The moon was high—silver and watchful—as I slipped out of the barracks.
Zander was waiting at the base of the tower, his cloak drawn tight around him, arms crossed.
We didn’t speak. Just nodded once in sync.
A moment later, Quinn emerged from the shadows, his steps quiet, expression grave.
“This way,” he said.
And together, we descended into the dark beneath Warriath, where the truth pulsed, dying, beneath our feet.
The tunnel beneath the Warder Tower was narrow, barely wide enough for the three of us to walk without brushing against the moss-covered walls. It twisted like a serpent; the path sloping gently downward with every step. Cool, damp air clung to my skin, thick with the scent of stone and something older, something laced with magic.
The only light came from the blue-glowing crystal Zander summoned, the gentle pulse of it throwing shadows across the passage and catching the glint of ancient runes carved into the arching ceiling. They flickered faintly, as if sensing his presence.
“Quinn,” Zander murmured, voice quiet but commanding. “How far does this go?”
“We’re close,” Quinn said. But he didn’t meet Zander’s eyes.
After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel opened into a small cavern, round, naturally formed, with high stone walls slick with condensation. At the center of the chamber, a pool stretched wide and still, glowing with an eerie, opalescent light. Its surface shimmered like liquid moonstone, silver and sapphire and violet all swirling together.
But it wasn’t perfect.
Dark veins ran through the water like cracks in glass, thick, black threads that pulsed slowly beneath the surface, corrupting the beauty like ink dropped into wine.
Zander stepped closer, his voice almost reverent. “Is this it?”
Quinn nodded, but there was tension in his shoulders now, like regret had started to seep in. “Yes. This is the pool.”
Zander turned toward him. “Then tell us. Where did it come from? Why did your elders keep this secret?”
Quinn hesitated.
His eyes flicked to the pool, then to the runes above, and I saw it—the smallest tremble in his hands.
“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he whispered.
Zander’s brow furrowed. “Quinn?—”
“It wasn’t meant to be seen,” Quinn said. “Not by anyone outside the bloodline of the warders. Not even the crown.”
I stepped forward, heart thudding. “Why? What are you afraid of?”
Quinn finally looked at me, and I saw the truth in his eyes.
Because something down here is unraveling. And no one knows how to stop it.
“Quinn,” I said, stepping between him and the pool, “we’re not here to expose your secrets. We’re here to save the realm.”
He looked at me as if he wanted to believe that, but fear was still thick in his gaze, coiled like a knot in his chest.
“If this pool fails,” I continued, “if your people keep hiding it while it corrodes beneath our feet, then we lose the war. And not just the battle at Warriath. Everything. Dragons. Riders. Wards. The entire realm.”
Quinn’s lips parted, his words caught behind the pressure of too many oaths. But after a moment, he exhaled, long and slow, as if he’d been holding his breath for weeks.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I just… never thought it would come to this.”
He stepped past us and approached the edge of the pool, kneeling at the stone lip. From the inner folds of his robe, he withdrew a smooth, thumb-sized wardstone. It glowed faintly with pale lavender etched with silver veins.
