lawyers and advocates, and the guild won’t take her case. They protect their own, Mr. Poldo. The pups and I are not their own.”

“Perhaps,” said Poldo. He sat and listened to the laughter of the children playing Orcs and Humans outside, broken by occasional shrieks as one side inflicted mock atrocities on the other. His hands curled and uncurled at the thought of Hristo Hrurk’s death, and the loss it had inflicted upon Mrs. Hrurk and her pups. There had to be a way to help. “Perhaps if I reached out to my acquaintances at Fordrun and Hawks, we could⁠—”

“No,” said the Gnoll, shaking her head.

“Well, it might work,” the Gnome said. “It really is all about who you know.”

“No, Mr. Poldo. It really is all about what you are.”

“My dear, I⁠—”

She silenced him with a glance. For a long time, they sat unspeaking as the sounds of the bustling home wafted up from beneath them.

Mrs. Hrurk spoke first. “You are a good man, Mr. Poldo. The very best Light—the very best of the Children of Light that I know. And I know you mean to help. You have helped so much, and we are all grateful. I am grateful. But there are some things you cannot fix. If you could… if you could snap your fingers and bring my Hristo back, and punish the heroes who took him away, if you had that magic and used it for me… then I would still be as a pebble caught in a wheel, bouncing wherever your people sent me. You would just be bouncing me in a better direction.”