*The next morning*
Gruis woke before the sun had fully risen.
Not because of dreams, noise, or a racing mind. Simply because it had felt right. The kind of right that tugged softly at the bones. The kind that said, You've got something good to wake up for.
The inn was quiet. A silence; Not of emptiness, but of rest. Gruis sat up slowly, blanket slipping from his shoulders, he stretched his limbs with a deep exhale. Pre-dawn light bled faintly through the cracks in the wooden walls.
Gruis smiled to himself.
"The number one way to wake up," he whispered, rubbing sleep from his eyes, "is with a tune and a song, naturally."
Moving gently, so the floorboards wouldn't complain too loudly, Gruis pulled on his boots and slung his satchel over one shoulder. His fingers wrapped around the flute inside without needing to look.
He crept down the stairs like a shadow.
The ground floor greeted him with its unmistakeable scent of dust and wood, it already felt more like their dust, their wood. Gruis looked around and got to work, pulling two of the sturdier barrels toward the centre of ground floor, then dragged the half-broken bar stools, placing them every so softly next to the barrels, one leg wedged just right so it wouldn't tip.
A makeshift breakfast table.
He retrieved the leftover porridge from last night, still stored in its cookpot outside, and scraped together slices of stale bread and collected some of their limited water supply. Not a feast by any standards, but it screamed ready for the first dive.
With one last glance over the room, and a satisfied grin, he stepped outside.
The air outside still held the chill of night. Gruis stood just beyond the doorway, raised his flute, and played the same two notes he'd played the night before—bright, clean, playful.
Then came the tune. Simple. Soft. Carried on the wind like a secret only dawn could know.
Wake ye now, the sky is fire,
Shadows stretched, the sun climbs higher.
Rise from bed, the light is near,
And so is bread, and friends, and cheer.
He let the final note linger, echoing gently between rooftops.
A few seconds passed.
Until finally: a low groan from upstairs. Wood creaked. Gruis grinned.
"Ugh," came Stein's muffled voice, barely audible through the floorboards.
A clatter, followed by the dry rasp of Kiezel opening the lattice on his window, his mop of white hair appearing in the orange hue of the morning sun, like a cartoon puff of smoke.
"What time is it?" Kiezel asked groggily, squinting.
Gruis took a dramatic bow toward the building. "Breakfast is served!" he declared to the world. "And so is joy! Come, weary dreamers, before the porridge gets any colder!"
Inside, the old inn began to stir. The sound of footsteps on old stairs. The soft shuffle of bedrolls being kicked aside.
Gruis stood in the doorway, flute still in hand, his shadow stretched across the inn.
A new day had begun.
Stein came down first, despite looking like he'd rather still be asleep. His long hair hung loose, his armour only half-clasped, he moved with that same unhurried weight he always did, Stein muttered something about how he was annoyed with Gruis and flute.
Kiezel came next, practically bouncing down the stairs with his usual morning energy fully caught up. His eyebrows twitched with mischief as he sniffed dramatically at the porridge. "Hmmmmm burnt-bottom flavour. My favourite."
Last was Bakstein, slower than the others, one hand bracing the stair rail. He looked better—still worn, but upright, awake, and ready. The colour had started to return to his face, and the limp in his step was mostly gone. When he saw the makeshift table, he gave the faintest smile and sat down without a word, the barstool wobbling dangerously, like someone trying to balance on just their toes.
They all ate peacefully, passing the bread, sipping from old wooden mugs. The food was simple, but the company made up for it. They spoke of dreams, of creaky floors, of which room had the most wind whistling through the wallboards.
Gruis didn't say much. He sat at the head of the table, elbows resting on the barrels, just watching. He enjoyed this. He liked the way they settled into it all so naturally, as if they'd been living here for years. The air carried the warmth and company of a shared morning, Gruis clang to it like a song he didn't want to end.
Eventually, Bakstein cleared his throat. The mood shifting ever so slightly.
"We should head out," he said quietly. "Get to the site before midday."
"The customer is always right," Gruis said with a proud smile. The others nodded.
No fuss. No nonsense. Just the understanding that it was time.
They rose from the table, one by one. Bedrolls were packed, belts tightened, blades checked. Kiezel snapped shut his overstuffed pack with a grunt, while Stein gave a last glance at the fire pit outside to make sure the ashes were dead.
Gruis stood by the door, watching them. After which he stepped outside, turned back toward the inn, and with one hand, closed the door behind them.
It latched with a soft click. And just like that, they were no longer just housemates.
