The faint sound of muffled chaos throbbed through the stone ceiling above—distant shouting, the crash of furniture, a chorus of slurred curses. Celia paused mid-sentence, her gaze flicking upward as dust trickled faintly from the ceiling.

She arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Is that—?” she began.

“Just the tavern,” Merrik replied before she could finish.

“This happens every night,” he added, his voice gravelly but calm. “It’s the Broken Flask.”

With a quiet sigh tinged with irritation, Celia shifted her attention once more to the Blackwoods.

“As I was saying,” she resumed, “the Festival of the Third Moon is not just ceremony—it is a summoning. A reenactment of the bindings Azrakul endured when the false gods cast him into the void.”

Roderick’s brow furrowed. “You mean to reenact his imprisonment?”

Celia shook her head. “No. We will reverse it. Through masks, words, blood, and fire, we will peel back what was stitched shut. That night, the faithful will assume the guises of the gods the world still worships—Artur, Taliesin, even Soter—mocking them with each rite. Each mask shattered is a lock undone.”

Above them, the Broken Flask had become a battlefield.

The stink of spilled ale, sweat, and smoke filled the air as fists swung wildly and chairs shattered against the cracked floorboards. Shouts and curses ricocheted off the sagging walls. Beneath the chaos, Soren kept a wary eye on the brute guarding the hallway. Still, the man didn’t budge—his arms remained crossed, his posture solid, as though the swirling brawl was nothing more than an irritating storm he meant to outlast.

Soren’s jaw tightened slightly as he noted the guard’s unmoving silhouette. A subtle glance at Jarek across the room was all it took.

Jarek caught the look and gave the barest nod.

Time for Plan B.

Soren rose from his seat. He wove through the flailing crowd toward Jarek, who was already shoving another drunken patron aside with a rough grunt. The two locked eyes—then without hesitation, Soren hauled back and punched Jarek square in the jaw.

The crack of the impact rang out even over the chaos. Jarek stumbled back, more out of performance than pain, and retaliated with a savage shove that sent Soren crashing into a nearby table, scattering drinks and curses in every direction.

"That's it!" Jarek bellowed, voice booming over the riotous din. "I’m gonna break your skull open, you rat-faced bastard!"

Soren, breathing heavily and clutching his side as if truly hurt, staggered upright. Blood—a trickle from a split lip he'd bitten open himself—dribbled down his chin, adding to the show. He lunged back at Jarek with a wild swing that purposely missed, sending both men barreling straight toward the hallway where the guard stood.

The brute’s eyes narrowed.

Finally, a reaction.

As Soren and Jarek 'fought' their way closer, knocking over another patron in the process, the guard growled and stepped forward, raising a meaty hand to intercept them.

"Enough!" he barked, reaching out to shove them apart.

That was all the opening they needed.

Soren twisted mid-lunge, his fist slamming into the guard’s gut with a force that doubled the man over. Before the brute could recover, Jarek caught him by the shoulder and drove a knee into his ribs. The guard staggered back, gasping for air, but he was built like a bull and swung a heavy arm toward Jarek in retaliation.

Soren was faster.

He slipped behind the brute and hooked an arm around his throat, locking in a tight chokehold. The man thrashed, fists pounding wildly at Soren’s ribs, but Soren gritted his teeth and held firm. It took a few brutal seconds of struggle before the brute’s resistance weakened, his knees buckling under him.

Jarek stepped in, catching the man's fall, and helped drag the unconscious body into the shadow of the hallway, out of sight from the still-raging crowd.

Lira caught the motion from the corner of her eye—a subtle shift in the chaotic dance of the tavern. The brute was down.

Time to move.

She tucked her dagger away and waded into the fray, weaving through the mass of brawling bodies with a dancer’s grace. A fist swung toward her; she ducked beneath it, letting the drunkard behind her take the blow meant for her. She shoved past a stumbling patron and sidestepped a table that splintered under the weight of two men grappling atop it.

