Prelude

Howling winds scoured Hyndall's face with icy grit, threatening to hurl him back down the frozen slope. The biting cold scratched at his throat to claw the air from his lungs and suck the heat from his marrow. If not for the Scarf of Living Flame wreathing his body in a roiling bubble of heated air, he too would have fled back to the city. There he'd be, sopping up his second teapot of goftal curry with soft, chewy chunks of Darianne's fluffy flatbread instead, and not, most assuredly, enduring a cold meal of hardtack and pemmican.

Each step towards the source of the alluring song only seemed to strengthen its pull. He wasn't sure where his resolve ended and where the compulsion began, but both left him with no choice but slog onward.

Not even a week ago, Hyndall had been spoiled for choice. He'd stood in the port city of Nicta's famed open-air fish market, making the paramount decision of his day: how should he break his morning fast?

Hence, why he was peering down at the clusters of emerald scallops in their water-walled tank. Each was the size of his palm clad in shells of crystallized mana that sparkled like their namesake gem as they flit around the water.

"No lacs today?"

He looked across the top of the scallop tank at Galene. The fishmonger looked back with arms crossed over her dark leather apron. Her weatherworn face was set with twinkling grey eyes and creased into a smile. A striking, cochineal-red kerchief held back hair bleached copper by sun and sea.

"I thought I'd try something different."

"Oh-ho," she chortled, rubbing her chin. "And here I'd given up on you as one more delver without taste."

"Would a 'delver without taste' shop here?" He gestured at her stall and she snorted. "Besides, I found it to be the best-tasting fish."

"Oh? And how many other fish did you taste?"

He waved his hand in exaggerated dismissal. "I don't see how that's relevant. Why bother tasting more once you've found a winner?"

"You tell me," she said, raising her bushy, copper eyebrows.

Truth be told, he'd once thought it impossible to tire of the rich, buttery taste of grumpy lacs—a local fish so named for its perpetually downturned mouth and vexed brow. However, he'd been in Nicta for a month, coming down to the fish market to eat lacs for three weeks, patronizing Galene's stall for two of those weeks and obstinately ignoring her recommendations to try something new for almost as long.

Three weeks of the fish—no matter how expertly it was fried, stewed, fried then stewed, smoked, roasted, sautéed, cured, curried, poached, cold smoked, or raw marinated in freshly squeezed quat juice—had rendered its delectable flavours insipid. That was why he had found himself in dire need of a new local delicacy to bring to one of the many cook stalls and lean-tos that clung to the market like barnacles.

Her eyebrows crept higher and her smirk ahead wider the longer Hyndall held his silence. His breakfasts had been lacs-exclusive in part to avoid giving her the satisfaction of being right. Sure he could have settled for inferior selection from other stalls but he'd grown to like the fishmonger. He recognized he was only delaying her inevitable smugness but he also wanted to see how high her eyebrows would go. When they were at last half-hidden beneath her kerchief, she spread her arms out towards him, as if inviting a response. "Well?"

"That one." Hyndall pointedly thrust a finger and the conversation back to the scallops. "The big one."

She held his gaze for a few moments longer then shook her head and leaned back with a toothy grin. She flicked her chin at a wooden sign off to the side without breaking eye contact or that damned self-satisfied smile. "The big ones cost extra, you know. Even for a favoured customer looking to finally try something different."

He grinned back despite himself. "Fine by me. Did I pick wrong?"

She snorted and stepped over to the middle of her stall where a loop of water twisted in a slanted figure-eight around two orbs the size of fists. The bright upper orb strobed with jittery white filaments that sizzled where they touched the curve of the water. Its dark counterpart beaded with a thick slurry over a slop bucket notable for its conspicuous lack of flies. A fly, attracted by the scraps, flew too close to the bright orb and a small arc of lightning snapped out. