“So, this tunnel is almost thirty miles long?” Erin asked as they trotted down the gentle grade.

About fifty yards into the tunnel, it narrowed to almost exactly one yard wide and just over two yards tall. According to Maggie, it remained this way for nearly its entire length, save for three rest stations, positioned more or less evenly through the tunnel. By contrast, each intersection between the tunnel and the Underneath was essentially airlocked, with thick doors of heavy stone secured in place with foot-long metal pins.

“Yeah, like twenty-eight,” Layla replied.

“Maggie?” Jack asked.

“Aye?” she looked over her shoulder.

“Why is this tunnel suspiciously two inches taller than me?” he quirked an eyebrow.

“It’s nae, laddie. Is a tenth of a stride taller than Brandon,” she chirped.

“Which would make the Pirate King… six-two?” Layla pitched in.

“Six? Oh, ‘feet’. Three to a stride, aye? He’s over two stride by a pinch. Or, at least he were. Might be bigger now,” she replied.

“People just… get bigger?” Erin asked.

“Aye. Well, it’s a bit rare, ah’ll give yeh that. There’s a few classes, like Titan, but mostly, it’s folk what turn ta dark rituals, consumin’ the flesh an’ blood o’ monsters,” she replied sourly.

“How’s that work? For academic curiosity?” Rory interjected.

“Yeh hunt up, or create, a ritual fer a beastie, sometimes down ta one specific creature. Then consume ‘nough o’ its parts durin’ the ritual ta unlock a parody o’ its racial class, what infests yer soul pattern, changin’ yeh. Next time yeh develop an ability, it’ll be one from the beastie yeh consumed, but it always comes with… deviations,” she answered.

“That sounds, horrible,” Rory responded.

“Aye. ‘Tis a wicked path,” the dwarf nodded.

They fell silent for miles after that, contemplating Maggie’s words. Layla finally pressed her for more information, and she explained that “the damned”, which was what the common folk called the monstrous amalgamations, very often devolved into monsters themselves. Cravings for the creature’s feeding habits typically began as early as the first ritual. Indulging led to an ever-growing hunger, but could sometimes allow the damned to gain new powers without further rituals.

If one could resist the urge to feed the monster, further rituals usually allowed the damned to developed a few signature abilities from the creature’s base type, and perhaps even a more esoteric power or two. Without feeding, though, the number of abilities one could accrue was limited. And feeding always led to the damned devolving into a monstrous killer.

“So, is that why… you know… never mind, I’ll ask when we finish with the shrine,” Layla scowled.

“Perhaps it might be, lass, but ah dinnae know fer sure. The End of Heroes has always been a monster, since the days of the Soldaen Empire. In the earliest writin’s we could ever find, she was the Mother of Horrors,” Maggie replied.

-----

They made good time, reaching the first rest area, some twelve miles in, in three hours. Maggie explained that even though the actual trip to the second stop was a shorter hike, there was a large cavern between the first stop and the second. Her opinion was they’d be better off getting some sleep instead of trying to brave the Underneath late into the night.

The Chosen deferred to her judgement and made camp at the rest stop. Rory doled out the dinner portions, still as steaming hot as when they had been stashed earlier that day. He and Jack had jotted down a menu detailing the various options piled onto each of the many, many cheap wooden plates Rory had purchased, as much to keep track of their rations as to help Rory more easily remember what was hidden away inside the extradimensional space.

It also meant each of them had a variety of meals to choose from each time they stopped to eat. A simple pleasure, no doubt, but each of them made time to thank Jack for cooking dozens of plates worth of food for the better part of the day.

“You not eating again, mate?” Rory quirked an eyebrow.

“On the off chance we get stuck down here, there’s no reason for me to be chewing up our supplies just cause I like the taste of my cooking,” he stuck his tongue out at the salesman.

“Uh huh,” Rory eyeballed him.

“Let it go, Boston,” Erin scowled.

“It’s okay, Erin,” Jack smiled softly. “I’m not eating because since becoming undead, everything I eat has to come back up later, Ror.”

“Everything?” the salesman’s mouth dropped open.

“Yeah, can’t digest a bite. Well, I can drink whatever I want, I guess,” Jack replied.

“That’s… awful,” Rory grimaced.

“Wait, I’ve seen you eat since… What do you mean ‘come back up’?” Layla cut in.

“More or less turns to ash, or something like it. So I drain a water skin and hurk it up,” he answered.

“Like, you gag yourself?” Layla pressed.

“Enough, El,” Erin grunted.

“It’s okay, hon, really,” he leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. “But no, El. It just comes up, like it’s not supposed to be there. The water makes it easier.”

“That’s kinda wild,” she replied.

“Yeah, it was super weird at first, when I didn’t realize why I felt sick to my stomach,” he chuckled.

Jack leaned over and nabbed a bite of Erin’s square-chopped, seared gator-fish and tossed it into his mouth, grinning as he chewed, while Rory and Layla watched incredulously.

“I already ate a bunch while we were cooking earlier,” he winked at the two.

-----

“Account.”

The pale girl didn’t speak, but the words resounded inside the red-haired woman’s mind nevertheless. To the woman, seated at the wide darkwood desk surrounded by paperwork, the girl seemingly appeared from thin air.

The response was immediate, decisive, and excessive. The redhead threw herself back from the desk, sending the sturdy wooden chair clattering away, and conjured a ball of flame in each hand.

At least, that was her intention. No flame materialized in her grasp.

She looked down at the empty palms, then up at the willowy, naked girl in front of her.

A flicker of recognition crossed her face, then the expression bloomed into one of utter horror.

“You! What have you-” she started to shout.

“Silence.”

Guard Captain Meryn Haley’s mouth shut of its own accord.

“I do not have mana, and therefore you do not have mana. Which means you cannot cast elemental magic, pyromancer. Now, enough out of Captain Haley. Give me your account, echo.”

All expression melted from Meryn’s face, save for a rivulet of tears that streamed down her cheeks. Even that stopped in seconds, and all that was left was a blank, alien stare. When the echo spoke, it did so without inflection or accent, and even the Guard Captain’s mother wouldn’t have recognized her voice.

The echo’s mind reached for its creator, attempting to share its impressions in a stream of consciousness that would leave no room for misinterpretation.

“Stop that. I have no interest in your crude thoughts. Speak, and be brief.”

“The four met with a dwarf in the town square. She was yelling gibberish at the day priests. They then proceeded back to the Yam. They left the same night and headed toward Split Watch,” the creature regurgitated.

“What kind of gibberish?”

“Unknown. The Watchman simply said ‘gibberish’,” the echo responded.

“No, he didn’t. He said something in whatever animal garbage passes for language in this sty.”

The echo simply stood silently.

“They've spoken of me since leaving, in vague terms. North of this… city. Find them.”

The echo said nothing. Instead, Meryn Haley’s face slowly bled into the alien expression.

“No, I won’t. I won’t hurt the-” she whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks again.

“Cállate, pendeja. Do as I tell you, flesh of my flesh.”

Guard Captain Meryn Haley looked down as her fists unclenched involuntarily, and her feet began to move toward the door. By the time she reached it, she was whistling an old Mirati nursery rhyme and had a smile on her face. The echo wiped Meryn’s tears away and continued to whistle as it bounced down the hallway toward the Cross Gate.

The girl watched her walk out the door, then wrapped herself in the guise of a small, pale young woman in the outfit of a noble’s servant. A maid.

"Thus I clothe my naked villainy. With old odd ends, stolen forth from holy writ. And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.”