They were delvers. On a mission.
The slums stirred with low voices and clinking pots. A barefoot child darted past, eyes wary. From a rooftop, a woman watched them through a veil of hanging laundry, swaying gently in deference to the Abyss's breath. They walked side by side, boots crunching over packed sand, their shadows stretching behind them.
Just like clockwork—someone called out.
"Gruis!"
A withered old man waved from his doorway, his one hand leaning on a vine-shaped cane, carrying a big cigar in the other.
"Taking more strays in, I see?" he teased, grinning as he eyed the rest of the group.
Gruis grinned back. "They feed themselves. Mostly."
Stein gave her a short nod. Kiezel offered a bow so dramatic he nearly tipped over from the weight of his pack. Bakstein said nothing, but his posture straightened just a little.
They kept walking, winding their way through narrow paths and sagging fences, past familiar faces who nodded to Gruis like they always did. No one here was rich in gold, but they were rich in something else.
That something, meant everything here.
After a short walk, the buildings started to clear. The abyss was not yet visible, but felt—a pull in the chest, a weight in the silence that had slowly crept into the group as the familiar faces of the slums gave way to the open, empty path leading down.
As they were nearing the edge, Bakstein stopped.
He turned, planted his boots firmly into the sand, and looked over his shoulder. His eyes, though sunken still, were sharp now, focused.
"Have any of you been into the Abyss before?" he asked.
Kiezel opened his mouth like he might crack a joke but closed it without a word. Stein said nothing, his expression unreadable as ever. Gruis simply met Bakstein's eyes and gave a single, honest shake of his head.
Bakstein exhaled slowly. "Right, listen close."
He turned, gesturing with his hand out toward the horizon—toward the Abyss.
"There are three main roads down," he said. "All lead to the same place—Camp Cero. That's the first foothold in the Abyss. Everyone starts their delve from there. No exceptions."
They listened as they walked.
"The rich come from the East District," Bakstein pointed to the other side of the Abyss. "That road is carved straight into the rock, dwarven craft. Wide enough for two carriages side by side. Those from the East district believe themselves to be too good to walk, half asleep in cushioned carts. The big companies keep that road maintained."
Bakstein's voice sounded bitter.
"The Residential Belt has a smaller path. Rough limestone, uneven but usable. Older. Used by scouts, smaller companies, independents. Sometimes still sees wagons if they're desperate or cheap."
He paused.
"Then there's ours."
They reached the start path—the slum path.
Sand and scattered stones, the kind that rolled underfoot if you weren't careful. It wasn't carved. It was worn—by feet, not tools. A trail of disuse and need, clinging to the Abyss wall like a stubborn vine.
"Sand and loose rock," Bakstein said. "No rails. No markers. But it gets us there."
They walked in silence for a while, first droplets of sweat appeared across their faces.
Bakstein continued, "All three roads intersect about an hour in. Theres a plateau carved into the walls of the abyss. This used to be an early delver stop, but now it's a hub—carriages, horses, supply crates, even a few donkeys to carry your equipment, if you're lucky. That's where everything funnels before heading to Camp Cero and past."
Gruis nodded, squinting ahead, already imagining it.
Bakstein looked over at him.
"You got any coin for transport?"
Gruis laughed and shook his head.
Bakstein sighed, he looked like he contemplated all his life choices.
"A walk it is."
They continued their path forward. The stones underfoot shifted if you weren't careful—the kind of ground that didn't forgive missteps.
But none of that mattered to Kiezel.
The gnome was already several paces ahead, arms swinging like a marching drummer, his oversized pack bouncing with every step. He whistled a tune that kept breaking into a laugh, feet sure and nimble despite the terrain. Kiezel didn't look down. Not once.
Gruis smiled faintly from the back of the group, watching him. Of course he would be the one leading the charge—Kiezel, fearless and bright, treating the first descent into the Abyss like a walk to the market.
Just behind Kiezel, Bakstein and Stein walked side by side. Gruis couldn't quite make out their words, but he knew what they were talking about. What else can you expect from two dwarves. Bakstein must have talked about the ores he found in the abyss, since Stein's head tilted, the rare flicker of curiosity on his otherwise unreadable face, Gruis knew he was listening.
Bakstein kept talking—Stein listening. Gruis picked up a few words passed between them about density, grain, shimmer. Dwarven words. Dwarven things.
Gruis kept a slower pace, his boots kicking small stones that tumbled over the edge and disappeared down the cliffside.
He kept one eye on his friends, the other on the Abyss itself.
