Like herding cattle, Freya dashed along the cavern wall while Superior Earth Elementals chased. Boulders exploded in her footsteps, booms echoing off the ceiling, sharp stones bouncing off stalagmites with one nicking Sorath’s face dangerously close to his eye. A drop of blood trailed down his cheek. The Rejuvenation aura instantly erased the scratch.

Under Freya’s hood, her face was a black void, and her mind was loopy, as usual, and mellow despite the avalanche of rock closing in on her. She ran by the last elemental, taunting it in a burst of annoying mana that made Sorath’s stomach itch. She then swerved back to the cavern’s midpoint where Gwyn was waiting.

Now chanting. Singing.

Rhyming verses in the divine language fluttered from her hood. Obscure words layered on top of each other in the echo. Lively green mana grew from her form as leafy vines, and the vines gave blossom to flowers by the hundreds. When Freya ran past, Gwyn’s wand hand flicked downward, as though guiding an orchestra to climax. Petals fell and stormed in a cheerful vortex, shredding every last elemental into fine sand.

“We did it!” Gwyn jumped on the spot, her fist punching high.

Chuckling, Sorath approached and firmly grasped her shoulder. “More like you and Freya are doing it. I am humbled.”

Her hood looked at him, tilted. “Aww, don’t be like that, Sora. You’re part of the team. You carry that lamp very well.”

That prompted him to top off its mana supply. The indigo flame shone brighter. “I do indeed.” He yawned and noticed a sapphire triangle in a sand pile. He plucked it with telekinesis. “I believe I’ve earned this. Unless you want?”

“You can have it,” she cheerfully said.

“Hold it,” Freya cut in. “Let me see.”

He twisted around, offered his open palm. The gem was about the size of three flattened thumb knuckles.

Freya’s hood swayed back and forth in contemplation. “Fine. You can have it. You did sense all the traps. Good job.”

Calling them traps was an exaggeration. They were little more than superheated steam pockets under thin, reactive rock. Still, he accepted the compliment and fed the gem a spoonful of mana. It glowed white, expanding ten-fold and gaining substantial weight. A silvery-blue metal block radiated weak, soothing magic.

Unveil, he thought.

High-Quality Mithril Ingot

It was worth around a thousand gold at Greenwood’s markets, slightly less at the inner towns and cities, slightly less than high-quality steel. Compared to steel, mithril was softer and generally dealt less physical damage but was better suited for magic attacks like Psionic Slash. Naturally, mithril was also more resistant against magic.

As Sorath pouched the ingot, Gwyn asked, “You’re a Blacksmith, right?”

He grunted. “Does Freya need armor? I’ve never seen a tank in cloth and hide before.”

“Unless,” Freya said, “you can craft me a set of legendary armor, I will keep to my current equipment.” ‘

He didn’t argue.

“What’s your Blacksmith level?” Gwyn asked.

He swallowed a yawn. “Thirty-four.”

“That’s pretty high for your age.”

“Guard Captain Johan Madrog had me repair guard armor. The pay and experience rates were decent enough.” His brows shrugged at them. “Do you two know any Madrogs?”

Gwyn honestly said, “Nope.”

Freya’s mana stilled as she said, “I may.”

Sorath rambled, “I didn’t write much about Madrog in my journal, but I suppose he was a kind mentor to me. Because of him I was allowed to walk Greenwood’s streets without a bubble enchantment, and he even offered to take me in when the Royal Bank auctioned off the adobe. Finding his son is the least I could do for him, don’t you agree?”

Gwyn cheerily asked no one in particular, “Is he one of our prisoners?”

Stiffly, Freya’s hood nodded. “Lafan Madrog is a high-level Rogue with mediocre fire and light affinities. He is laboring in our mines for killing Vellar Sier, who was one of my best Blademasters and a good father of three.”

Sorath wasn’t too surprised that her justification seemed reasonable. “And for how long will he labor?”

“For however long I see fit. Lafan is grateful that I didn’t execute him like his King would have in my position. He understands well that he owes Vellar’s family a life debt.” Freya’s stance became a touch more imposing. “However, since you appear to have a personal connection to Lafan’s family, I am willing to release him for a binding vow of loyalty from you, Sorath. A soul for a soul; it is a fair trade.”

He smirked. “For the son of my mentor, would I trade myself away?”

“Do it.” Gwyn happily nodded. “We’ll treat you well.”

“It shall be vowed as so,” Freya said, “that you may have a high place in my court.”

