An hour's ride brought them to the mine. The path had wound through rocky hills until the earth itself split open into a jagged mouth, reinforced with timber beams and glowing crystals embedded in the rock. The entrance loomed like a wound in the mountainside.
Only a handful of people milled around—no more than ten, split into two groups or perhaps one large party. Voices drifted in low tones, the clink of armor and the creak of packs betraying their preparations.
"This is it," Augusto muttered, pulling a folded map from his coat pocket. He spread it open, pointing a clawed finger at the entrance. "Here's where we stand. And we'll be heading…" He dragged his finger deep into the parchment, far past the marked tunnels. "…all the way here."
Trafalgar's eyes narrowed. "Mythril?"
