The group pressed onward through the dense undergrowth, carefully sidestepping trees and bushes that threatened to snag their clothes and slow them down. Stick caught Nakamura glancing at Hadvar again. Not once, not twice—constantly. His eyes flickered between the man and the path ahead, his fingers twitching near his weapon. Was it fear? Distrust? Whatever it was, it was getting worse. The tunnel entrance loomed before them, shadowed and foreboding. Two guards stood in front, their posture rigid, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. Hadvar didn’t hesitate—he conjured a fine mask, its design reminiscent of the Jester Claudius, and draped himself in elegant robes. The transformation was striking. He looked every bit a Council member.

  Nakamura stepped forward, voice steady. “We have business beyond the tunnel.”

  The guards barely reacted. One of them tilted his head. Unimpressed.

  “Where’s your carriage? Your luggage?”

  “We don’t have time for this. It’s urgent,” Nakamura said smoothly.

  The second guard scoffed. “Urgent, but you came on foot?”

  Stick saw Nakamura’s jaw tighten. He was fast losing control of this exchange.

  “Milord,” Nakamura sighed, turning to Hadvar, “use the mask. Show them.”

  Hadvar lifted his chin and activated his Status display. The guards stiffened, their faces draining of color. They exchanged quick, uncertain glances, their composure faltering. Curious, Stick checked Hadvar’s Status himself. Every entry was blacked out except for the Name. His stomach twisted. Is this the mask’s doing?

  Then, as if answering his unspoken question, Hadvar’s name blacked out too.

  “Enough,” Hadvar said, his voice carrying an eerie weight.

  One of the guards barely hesitated before stepping aside, pulling the chain that lifted the massive stone drape. The passage beyond yawned open, dark and waiting. Is Hadvar really that big of a deal?

  They stepped inside, the air turning cool and stale. Stick ran a finger along the smooth tunnel wall. Too smooth. Uneasily, he pressed on. Just a few more meters, and they’d be in the clear. No one will know we passed through.

  Then hooves thundered behind them. A messenger on horseback, his face taut with urgency, pulled up before the guards.

  “No one is to pass!” he barked.

  Stick froze. The guards turned back toward them. Hadvar moved first. The fine robes melted away, replaced by grotesque, malevolent armor that seemed to pulse with a dark presence.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “What the hell?” one of the guards barely had time to say before he crumpled.

  The second barely got a syllable out before Hadvar slammed the hilt of his sword into his face. The messenger dismounted in one fluid motion, sword already drawn. Before he could close the distance, Shadis stepped in.

  “Shadis, no!” Stick shouted.

  Shadis didn’t look back. “Go ahead. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  Still, Stick hesitated. They all did. The fight erupted in a blur of steel and movement. Boots scraped against stone, breathless grunts filled the air. Hadvar and Shadis fought as if their lives depended on it. Because they did.

  Finally, amid the chaos, Shadis roared, “Go!” and urged the rest to flee. The boys and PP scrambled ahead into the dark tunnel as Shadis’ final words rang out, “We’re right behind you!”

  Stick wasn’t sure he could believe that; the words sounded too final, too final to leave someone behind. But there was no time to dwell on it. Stick ran. He hated it. Hated leaving them behind. But he ran. The tunnel stretched before them, endless and black. No carriage this time. Just running. Running and more running, their breaths echoing off the walls. Stick lost his sense of direction. His mind played tricks on him. Were they going downhill? Uphill? He couldn’t tell. The tunnel seemed to twist and turn, and he could swear they were descending into a deep, unyielding pit.

  “Just keep running!” Nakamura panted. “The tunnel is straight. You won’t hit anything.”

  Stick let out a shaky breath and pressed his hand against the wall. It was his only anchor in the suffocating dark.

  “PP?” he blurted out without thinking.

  “Yes?”

  “Uh… it’s nothing,” Stick muttered, realizing that his worries about the dark were too strange to share.

  But it wasn’t nothing. The darkness felt wrong. Too thick. Too deep. Like when he first arrived, all those months ago. He was just grateful PP was there. Like in the mines. Like always.

  The air grew heavier, pressing against their lungs. This tunnel wasn’t built for running. How does it even ventilate?

  A body hit the ground with a dull thud.

  “PP?” Stick’s throat was raw from breathing so hard.

  “Yeah?” PP panted.

  Stick exhaled. Then turned back. It was Nakamura on the ground, wheezing. The two former miners, despite their exhaustion, seemed to handle the difficult air better than their Carnifex counterpart.

  “I—I can’t—” Nakamura gasped.

  “Get up!” Stick barked. “We’re nearly there!”

  “This is too much.”

  “Get a hold of yourself! We’re sitting ducks in here! We have to get to the Goblin King’s Steppes before more soldiers come.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t get up!”

  Stick gritted his teeth. Whiny little—

  Shuffling in the dark. Then Nakamura’s strangled protests.

  “What are you doing? Let me down.”

  PP’s voice was calm. “We’re leaving.”

  “What? No. Let me go.”

  PP didn’t stop. Stick couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of Nakamura wriggling uselessly on PP’s shoulders.

  “Where to, Stick?” PP asked. “I lost direction.”

  Stick tapped the wall, steady as ever. “Don’t worry. I know the way.”

  With renewed determination, they resumed their sprint. They ran. And ran. Finally, a narrow slit of light appeared at the tunnel’s far end. Their heavy breaths and sweat-drenched faces betrayed relief as they reached the massive stone drape on the other side. Nakamura clambered off PP’s back with a quiet “Thanks,” and together they searched for the chain to lift the drape.

  “Here!” Nakamura shouted as he found it first.

  One pull. Nothing. Two. Still nothing. On the third, the stone groaned and shifted. It took several strenuous attempts—the kind that made Stick wonder how Becket had managed it single-handedly—but at last, the drape lifted. Light poured in, blinding them. Their eyes adjusted. A clearing in the Whispering Woods stretched before them. They had made it. Stick turned back to the tunnel, heart pounding. Shadis…?

  Before he could dwell, movement caught his eye. A figure stepped into view. The Jester. Claudius. Watching. He clapped his hands. Slowly.

  “Well done,” he said. “Well done indeed.”

  Stick’s stomach turned to ice.

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