HAVING walked above and below, side to side, diagonally in various angles though many passages, they each time, came upon already traversed area on the path, both right-side up and upside-down. The space seemed impossible and though the lights flooded without a hint of darkness, the group did—to some degree—wish the lights would recede so that it would be easier for them to see the stairs against their own shadows.

After stopping on a descending set of stairs, they collapsed. The fatigue brought about by many hours of continuous climbing had at last taken its toll.

Tūmbṃār looked above and below. Light covered both sides, with no end in sight. Either it was an illusion or they had traveled so far down that the view of the top was blocked by the lights. The others rested, eating some of the leftover food. Vrihkhaḥ, like always, went to sleep, taking not a morsel from them, not that it would be enough to satiate him. Tūmbṃār petted his coat while sitting at the edge of the step, looking down the side riser. The lights were dazzling, and he became mesmerized by them. He felt as if the lights were calling to him. Trailing his eyes across them, he looked at the smooth walls with their thin incisions. And then he noticed something; a few of the lights ever so slightly flickered. He twisted his head around and noticed the same flickering elsewhere.

When the group had finished eating, Tūmbṃār said, “The lights seem to flicker in clusters. I found that there’s around seven set of intervals. And they, of course, do this around the stairs. You guys probably already guessed it, but this seems to be a test or defense of the passage itself. Whoever built this, I’m sure, didn’t want unwanted individuals descending.”

“Oh, that we’re sure,” said Feyūnhaḥ, “but to think that fire gazing of yours was more than just an unusual habit.” Tūmbṃār looked to her with a confused face before realizing what she meant and giving an embarrassed smile. “Well, no matter, we have little choice but to trust you on this.”

And so the group followed behind as the boy led them up and down the stairs.

“The light burns bright here! We’re no doubt closer,” said Sanyhaḥmān. He turned to Yūrmatṛtha, “Now that I think about it, have you not descended these steps?”

He shook his head. “I had not mentioned back then, but I was sure that the specters would face us in the section above. That was where they had always dwelt. But now it would seem they had a change of plans, and I think Tūmbṃār is the reason for it. Now that we are nearing closer, we should ready ourselves. I am sure Iḷēhaḥ and Tūmbṃār can already sense them as well.”

“And even I,” said Nakthaḥm as he extended his nails.

They bore their weapons.

Six of the paths led to dead-ends, but they now neared closer to the base of this section on the seventh. The arched passage before them seemed taller and even more foreboding than the others. And the darkness within festered as above. The specters were close. As the group neared the other end, they knew that the specters would appear. Aiṛth, having no weapons of her own, stood beside Hvesykhiḥ, who would protect her while the others readied themselves.

They passed through.

Traveling through the darkness, as like all other times, they could feel naught; neither themselves nor anything between. They kept to walking, driven by their willpower. The dark seemed to persist longer than the others, and after a long time passed, a speck of light appeared to them from beyond and they hastened toward it.

They passed through.

Light, stronger than any before, flooded their view. They now reached the floor, colored an off-white. Above, the lights spiraled, with the stairs having vanished. The walls moved around, and a single translucent path followed the trail of lights. And at its end was a glistening platform. But they did not cross it, knowing it would take them back toward the top and instead looked to their center of where a golden light shone alone. They could see thin incisions within its stone receptacle moving into the floor and into the walls. And as if pulsating, the light flowed and waxed and waned in its brightness. The whole space now felt alive, breathing as it were.

With no more hesitation or fear about him, Tūmbṃār moved from the group to grab the item that shone no differently than the Dvhaḥṣhtro. And when he was next to it, he, like Iḷēhaḥ, became enamored by it. He slid his hands along its slim form that radiated with vigor, and he yearned to covet it for himself. But just as he was to grab it with his face upturned into a mad grin, Iḷēhaḥ rushed to him and stopped his hand.

“Do not grab it with greed,” said Iḷēhaḥ. “I had made the same mistake with the Dvhaḥṣhtro, and though I took it not, it indeed affected the way I thought afterward: my yearning for my home at the expense of you and the others. Though its allure may be strong, resist the temptation to wield it as your own, for I know the desire that lurks in your heart, of why you may wish to use it. But ’tis certainly not yours or any of ours. Did we not promise to bring it to the Giant that rests above? He is certainly watching us at this moment. Do not perform that which would give you regret.”

She let go of his hand, and Tūmbṃār faced the item: its effulgence had dissipated. Its light now dim. And instead, a raging torrent of power encircled it. Lightning that could shock at the touch and its arcs of light that spattered out. He grabbed it and felt its touch sting and burn his hand. He quickly put it into his sack and shook and blew into his hand. The others seemed relieved that nothing unfortunate occurred.

But no time had they to rest. For the lights—one after another—in rapid succession, went out. The darkness revived, descending in full force to where the boy and maiden stood.

“On your guard, everyone!” shouted Feyūnhaḥ.