Darev’s grip, white-knuckled and slick with sweat, began to falter. The chasm’s icy breath clawed at his face, but a memory, sharp and cold as the air itself, cut through the terror. It was his first day at Blackcrag, a raw youth fresh from the Varlan plains, standing before the memorial of Squad Rho. Their names, etched into obsidian, represented a failure he’d never known. Captain Vorn had laid a hand on his shoulder, his voice a low growl. “The Deep claims the weak, boy. But a true Vanguard never lets his own fall.” Darev had sworn that day, a silent, burning oath to the Maker, that no one under his command would ever be marked for the abyss. He would not let another squad die. He would not let the recruit die. Not Keth. Not now. His boot slipped an inch, sending a cascade of loose scree into the darkness. Kethra’s hand felt small, fragile, yet impossibly vital in his own. His arm screamed, the muscles in his shoulder tearing, but he refused to release her. He had to get back up. He had to. With a guttural roar, Darev shifted his weight, twisting his body. His broadsword, still sheathed, was a heavy anchor. He swung it with a last surge of desperate strength, jamming its pommel into a narrow fissure in the cliff face just beneath his feet. The impact sent a jarring shock up his arm, reverberating through his skull, but it held. Barely. He hung there, braced tight, his sword wedged, his body a living dam against the relentless pull of the void. Blood bloomed rapidly on his torn palm where the rough stone had abraded his skin, but the pain was a distant hum against the deafening clamor of his own will. Above, Kethra watched the crimson seep from Darev’s hand, her own heart twisting. Skritch’s faint whimper, muffled by Envar’s callous hold, was a sound she couldn’t bear. Darev’s impossible strength held her, but she saw the strain etched on his face, the raw agony. He was bleeding for her. For them all. She couldn’t let his sacrifice be in vain. Her gaze met Envar’s, cold and resolute. “Let them go,” she rasped, her voice thin but firm. “Release the hex. I’ll do it.” Envar’s cruel smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He slowly drew the volcanic glass blade away from Skritch’s throat, and the small creature scrambled away, trembling, disappearing into the shadows of the sanctum’s alcoves. He made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the shimmering altar, already stained with the faint, ethereal glow of its corruption. “A wise choice, little bird. The Deep hungers for purity.” He glanced at the paralyzed squad members, still locked in stasis, then back at Kethra. “Now, fulfill your purpose.” Kethra glanced down to Darev, still clinging precariously to the cliff edge, then to the unmoving figures of her squad, strung up like grotesque marionettes. Her resolve hardened. This was the only way. She took a deep, shuddering breath, tasting the stale, metallic tang of the chamber. Each step was a deliberate act of surrender, her boots heavy on the cold stone floor. The altar pulsed, a sickly violet light emanating from its polished surface. As she reached it, she saw the massive core-stone embedded at its center, throbbing with an inner, malevolent light, like an infected organ. Its surface was pitch-black volcanic glass, but unlike the jagged shards, this one was smooth, unnaturally warm to the touch, and hummed with a low, almost inaudible vibration that resonated in her bones. “Perfect,” Envar murmured, his voice laced with triumph. He raised the jagged ritual dagger, its black point glinting wickedly in the strange light. His eyes, usually so kind, were now black pits of fanaticism. “The first pure heart in generations. The Vanguard will be reborn in the Deep’s image!” Just as Envar’s arm began its downward arc, a blur of motion erupted from the shadows. Skritch. The little creature, propelled by an unseen burst of courage, launched himself from his hiding spot, not at Envar, but directly at the pulsating mother-stone. His six legs scrabbled for purchase, his mandibles clamping down with surprising force onto the obsidian surface. A high-pitched, almost mechanical shriek tore from his tiny form, a sound of raw agony and furious defiance. The brood-stone pulsed violently, its violet light flaring, then seemed to *implode* inwards, drawing Skritch’s entire body into its core. The chamber filled with a blinding, emerald flash. Envar recoiled, shielding his eyes with a cry of alarm. Kethra stumbled backward, her vision momentarily obliterated. A searing heat washed over her, and a strange, deep rumble vibrated through the very bedrock of the fortress. When her vision cleared, the altar was irrevocably changed. Where the focal stone had been, a monstrous, adolescent form of Skritch now stood. His six legs were thicker, plated with shimmering, iridescent scales, and his blind head, once small and unassuming, now sported a fearsome, armored crest. Two rows of needle-sharp teeth glinted in his elongated mandibles, and from his new, segmented carapace, thin tendrils of pure abyssal energy pulsed, lashing out like crackling whips. He let out a piercing, triumphant shriek that shook the very foundations of the Vanguard, a roar of raw, untamed power. With a final, explosive surge of energy, the emerald tendrils from Skritch’s body slammed into the pinned figures of the squad. The dark hex, which had held them in its cruel grasp, shattered instantly, dissolving into wisps of shadow. The squad members dropped to the floor with a collective thud, gasping, coughing, bewildered and shaken, but alive. Darev, still clinging to the chasm’s edge, looked up, his face a mask of disbelief as he witnessed the impossible transformation. Envar, his face contorted in a snarl of rage, lunged at the monstrous Skritch, the dark glass dagger still clutched in his hand. But the mutated creature merely swatted him aside with a casual flick of a scaled leg, sending the cultist sprawling against the stone wall, the dagger clattering uselessly away. A low, guttural growl vibrated in Skritch’s chest, his newly formed eyes, now glowing with a faint, internal light, fixed on Envar with cold malevolence. But the triumph was short-lived. The shattered anchor-stone, its core now consumed by Skritch, had left a gaping, ragged wound in the altar. From the jagged edges of the fracture, a blinding, unstable light began to erupt, pulsing erratically. The air crackled, growing heavy with raw energy, and the very stone of the sanctum began to glow with an ominous, internal heat. A high-pitched whine filled the chamber, growing rapidly in intensity, threatening to overwhelm all other sound. This wasn't merely corruption; this was the raw, uncontrolled power of the Deep itself, about to detonate. In a matter of minutes, the entire Blackcrag Fortress would be vaporized, along with everyone inside.

The Desperate Descent