Through the smoke, noise, and chaos, Lira zeroed in on her destination: the heavy door at the end of the hallway—the one the brute had been guarding.

Her heart pounded, but her expression remained cool, almost bored, as if she were simply another rowdy drunk looking for her next bad idea. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, rolling her shoulders casually as she pushed forward.

Reaching the hallway’s mouth, she slipped into the relative darkness and pressed herself against the wall, hidden from the tavern’s view. Jarek was there, crouched over the unconscious guard, and Soren stood watch just beyond, his body taut and ready for any more surprises.

Lira gave a sharp nod to them both.

Without wasting a moment, she turned her attention to the door.

It was thick and battered, reinforced with wide iron bands hammered deep into the wood—far sturdier than it looked at first glance. No keyhole greeted her; instead, a heavy iron bolt sat flush across the door's frame, firmly slid into place from the inside. A simple but brutal barrier—not a lock to pick, but a mechanism to force.

Lira cursed under her breath. She hated bolts. Picking locks was an art; forcing bolts was brute work, noisy and risky. But this bolt, old and stiff with rust, wasn’t built for a siege—it was meant to intimidate drunks, not stop someone determined.

From the sheath at her thigh, she withdrew a slender flat tool and a narrow pry bar—small, precise implements meant for jobs exactly like this.
"Cover me," she whispered, barely audible over the roar of the tavern beyond.

Soren shifted, casually widening his stance to block her from view, while Jarek stood ready, his hand already on the unconscious guard’s belt knife in case things turned ugly.

Kneeling low, Lira pressed the flat tool into the tiny gap between the bolt and the metal housing. She worked quickly, patiently applying pressure, coaxing the old iron to give way. Inch by inch, with tiny, deliberate movements, she began to force the bolt backward along its groove.

The bolt groaned—just once, low and reluctant—but the tavern’s chaos swallowed the sound.
Lira grimaced, sweat prickling at her brow. She worked faster, her heart pounding. Finally, with a rough scrape, the bolt dragged all the way back.

She smirked and gave a tiny nod to Soren and Jarek.

"Got it," she breathed.

Straightening, she pressed her ear to the door for a heartbeat, listening. No voices. No footsteps. Only a deep, hollow stillness beyond.

Turning to the others, her voice stayed low and urgent.
"Ready?"

Jarek answered with a grim nod.

Soren’s fingers slid to the hilt of his dagger.

Lira gripped the door’s iron handle and eased it open. The heavy wood creaked slightly on its hinges, but the roar of the brawl masked the sound. She slipped inside first, dagger drawn, her movements low and fluid.

Soren followed close behind, his steps silent as a stalking wolf. Jarek brought up the rear, one hand still resting lightly on the hilt of the stolen knife.

The room beyond was dimly lit by a single lantern perched on a crooked shelf. The air smelled of damp earth and something older—stale, musty, and sour, like secrets rotting in the dark.

Lira’s sharp gaze swept the floor—and there it was.

In the center of the room, partially hidden beneath a scattering of dust, was a trapdoor. A heavy brass lock was bolted across it, but the presence of a worn keyhole gleamed faintly in the lantern light.

Jarek cursed under his breath. “Figures. They’re not just hiding—they're burrowed in.”

Soren knelt beside the trapdoor, running his fingers lightly along the edges. His expression hardened. “Recently used. The dust’s been disturbed.” He pointed to faint scuff marks leading from the trapdoor to the far side of the room—signs of hurried feet.

Lira was already kneeling at the lock, tools in hand again. Her fingers moved with a precision born of long practice, slipping a slender pick into the keyhole.

“This one’s newer,” she said. “Not like the bolt outside. Someone cared enough to keep this secured.”

Down below, Jonas sat perched on the edge of a wooden bench, arms crossed and one foot tapping absently against the stone floor. Despite Celia’s earlier theatrics, his attention had long since waned—until he heard it.

Click.

