The next morning came with blood in the skies.
Sunrise in Korvan wasn't golden—it was the color of rust and smoke. Chimney stacks choked the light, casting long, sickly shadows over the slums. Ares crawled from the tunnel mouth, sore and stiff, his body aching in places he hadn't even known could ache.
He hadn't eaten in a full day. His stolen water skin was nearly dry. But hunger had become a familiar companion now—less a pain, more a pressure behind his ribs, something he could ignore if he kept moving.
He had a plan, or the beginning of one. The map Garruk confirmed as pre-Eclipse—it showed a path into the old Archives, a route that started near the Spine Bridge and wound through sealed drainage tunnels.
But first, he needed access. That meant tools, coin, and information.
And for that, he needed The Hollow.
The Hollow was one of the city's worst-kept secrets—a sunken market where the empire's blind eye allowed all manner of illegal trade to flourish. Relics, stolen goods, rare metals, forbidden texts. If it was dangerous or ancient, someone in The Hollow would be buying it.
Getting in, though, wasn't easy.
It took Ares the better part of the morning to find a way down. A stairwell hidden behind a collapsed tannery wall, three levels beneath the streets. Two dead ends, one bribe, and a whispered password—Ash before bone—got him past the last gate.
The Hollow opened up like a wound beneath the city.
It was massive—built inside the foundations of some long-dead fortress, its halls carved with old Imperial sigils and faded murals of saints no one worshipped anymore. Lanterns hung from rusted chains. The air smelled of oil, old blood, and incense.
Crowds moved in slow tides. Faces hidden by hoods, masks, or scarves. The only constant was silence—voices stayed low here. Loud words drew attention, and attention was death.
Ares kept to the edges. He scanned the stalls—fingers twitching to pick a pocket, though he held back. Most vendors had protections. Some of them could smell theft like wolves smelled fear.
At the far corner, near a cracked fountain where rainwater had gone green with algae, he found what he was looking for.
A booth with no sign. Just a slab of black stone for a counter, and behind it sat a woman with silver eyes and scales on her throat.
Half-dragon.
"Looking for entry?" she asked without preamble.
Ares nodded.
She tapped the counter. "Show me what you've got."
He unrolled the charred map. Her eyes narrowed as she traced a clawed fingertip over the faded ink.
"You know what this leads to?"
"No," he answered truthfully.
"Good," she said. "If you did, you'd already be dead."
She rolled the map back up and handed it to him. "A tunnel just south of the Ashrun Canal. Behind the dead butcher's house. You'll need a gear key to open the grate—old brass, Empire design. You can find one with a scavenger named Nox. He trades near the bone pits."
She paused, then added, "Be careful. He likes to test his wares on people."
Ares gave a small nod. "Thanks."
The woman didn't smile. "Don't thank me yet."
Finding Nox wasn't hard.
He followed the bone stink—the reek of rotting marrow and burned fat. It led him to a stall built entirely of animal skulls and iron pipes. Behind it stood a man with six fingers on each hand and goggles strapped to a half-metal face. His teeth were gold. His eyes weren't human.
"You look like you crawled out of a grave," Nox said cheerfully. "Looking for something, ratling?"
"A brass gear key. Archive model."
Nox whistled. "Ah. You're one of those types. Treasure sniffers."
He reached under his stall and pulled out a small brass disk etched with spirals and glyphs. "Beautiful little thing, isn't it? Opens more than doors, some say. Opens time."
Ares didn't rise to the bait. "What do you want for it?"
"Blood," Nox said without hesitation.
Ares raised an eyebrow.
"Not yours," Nox added. "Simple task. A debt owed to me by a man named Varn. He lives three levels up, near the soot pits. Give him this."
He handed Ares a silver token shaped like a fang. "He'll understand."
"And if he doesn't?"
Nox's gold teeth gleamed. "Make him understand."
Varn wasn't a fighter.
He was a half-starved relic-runner with bad lungs and a habit of chewing dustroot. When Ares found him, the man was already coughing blood into a rag, rocking in the corner of his tin-roofed hovel.
He took one look at the fang token and went pale.
"I—I didn't mean to cheat him," he stammered. "The last batch was cursed, it wasn't my fault—"
Ares didn't care. He wasn't here to play judge.
"Give me what you owe," he said.
Varn handed over a sealed pouch wrapped in waxed cloth. "Here. Just take it. I never want to hear his name again."
Neither do I, Ares thought.
He returned to Nox, handed over the pouch, and received the brass key.
"No refunds," Nox said, winking.
Later that night, Ares stood in the shadow of the Ashrun Canal, the dead butcher's house rotting behind him. The grate was nearly hidden under ivy and rust, but he found it. He knelt, fit the key into the socket, and turned.
With a groan of ancient gears, the gate opened.
Beyond it: darkness, dust, and the breath of a forgotten world.
He hesitated only once—just long enough to feel the pulse behind his left eye again, cold and watching.
Then he stepped through.
And the city closed behind him.