There was a mild impression of touch, buried by the aching of his head when Euthymius rose upright in his bed, a bit groggy from the day before. He could only grasp the feeling for a moment, the stretching of his brain, pushing onto the inner wall of his cranium. “I should drink less.” He murmured grabbing a piece of white fabric on the counter beside his bed, and moistened it with water conjured forth. After swiping his face, the wild throbbing lessened in his head, though not completely, just enough to be aware of a cold feeling around his ankles, as if something wet, viscous wrapped about them.

  A silent cry passed in the endless void of his mind. His own, silent cry.

  Euthymius shrugged, ascribing it to be a phantom mark left from the night before. Planting his face into his palms, before his shut lids flashed the images of him wrestling on the ground, the viscous pallid hand of a vampyr growling at him with its hideous worm-like maw arrayed with pointed teeth. An image he quickly hushed away, quivering him, worsening the hangover.

  “Euthymius dear! Come awake, time for breakfast!” Hedea’s gentle shout, the words muffled by the thick walls brought the last inch of strength he needed. He sprung up, arms stretched and wrists cracking, joined by the growl of his empty stomach.

  Tiptoing out, Euthymius ruminated whether to report sick for the day, pass recuperating in his bed, under the gentle daylight. A notion that seemed quite pleasant, alluring whilst he meandered towards the table, where Hedea shown worry for his haggardness whilst Myrtilos jested about how he still not learned his limits. Once his stomach filled with the warm pastry, the notion subsided in tandem with the headache and the faint soreness of his limbs.

  He questioned whether there was some medicinal herb mixed in with the dough, but Hedea confirmed there was none whilst Myrtilos enlightened him how warm food has the same effect on those ailed by hangovers. Satisfied, Euthymius stuffed one more bun filled with molten fruity fillings between his teeth, grinded the freshly baked dough between his teeth, cleaned out some stuck betwixt with his tongue.

  No matter how much he grasped and yelled through the impalpable bars, not a single muscle, organ heeded his will to seek for their aid, to at least notice his toils. He wanted to weep, experiencing the terror of utter helplessness.

  Finished with their frugal feast, the two kissed her on the right and left cheek, leaving her the two dishes before she too headed out. Far from the door, Myrtilos asked once more: “Anything fine? Can stay home if not.” But he shook his head, still a bit groggy, confusing him a little.

  He shrieked, and shrieked, but none heard them beside himself. He crumbled like wet-paper onto his knees, repeating the same name over and over again. Isocrates, the brother who was always there. Until she came.

  Euthymius foregone the effort to stretch his limbs, though unlike before he was serene in mind, barren of thoughts whilst merging into the folks throttling the streets as the day began. He looked at each and everyone’s countenances, noticed the festive, expectant looks. The Gladiatorial Games approached at last, an event he was sure will erect a bordering wall, pushing the Harrowing onto the side of oblivion. And their looks felt infectious, as the thrill of expectancy latched onto him, though a cold shiver muffled it. For a moment, he ceased his steps whilst his father rambled on old tales of his own wasted hours in taverns. A burst of panic wakened his heart, actuating the sweat trickling under the layers of rough yellow linen.

  Feeble hope rose him up against the unseen bars of the cage, held by ethereal chains hiding from his mind’s eye. But he rattled them, yelled the name Myrtilos, yelled the world father, yelled the plea to be heard for hours masquerading as merciless eternities.

  Thankfully it passed quickly and with a clear head, caught up to his father passing without noticing him staying behind for the short moment. Along the way, they greeted a few familiar faces, a few of their fellow miners joined up as they waited by their edifice’s doors munching still on their own breakfast or leaning against the walls with folded arms, surveying the passing folks.

  Maybe one of the legionaries may notice, sensing the spell caging him into his own mind. Or one of the Order’s bringing supplies to the Quarries. These hopes kept him glued upon the bars, watching the world beyond two gargantuan apertures far into the distance.

  This included Hostius who offered them a bit of rejuvenating water, they took paying with gratitude laced words. With just two small sips, the remaining clots of his exhaustion, soreness washed away. Further down, Volaginius laughed at his quite disheveled look, even though he himself possessed the same dark circles around his own eyes, his strands thrown into the same pattern of chaos as Euthymius’s. Last who joined their little, growing group was Mamerkhed, huddled against the marble war at a lower junction point of the winding stairs. Not far from the foot districts lengthening in the shadows of the conjured plateaus, across both banks.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Only a few steps, and they would be at the quarries. Hope seemed so close, whilst it grew distant.

