Boots striking stone in rhythm, measured and deliberate, carried through the corridors that speaks of coordination rather than chance, the change in the ruin is felt as clearly as I feel the weight of the weapon at my side, because intrusion at this scale does not happen without consequence.
I turn toward the nearest entry point, already mapping angles, distances, possible lines of approach, and in that fraction of attention redirected away from the artifact, the chamber answers with movement that is not Aeryn or to me.
Stone slides. A seam opens along the far wall, nearly invisible until it moves, and from it emerges a figure I recognize before the mechanism has fully completed its motion.
Xalith.
He steps into the chamber as though he has always been part of it, his presence immediate and overwhelming, all raw force and sharpened intent. His onyx hair is pulled back in tight braids streaked with dark markings that cut across his skin like war declarations, black eyes fixed not on me, not even on Aeryn, but on the artifact itself with a hunger he has never bothered to disguise.
For a moment, no one speaks. Then he smiles.
“You took your time,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the chamber, rougher than mine, edged with something closer to anticipation than restraint. “I was starting to think you’d lost your nerve.”
“You tracked me,” I reply, already adjusting my stance, placing myself between him and the platform without making the movement obvious.
“I followed patterns,” he corrects, rolling one shoulder as though preparing for something inevitable. “Yours are consistent when you think they’re hidden.”
That is almost amusing. Almost.
“You didn’t come alone,” I say.
“I never do.”
The sentence lingers just long enough to matter, and then the chamber reacts.
The first impact echoes from somewhere beyond the walls, a distant crash that reverberates through the structure, followed by another, closer this time, and then the unmistakable sound of steel meeting resistance.
Velkiron.
They breach from multiple points. Not random. Not scattered. Coordinated. I understand it immediately.
Xalith did not simply follow me. He timed this. He let me clear the path, let me navigate the defenses, and then he brought an army to fracture the space the moment I reached the objective.
Efficient.
I move.
There is no warning, no wasted motion, only the direct line between my position and the artifact, and I close the distance with controlled speed, already calculating the angle required to secure it before either of them can interfere.
Xalith moves faster.He does not aim for me. He aims for outcome. His hand strikes the nearest pillar instead of reaching for the artifact, fingers pressing into a sequence of etched symbols with brutal precision, and I recognize the intent a fraction too late.
The chamber reacts.
The floor fractures along a circular seam, the stone splitting with a violent crack that sends a shock through the platform, and a barrier rises between us, a wall of jagged stone forcing separation, cutting the space cleanly in half.
I stop at its edge, already searching for a way through. On the other side, Xalith laughs.
“You always think you’re the first to arrive,” he says. “That’s your weakness.”
Beyond him, the first Velkiron soldier enters the chamber. Then another. And another.
They move with discipline, armor dark and functional, weapons drawn with the efficiency of trained killers, their presence filling the space quickly, turning the chamber from controlled environment into contested ground within seconds.
Aeryn shifts behind me. I register her position without looking. Irrelevant for now.
The artifact is not.
I move along the barrier, searching for the mechanism that controls it, the flaw that must exist, because nothing built can exist without one, and I find it embedded low along the base where the stone meets the floor, a sequence of interlocking plates designed to lock under pressure.