A tiny, metallic sound echoed faintly from the trapdoor overhead.

A crease formed at the bridge of Jonas’s nose, his lips parting slightly as his attention snapped upward.

“Did you hear that?” he asked,

Celia stopped mid-sentence, her expression tensing.

Another faint click followed, this one accompanied by the nearly imperceptible scrape of metal on wood.

“There it is again,” Jonas said, rising to his feet. “Someone’s picking the lock.”

Celia’s eyes snapped toward the ceiling. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she turned toward Merrik, who stood by the tunnel’s entrance, arms still crossed.

“Well?” she asked, her voice laced with irritation. “Does this happen every night too?”

Merrik’s one good eye flicked toward the trapdoor overhead. He shifted slightly, the slow roll of his shoulders betraying a tension he hadn’t shown before.

“No,” he said, “That’s new.”

Above, Lira's focus was total. The rest of the world faded as she listened for the tiny clicks of tumblers shifting.

Minutes stretched thin.

Finally—click.

The lock snapped open with a satisfying sound. Lira grinned fiercely, adrenaline sharp in her veins.

Soren and Jarek moved into position as she grasped the rusted iron ring embedded in the trapdoor and heaved it upward. The hinges moved smoothly with only a faint metallic whisper—clearly oiled with care—revealing a steep, narrow stairwell descending into darkness.

A cool draft of musty, earthen air wafted up from below, carrying the faint sound of dripping water somewhere deep underground.

Soren and Jarek exchanged a quick glance, muscles coiled, ready to descend into the unknown.

But before they could move, the door behind them banged open.

The barkeep.

The grizzled man filled the doorway, his stained apron flapping around his stout frame, his face flushed red with fury. His hand clutched a hefty club—likely used more often for tavern brawls than cleaning tables—and his voice thundered across the small room.

“What in the bloody hells do you think you’re doing back here?!” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth.

Jarek turned sharply, a scowl darkening his face. His hand dropped to his sword hilt, already stepping forward to silence the man the rough way.

But he never got the chance.

With a sharp CRACK, a wine bottle sailed through the air and exploded against the barkeep’s skull. The man let out a startled grunt and crumpled to the ground like a sack of grain, the club slipping from his fingers.

Standing in the doorway behind him, framed by the smoky light of the chaos beyond, were Jasper and Luna.

Jasper lowered his hand with a triumphant little flourish, a few glass shards clinging to his fingers.
"Was that dramatic enough, or should I hit him again just to be sure?" he said, grinning like a cat who'd gotten into the cream.

Luna stepped over the unconscious barkeep with a flick of her cloak, her eyes scanning the hallway behind them before sliding toward the open trapdoor.

"You’re welcome," she added dryly.

Jarek shook his head once, muttering something unflattering under his breath, but there was a gleam of approval in his eyes.

"No time," Soren said sharply, jerking his chin toward the trapdoor. "Move."

One by one, they descended into the darkness below—leaving the battered tavern, the brawl, and the broken barkeep behind.

The stone steps descended steeply into the dark, the air growing colder with each footfall. Dampness clung to the walls, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed like distant whispers.

Jarek led the way, sword drawn, his movements cautious. Behind him, Soren followed with his dagger low and ready, eyes flicking to every shadow. Lira came next, her lockpicks stowed and blades at the ready, her senses tuned to every sound. Jasper and Luna brought up the rear, their usual levity replaced by a rare hush. Even Jasper didn’t make a joke about the smell.

At the bottom of the steps, the tunnel opened into a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. The walls were lined with old, damp stone bricks, moss clinging to the mortar in places. A torch bracket hung empty on the wall, though the passage was faintly lit by the flicker of braziers deeper ahead.

They moved quickly but carefully, the soft scuff of boots the only sound that accompanied them. Lira felt her pulse rise with each step. This was where the Blackwoods had come. This was where the trail had led.

The corridor curved and widened, opening into the chamber.

But it was empty.