At the height of where Gruis expected Camp Cero to be, the world opened into lush green terrain. Trees. Vines. Thick ferns that waved gently in the updraft. The descent carved through a forest that looked almost… alive. Not wild, but ancient. Quiet, but full.
From the far side, the Itak River burst out from the surface like a vein torn open, gushing in from the East District, cascading down in foamy rapids. The sunlight caught the mist just right, splitting into a shimmering rainbow that hung in the air—the kind of fleeting beauty Gruis might catch on his flute, turning it into something that lingered just a little longer
The breeze from the abyss carried no scent of dust or dryness. It smelled fresh, cool, and deep. Like damp earth, wet stone, moss after rain. The irrigation channels in the city felt like nothing compared to this—a trickle where this was an artery.
Gruis took a deep breath and let the wind fill his lungs.
Ahead of him, Kiezel's voice rang out, loud and gleeful.
"Oi! I see it! The roads all meet up down there—look! Wagons, stone rails, and is that a bloody donkey?"
Gruis looked up. Sure enough, just at the end of the path—nestled against the carved cliff wall of the Abyss—was the intersection. And there, tied to a crooked post, stood two donkeys. They looked nervous. Gruis laughed. It was the kind of nervous that said it knew Kiezel was coming.
The plateau carved into the Abyss wall stretched inward maybe ten, twenty meters. It was shallow, but solid—held up by thick wooden beams, each one disappearing into the stone ceiling above like the roots of some long-dead tree. The atmosphere felt more serious here, the kind of serious that came not from altitude, but from proximity. The Abyss was close.
As they approached, figures began to take shape—a dozen, perhaps fewer. Delvers. Porters. Guides. The kinds of people who moved gear and lives up and down this impossible place. Just as Kiezel had called out earlier, there were two donkeys tethered near the plateau's edge. Handlers were loading them up with quiet efficiency, securing harnesses and strapping a cart piled high with bulging satchels.
Gruis could only wonder what was inside—relics, artifact piece, maybe even entire artifacts, if the haul was good. Each bag looked like it carried a secret.
Standing guard near the treasure were two elves, tall and cloaked, with the unmistakable crest of the Silverleaf embroidered into their backs—silver thread glinting even in the muted light. Their posture was rigid, their hands never far from the hilts of slim blades hanging at their sides.
Gruis felt the tension before anyone spoke.
Ahead of him, Bakstein raised his voice, just loud enough to carry.
"From here on out," he said, "we'll travel through a tunnel. It leads to Camp Cero. Stick to the walls. Horses and carts run you over in the middle, don't ask how I found that out."
Gruis and Stein both gave short nods. But Kiezel either didn't hear—or chose not to.
The gnome bolted ahead, boots light on the dusted stone, backpack swaying behind him like a flag of chaos. He made straight for the donkeys, grin already forming.
He never made it past the cart.
One of the elves moved—stepping in front of Kiezel with quiet speed and cold precision. He towered over him, expression unreadable, jaw clenched.
"What do you think you're doing?" the elf asked, voice flat. Cold. Accusatory. "Thief."
Gruis tensed. The word hit like a slap to the face.
Kiezel leaned back slightly, his oversized pack threatening to tip him over. "Can I pet that donkey?" he asked, blinking up at the elf with his usual, disarming sincerity.
The elf's eyes narrowed.
Gruis caught the shift in weight—the subtle twist of the foot, the tightening of muscle. The elf was about to kick him.
Without thinking, Gruis stepped in, planting himself between them. One hand outstretched, voice calm but firm.
"Kiezel," he said, "let's not bother these delvers."
Kiezel frowned but lowered his head and turned, murmuring words to himself, and retreating toward the group without another word.
Gruis lingered only a second longer—just long enough to turn.
The elf spoke again, voice low, sharp as a dagger unsheathed in a quiet room.
"Of course," he said. "A dark-skinned saving another dark-skinned. Don't bother coming back up."
The elves words landed harder than any kick could. How could someone treat his friend like that, unacceptable.
Gruis didn't move. Not at first. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into the skin of his palms, sharp enough to leave marks. His breath slowed. Measured.
And then, without looking back, he turned—smiling, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"Oh," he said softly. "We'll come up. And I'll sing the greatest ballad you've ever heard."
He walked away without waiting for a response.
They were already walking toward the tunnel entrance—a wide, dark throat carved into the wall, where the true descent would begin. "Wait for me," Gruis yelled as he caught up to the group.
And the light behind them slowly faded.