“You listen to me, Zadahn Vali, and you listen carefully. I will not repeat myself. You are never—under any circumstances—to enter my workroom. If you do, it may well be the last thing those eyes of yours ever see.”

  His mothers words echoed through Zadahn’s mind as he crept down the winding staircase, doing his best to avoid her attention—or rather, her wrath. With careful steps, he avoided the creaking floorboards as he moved through the hall of their industrial cabin, slipping past half-finished crochet projects and teetering stacks of disorganized books. Upstairs, his mother remained hard at work on a more recent crochet endeavor. As far as she knew, he was asleep. Zadahn reached the doorway.

  The workroom.

  Curiosity overwhelmed him. From the left pocket of his wrinkled academy uniform, he pulled a slender needle—borrowed from one of her works-in-progress. He muttered a prayer, holding it close to his eyes. A brief flicker of gold lit his irises. A flash of yellow, a charge of Thundercall. The needle glowed red-hot, softening into the shape of a crude key. Satisfied, he slid it into the lock, whispered another prayer, and twisted.

  The door creaked narrowly, barely allowing him to slip through. The hinges groaned, panic surged—but he moved quickly, closing the door behind him.

  Darkness.

  He could see nothing. One hand trailed along the wall, his steps featherlight. Eventually, his fingers brushed something metallic. A lever. He pulled it. Dim torchlight flared in the corners, bathing the room in flickering light and a sudden, unexpected warmth. Zadahn turned—and froze.

  At the center of the room stood a massive, golden-colored round table. Feather pens lay scattered across a sprawling map. To the left, an enormous iron bookshelf stretched higher than their humble cabin should allow, its frame engraved with ancient inscriptions. The shelves were packed tight with black, unlabeled tomes—more than he could ever hope to read in his lifetime.

  But one of these books stood out in particular. This compendium was not black, but rather a withered shade of blue.

  It sat low in the far-right corner of the shelves, tucked away like a forgotten thought amongst the mass, a lone exception. Zadahn crouched, eyes wide. He lifted his shirt and slipped the book beneath it. The cold leather sent a shiver across his stomach. He lingered too long.

  Heart pounding, he retraced his steps and exited as carefully as he’d entered. Once safe in his room, he locked the door and collapsed onto his messy bed. He held the book to the moonlight with both hands.

  And he read. All night.

  He devoured every word—tales of a drowned, decaying city far beneath the waves, swallowed by wrathful gods. Of whirlpools that bridged this world and the one below. Of riches vast enough to fund your lineage for generations, and horrors too unspeakable for any treasure to be worth the risk. By dawn, his mind was no longer his own.

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

  It belonged to the world beneath.

  The next morning was freezing, even for winter. But Miner’s Landing—an island claimed by the Ignition Union—was never cold for long. The infernal heat beneath the surface warmed the earth, powered the homes, and warded off death. His room glowed orange from the smoldering steam vents. It reminded him of childhood. Of safety.

  Zadahn reclined on his bed, finishing the final pages. A flicker of guilt stirred in him—but it faded quickly, replaced by wonder. He had to ask. He had to know. Could it be true? Could he see it for himself?

  He bolted upright, opened his door, and raced down the stairs. His mother sat at their oakwood table, focused on her yarn. He slammed into the seat across from her, breathless and bright-eyed.

  “Are they true?” he asked.

  The morning sun lit his white hair like fire. His mismatched eyes—one violet, one gold—sparkled with wonder. She didn’t look up.

  “Is what true?” she replied, cold and distant. He pulled the book from behind his back and set it on the table.

  “The stories! The underwater cities, monsters, treasure, expeditions! Are they real?”

  Silence.

  Her expression shifted. Disappointment gave way to something far darker. Her needles stopped. Her gaze lifted. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Stand up, Zadahn,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Mo—”

  Crack.

  She slapped him across the face. His head snapped sideways. Blood dripped from his nose. His eyes welled with tears. Her rage melted the instant it landed. Regret twisted her features.

  “Don’t try to find me!” Zadahn screamed. He bolted for the door, shoving it open as her hand reached out behind him.

  “Zadahn! Wait—I’m sorry! You weren’t supposed to read that, I told you! I told you, my sweet boy!” But he was gone. He ran until his lungs burned. Shame and confusion chased him through the trees, until a sound stopped him in his tracks. Until suddenly, whispers. Faint. Chilling. Utterly alien.

  “?R??e??s??o??n??a??t??e?. ?P??l??u??c??k? ?t??h??i??n??e? ?e??y??e??s. ?A??s??c??e??n??d? ?t??h??y? ?b??l??o??o??d?.”

  His pulse slowed. The words felt… familiar. Like the ones from the book. He followed them, driven by instinct more than thought—until he reached a dense grove surrounded by colossal stones. One to his left looked like a fang. Beneath its shadow loomed a narrow cavern mouth, cloaked in shadow.

  The whispers intensified.

  “?A??c??h??i??e??v??e? ?r??e??s??o??n??a??n??c??e?.”

  Zadahn stepped inside. The cave was dark, abysmally cold. He trailed his arm against the interior wall, advancing deeper and deeper into the cave just like he had in the Work-Room, until a blue glow pulsed faintly behind a cluster of rock pillars. As he neared it, the whispers reached a fever pitch.

  “?B??e??h??o??l??d?, ?t??h??e? ?p??r??i??c??e? ?o??f? ?u??n??w??o??r??t??h??i??n??e??s??s?.”

  He stopped. A headless corpse lay before him in a dark grey cloak, slumped beside an open, ornate chest. From within, a swirling azure mist glowed. Trembling, he stepped over the body and leaned into the light. Don’t scream. He reached into the glow.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he whispered to no one.

  His fingers brushed something solid. Slowly, he drew his hand back. Nothing happened. In his palm rested an odd, sapphire-tinted idol. Metallic. Cool to the touch, and shaped like an idol of some sort of deity. Disappointed and unnerved, he slipped it into his pocket and made his way back to the surface. The air outside hit his skin like balm. Night had begun to fall. Had he really been gone that long?

  As he turned to look back at the cave, the idol hummed. He pulled it from his pocket and held it to his ear.

  “Achieve Resonance. Venture beneath.”

  The voice came from within. His golden colored left eye and purple colored right glowed faintly as the final whisper echoed in his mind. He clutched the idol firmly in his palm, his path forward carved not only by his will, but by something far, far greater— something below.