The offer was tempting, although not as tempting as she thought. This was a binding vow of loyalty, after all—unbreakable dark magic. “How far are you from starting a faction?”

Gwyn immediately answered, “Hopefully later this year. You saw—” She yawned, feeling not as tired as him. “You saw our Castle in construction, yes?”

“I did. Do you have a scroll?”

Freya nodded truthfully—somewhat surprising.

“For which god?” he asked.

“You’ll see.”

“The Chaotic One?”

“Not the Chaotic One,” Freya truthfully said.

“But a dark god?”

“Not a dark god.” Truth.

“Definitely not a dark god,” Gwyn added, also truthful.

Then why were they keeping it secret?

Sorath massaged his brow ridge, relieving some stress. He was too tired for their Elven shenanigans. He reminded himself that their minds were not akin to his. Although they ate the same foods, wore the same equipment, and spoke the same language, they were not human. His perception of their motives would always be from a human perspective—inaccurate. As Freya had said, she was not feeling loopy or drunk.

Slender arms embraced him. Gwyn again. “Do you need to rest?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, staring into her hood’s black void. “We’ve been killing elementals all night.” With only one mithril ingot to show for it.

“We’re almost done with the floor.”

“How do you know?”

“I have a feeling in my tummy.” That feeling was hunger. “And from experience. Tier nines often have an easy first floor with a dozen large rooms. We should be close to next floor’s entrance.”

He rubbed his sore, itchy eyes. They had fought through nine of these caverns plus three smaller chambers along with leagues of tunnels. Twice he had nearly stepped on a superheated steam pocket, and a falling stalactite had missed his head by an arm length. Dungeoneering, so far, was turning out to be a grueling, humid slog. By far, the thick humidity down here was the worst part of this pocketworld.

Freya said, “One more room, then we can make camp for the night.” She pointed with her shield. “Which way?”

With closed eyes, Sorath dipped into meditative focus. His sixth sense sharpened, tiny mana specks becoming visible. The cave walls were sprinkled and streaked with earthen mana, concentrated around low-quality mixed ore veins. The leftward tunnel gradually narrowed toward presumably a dead end. The middle tunnel was narrow and short, leading to a small chamber with two elements inside. The rightward tunnel maintained its width and height.

“Watch out.” He ran rightward, leaped over three consecutive steam pockets and then two more. Mana folded above, and a stalactite fell soundlessly. Telenka. He guided it to the cave floor, careful to not set off the steam traps. The next two hundred strides were clear. He jogged onward, his mana lamp dimming by the step. Gwyn topped it off for him.

They came to a large green pond that smelled of month-old eggs. Its banks were colored orange. Energetic mana billowed. The heat was blistering. Air tasted sour. His eyes watered as he ran onward.

But Freya pinged him, indigo letters appearing before his nose.

Scarlett Freya asks for your attention

He doubled back. “What is it?”

“Footprints.” Two washed-out bootprints leading into the pond. They were hardly bootprints, more like oval blobs.

He pushed five hundred points into his mana lamp, held it over his head. The flame brightened to a blinding whitish purple. Underwater glimmered polished metal.

Telenka, he invoked, fanning away steam and momentarily seeing a ruddy blade, somehow in pristine condition. Its owner’s corpse wasn’t around, long dissolved in this volcanic water.

Gwyn inhaled sharply. “I want it.”

Freya’s tongue clicked. “This is what we are here for.”

Unfortunately, the sword was far outside Telekinesis’ range at fifty strides—nothing which two immortals and a clever man couldn’t solve. Yawning, Sorath stretched his limbs, then shuffled along the wall on the pond’s bank, the Elves right behind. Sour fumes stung in his mouth and nostrils. His face took on a slick coat, his neck burning and would’ve bled if it weren’t for the Rejuvenation aura. The closest they could get was forty strides of the sword at the pond’s far side.

Freya pushed in a flat-top boulder, and it rapidly melted. She laughed. “It’s never easy, is it?”

“Nope.” Gwyn’s hand disappeared at her hip. From an invisible pouch she pulled out a crystal flask filled with lime liquid. Stamina potion. She passed it to Sorath, taking his mana lamp. “I believe in you.” She really did. This wasn’t a hard task, just very dangerous for clumsy souls.