  Unlike most of the group, the elderly dwarf appeared worn only by the dwindling of his time, not by the copious amounts of alcohol babbled down his throat the night before. Somewhere between five and twenty kegs – each foaming over the rims – of the strongest beer served within blindingly white walls of the Tumbling Praetor walled before Mamerkhed by the end of the evening, Euthymius recalled, standing equal with Volaginius. Whom he witnessed reaching his limits, though thankfully only in a blurry, broken recollection. Though he knew not what impelled him trying to call back the scenery, as he tried, a floating, haunting pair of eyes stared back at him, both as blue as lapis lazuli. Then faded as quick from his vision and memory.

  He ruminated on the possibility, forcing the memory of the yesternight may break the spell, he believed and strained his astral muscles.

  “Give me a bit of that.” Mamerkhed grabbed the flask from the merkiin, strangely proving his elder vessel to be as nimble as an aevhe’s of the forests.

  “Didn’t think you would need it.” Hostius noted with a slight smirk as he watched the elderly dwarf gulp down the herbal infused water. After the loud burp on the long, winding steps Marmerkhed let out a sigh as his rugged skin glowed for a little. The tiredness and the woes of alcohol washed away at last.

  Could that drink break the spell? Euthymius pondered as he leapt from one idea to the other whilst fear crawled into his cage, into his heart.

  Down in the cavernous intestines of the Mountain, Euthymius took ragged breaths, lifting the pickaxe high above his head, holding it tight in his perspiration laden hands. Then swung it down with great force and velocity, plunged its sharpened tip against the rugged gloomy walls. Translucent, ethereal waves rippled across it, cracked the stout walls. With another strike, he broke a tiny aperture, he squinted his eyes when a silvery, iridescent glow hurt his gaze. One of the rich minerals growing in the layers, once infant, untainted iron changed, mutated within the stalactite’s embrace into arkhaine alloy malleable only by the erudite hands of magus-smiths. The greatest of earth magusos.

  Though it was a foolish notion, the light elicited no reaction, thinned not the wall binding him within his own mind. Yet his horror amplified, forcing him to face the truth of the greater magnitude of the spell. Luelia taught him a few cantrips to trick the mind of others, how light–no matter the source–had its strange, inherent quality to break them. He slammed his head against the impalpable bars, seeing his own foolishness.

  What he could recall from Marmerkhed, the weapons and the armor of the Custodians are made from processing this metal. Though the crafting ends there, before the plates adorn the custodians, the weapons rest in their sheaths, each are sent before the Order, for a last stage of enchanting. Mythrion–as Mamerkhed called it–is quite a strong alloy, highly sought after by adventurers, capable of withstanding cantrips, spells of lower and medium magnitudes, whilst most other alloys–be they mundane or arkhaine-infused–had a hard time breaking through it. “Should save up for a chainmail.” He muttered under his ragged breaths.

  Still, it paled compared to the living metal constituting the panoplies of the First Legion. It offered not the ethereal flexibility and living-alloys required not the process of enchanting, but strengthened them to the levels of adult dragon hides. “Feeling alright son?”

  Hopeless, he laid down, or at least felt like sitting against the cold wall of a cell, and tears flowed from his eyes.

  “I am father. Why?” He turned and inquired to the sudden question of Myrtilos sitting on a bulbous protrusion of a stalactite, its edges smoothened completely by them.

  “Tears are flowing on your cheeks. Are you hurt?” He asked affectionately, with a lowered voice. He floated near the unseen bars, wrapped his fingers and shouted once more into the void of his mind.

  With a calm countenance, he wiped them off and calmed his father with a worried expression. “I am. Though I felt a small thrust upon the fourth strike. Maybe a pixie humored me with their bizarre, hurtful pranks.”

  A little unsure, Myrtilos seemed to calm, then walked over him and took his pickaxe. “Time for you to rest then a little.”

  Euthymius have not ceased the shouting. Here his throat did not perch, merely felt a growing weight pushing him down. But even as he laid sprawled upon the invisible floor, he stopped not, positioned his ‘head’ to see the two gargantuan apertures. He watched as the other he and Myrtilos talked, watched as his father returned hammering the walls, watched as the day ended, watched as they departed from the quarry, watched the fishless waves flow free, watched and counted the five hundred steps leading up to their district, watched as they waved goodbye to the others, watched as their home grew with each step taken, watched and felt the warm hug of Hedea, her frail hands around his waist, watched and yelled even when both apertures vanished, leaving him in utter darkness.