Basia followed Sirina down the winding stone steps, the air growing thick with a damp, earthy scent and something else, a faint sweetness that made her temples throb. Their lanterns cast long, dancing shadows, shrinking the already narrow passage beneath the crumbled Temple of Orenda. The whispers of the Gala above had faded, replaced by the trickle of unseen water and the scuttling of small things. Basia’s skin crawled, not just from the chill, but from the proximity to Sirina, whose hand rested lightly on her elbow, guiding her. It was a proprietorial touch, brimming with a disturbing certainty. “The Pith of the Deepstone,” Basia repeated, her voice a low murmur, practicing the subservience. “It truly lies beneath us? The source?” Sirina’s smile was a thin line in the gloom. “Closer than you imagine, Basia. Our ancestors, in their misguided devotion, sought to contain it. To bury its truth. But true life cannot be stifled indefinitely.” The passage opened into a vast cavern, a space that defied its subterranean location. It was not merely a tunnel, but the skeletal remains of an antique temple, massive stone arches and columns rising into an unseen ceiling. And everywhere, life, but of a grotesque, unnatural kind. Luminescent moss clung to cracked masonry, pulsing with a faint, internal light. Vines, thick as a man’s arm, coiled through broken windows, their leaves a vibrant, diseased emerald. They were the plants from Sirina’s hothouse, but here, they thrived with a terrifying scale. Basia felt the strange energy radiating from them, a pressure against her mind, a subtle hum that vibrated in her teeth. This was the true nature of the spreading affliction, its insidious beauty. Sirina led her deeper, past carvings half-consumed by the glowing flora, symbols of forgotten deities and monarchs. They arrived at a central chamber, vast and circular, where a chilling spectacle unfolded. Dozens of robed figures, their faces obscured by deep hoods, stood in a wide circle. In the center, a raised dais, and upon it, the tomb of a forgotten king, its sarcophagus carved from dark, polished granite. But it was not the tomb that drew the eye. Growing from the very stone of the tomb, engulfing it like a parasitic bloom, was the Pith of the Deepstone. It was a crystalline structure, jagged and multifaceted, pulsating with an internal, crimson light. It beat like a heart, a slow, deliberate rhythm that resonated through the stone floor, through Basia’s bones. Tendrils of misty red energy pulsed from its surface, reaching into the air, into the hushed gathering. The robed figures began a low, guttural chant, their voices intertwining into a dissonant drone that chafed Basia’s nerves. A thin woman, older than Sirina but with the same zealous glint in her eyes, stood before the Pith, her arms raised. Her hands held a small, silver dagger, its blade gleaming in the Pith’s awful light. Sirina squeezed Basia’s arm, a triumphant gleam in her gaze. “They are preparing the final ritual. To awaken the Pith fully. To let its grace burst forth and cleanse the world above.” She leaned in, her voice pitched to overcome the chanting. “You see, Basia? It is magnificent. It is inevitable. And you, little archivist, will witness its glorious rebirth.” Basia forced a shaky smile, her stomach churning. “Magnificent,” she whispered, trying to make her voice convey awe, not dread. She glanced towards the shadows, praying Vasyan and his people had found their way through the old smugglers' paths. She had described the routes, the collapsed sections, the hidden niches from memory, but the catacombs were a labyrinth. Suddenly, Sirina’s smile sharpened, losing its warmth entirely. Her grip tightened on Basia’s arm, painfully. “Oh, Basia. You truly believe you could fool me?” Basia froze. The chanting continued, oblivious. “What… what do you mean?” “Your act,” Sirina scoffed, her voice cold as the grave. “The pitiful show at the Gala. Did you truly think a mind like yours, once so stubborn, could be so easily broken?” She gave a short, humourless laugh. “I knew the moment you escaped the hothouse. I merely wished to see who you would bring to witness your failure.” Her eyes, usually so soft, gleamed with malice. “This invitation wasn’t for you, Basia. It was for your new protector. Your Moroz.” From the entrance, a voice, deep and resonant, cut through the chanting. “Then you have him, Sirina.” Basia spun. Vasyan stood at the cavern’s mouth, a dozen of his guild’s most formidable guards fanned out behind him. Their faces were grim, their weapons drawn. Vasyan’s gaze found Basia, his jaw tight, his expression hard as slate. His hand gripped the hilt of his rapier, the pale metal reflecting the glowing flora. Sirina’s head snapped back, a triumphant cackle escaping her lips. “Excellent! Just as planned.” She yanked Basia forward, towards the dais, using her as a shield. The robed figures, alerted by the new voices, ceased their chant. Their hooded faces turned, revealing not the expected panic, but a chilling calm. The older woman with the dagger merely smiled, a predatory curve of her lips. She raised the silver blade higher. “The Blight claims all who stand against it!” the older woman shrieked, her voice reverberating. As she plunged the dagger into a crevice within the pulsating Pith, the crystalline heart flared, blinding crimson. A guttural roar erupted, not from a throat, but from the very stones. The cavern ceiling above them groaned, a deep, grinding sound that shook the subterranean halls to their foundations. Dust and debris rained down. Basia instinctively shielded her head, but Sirina pulled her back, away from the path of Vasyan and his men. With a deafening crack, a colossal section of the ceiling ripped free, plummeting between Basia and Sirina on one side, and Vasyan’s approaching forces on the other. A wall of falling rock and pulverized stonework erupted, a choking cloud of dust and grit separating them entirely. Basia heard Vasyan’s shout, muffled, distant. When the dust began to settle, revealing a jagged, impassable chasm of rubble, the crimson light from the Pith intensified. The very ground around the ancient tomb began to churn. Cracks spiderwebbed across the floor. From the deepest shadows beneath the dais, from within the newly formed fissures, monstrous shapes began to stir. Formless at first, then coalescing, they rose—gnarled, multi-limbed horrors of solidified darkness and glowing blighted flora, their empty eye sockets fixing on the intruders. They moved with a slow, deliberate hunger, animated by the beating Pith. Sirina laughed, a wild, joyous sound, as the first of the abominations lumbered towards Basia, its thorny appendages reaching.

Beneath the Palace