The tunnel swallowed him whole.
As Ares stepped through the iron gate, the clamor of the Hollow faded behind him, replaced by silence thick as velvet. His footsteps echoed faintly along the stone corridor, each one a quiet reminder that no one else dared to tread this path. The passage sloped downward, narrow and damp, its air choked with dust and the scent of long-forgotten things. Somewhere far above, Korvan rumbled on with its grime and fire, unaware of the boy descending into its bones.
He held a cracked lantern, its orange glow trembling with every breath of stale air. Walls of ancient brick stretched endlessly forward, the mortar crumbling like sand. Here and there, sigils were carved into the stone—worn by time, impossible to read. He didn't know if they were prayers or warnings. Maybe both.
The brass key had sealed the gate behind him with a hiss and a thud, locking him in. No turning back now.
Ares didn't mind.
He'd made peace with the idea of dying long ago. It was the waiting that bothered him—the idea of sitting still while the world passed, shackled in the dark. At least down here, moving deeper into the unknown, he could pretend he still had a choice.
After an hour of slow walking, the tunnel widened into a vaulted chamber.
It had once been a transit hub—he could tell by the cracked tracks embedded in the stone floor, the rusted carts leaning against the far wall. Everything was silent now. The carts were thick with moss, their wheels frozen in place. Debris was scattered across the ground—old bones, shattered crates, the remnants of a campfire long extinguished.
He crouched beside the firepit. The ash was cold. Days old, at least.
Someone else had passed this way.
He straightened, tension rising in his shoulders. He didn't believe in coincidences. If someone had come down here, they were either brave or desperate. Neither made them safe.
A low growl echoed through the chamber.
Ares froze.
Not human. Not even close.
He ducked behind a broken column, fingers tightening around the rusted dagger at his side. The growl came again—closer this time. Then a sound like claws scraping stone.
Ash hounds.
He'd heard rumors in the Hollow. Packs of them had taken over the deep tunnels—feral beasts left behind by the Empire, bred for war, abandoned when the campaigns turned inward. They weren't natural. Their bodies were stitched from beast and bone, their eyes ember-red, and their hides laced with metallic fibers. Fire-resistant. Pain-resistant.
One hound he could outrun. Two, maybe fight. But a pack?
He'd die screaming.
The footsteps drew closer. Heavy, deliberate. There was no point in staying. He ran.
His boots slapped against the damp floor as he tore down a side corridor, heart pounding in his throat. Behind him, claws clicked and scraped, fast and sharp. The hounds had caught his scent. They were hunting now.
Ares didn't look back. He focused on running, turning blindly through passages, following instinct more than sense. He didn't care where the tunnel led—as long as it wasn't straight into the teeth of a hound.
Then, just ahead—a glimmer.
He stumbled into another chamber. This one was smaller, round, with a collapsed ceiling and walls marked with faded murals. At the center was a rusted ladder descending into blackness.
Ares didn't hesitate. He slid down, hands burning as they scraped metal. The shaft narrowed, then opened again. He hit the ground hard, rolling to his feet.
Silence.
He turned the lantern around—no hounds yet.
But they'd find him.
He looked around quickly. This room was different. It was cleaner—less dust, fewer cobwebs. More importantly, it had doors. Three of them. One was blocked by rubble. The second hung half-open, revealing only darkness. The third had symbols carved into its frame—sharp, intricate, glowing faintly with blue light.
Ares stepped toward it, uncertain.
The symbols didn't look like anything he'd seen before. Not Imperial, not even ancient dwarven script. They pulsed, almost like they were breathing. As if the door itself were alive.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the edge of the rune-carved door, something clicked.
The air shifted. A sound filled the chamber—not a voice, not a word, but a pressure, a presence. Like something vast and buried had turned its head.
The pulse behind his left eye flared again. Cold. Watching. Waiting.
But nothing attacked. Nothing moved.
Slowly, the door creaked open.
What lay beyond was not a room, not exactly. It was a vault—a long hallway lined with pedestals, each one holding something covered in cloth or metal casing. Relics. Dozens of them. Some hummed softly. Others leaked light or smoke or the faint sound of distant bells.
Ares stepped inside, his breath shallow.
He was in the Archives.
Not the official ones, not the public halls or guarded vaults in the High Spire—these were the buried archives, the ones lost after the Collapse. The ones that had never been meant to see daylight again.
Somewhere in here was what Garruk had spoken of—the buried object, the thing tied to the old gods, to whatever truth the Empire wanted hidden.
Ares moved deeper, eyes scanning the relics with wary interest. He didn't touch anything.
Not yet.
First, he had to survive the hounds.
He turned, quietly closing the rune-door behind him.
Whatever power sealed it, he prayed it was enough.
Because the growling had returned. Echoing down the shaft.
They were coming.