“Thanks.” He bit off the cork and sipped. The syrup was sweeter than it looked, sweeter than his green apple syrup. “Telenka,” he mumbled. Uplifting mana pressed up against his soles until he hovered a body length in the air, his stamina bar draining by over a hundred points a second. He drank syrup, floated forward into burning steam.

The pond’s mana ruptured like a bubble bursting.

He heaved away. Boiling sulfuric water splashed him, skin dissolving to the bone, vision failing in his left eye. Pain. Horrible, stinging pain assaulted him. A bellow ripped up his throat, echoing back at him.

Then Gwyn flooded him with healing mana. In a split second, his wounds were washed away in the green light. His flashing health bar faded, but the pain lingered, his heart racing, his hold on Telekinesis slipping in exhaustion. He guzzled from the flask. His stamina refilled from five percent.

Close one. Too close.

He carried on forward to his rightful blade. Its haughty mana was calling, begging, for a new master. For sure, it was a legendary artifact from ages past, placed here by the gods just for him to find. Or by simple chance. Either way, this fearsome sword of dragonsteel was his. He swallowed a mouthful from the flask and hugged a stalactite, gripping the slimy rock with all his strength. He let go of Telekinesis, nearly slipped as support under his boots vanished. He waited for its cooldown.

He couldn’t tell if the sword was within range. He gulped. “Telenka.”

A tendril of his mana fished it out.

Relief and satisfaction cooled his blood. He drank mana potion and floated back to the excited girls, mindful of another splash, but the pond behaved itself this time. His boots touched solid ground, the sword dripping sulfuric water behind him.

“You did it!” Gwyn cheered.

He smiled. “Nice reaction time on the heal.”

“You’re welcome.” She was about to hug him but refrained, not wanting to smear acid on her cloak. Instead, she snatched back her flask, which was impressively resistant against corrosion.

Freya asked, “What are you waiting for?”

He took a breath and floated the sword into unveiling range, an arm length from his face. The double-edged blade was thin and straight under a plain cross guard and clubbed pommel. It was forged from a single piece of dragonsteel. Three beautiful sets of enchantment runes were etched on the tang. However, it lacked a leather grip… thanks to the pond.

“Unveil,” he said with the girls. His heart skipped a beat at the first line.

[Binds on Equip] Vetara’s Reckoning

It is said this dragonsteel longsword was crafted by Vetara as an act of vengeance.

Durability: 8157/10000

+65 Dexterity

+25 Intelligence

+10 Strength

Attack Damage: 4751

Brutality: Deals 15% more physical damage

Cruel Edge: Wounds inflicted by this weapon are unusually painful

Greater Imperishability: Significantly increases this item’s durability. May also improve its defensive and offensive properties.

Set Effect (6 Pieces): Runic Echo

A wave of goosebumps rolled down Sorath’s body, not only because of its stats. To be sure he wasn’t dreaming, he sank his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. He still didn’t wake. He really was staring at a legendary sword with a remarkably similar name to the cloak he had dreamed of.

Gwyn’s fingers waved in front of his eyes. “Sora, are you in there? You look pale. Don’t tell me you’re disappointed. Are you disappointed?”

“Well,” Freya said, “Cruel Edge is a useless enchantment. Its attack damage is awfully low for a dragonsteel longsword. Only three attribute stats as well.”

He found his voice: “You know my dream I mentioned? The one where Ice Elementals siege Greenwood?”

“Yep, of course.” Gwyn nudged his arm.

“A legendary loot gem gave me Vetara’s Embrace, a cloak with the exact same set effect down to the number of pieces needed. The description is similar.”

“And the rest of it?” Freya asked.

“Just that.” A yawn stretched his mouth.

She hummed a breath, unconvinced.

Gwyn, however, was more alarmed. “Oh no. I think your people are in danger.”

“I think so too.”

“Are you going to warn them?”

“We’ll see.” He uncorked his water flask and washed his rightful prize. He seized the tang. He willed the dragonsteel to bind to his soul, and his mana melded Vetara’s Reckoning, the influx of power putting him on a exultant high.

Annoyance shot up Freya’s chest. “Did I say you can have it?”

He grinned. “What are you going to do? Send me to the mines?”

“Nope,” Gwyn said, “you’re welcome to have it for a few hundred years.”

Freya held in laughter as his elation drained through his toes. In a few hundred years, he was going be worm food or plant fertilizer.

“Hmm? Did I say something wrong?” Gwyn tapped his nose with her index finger. “Would five hundred years be fairer?”

“Let’s just get on with this floor.” He sighed and marched ahead.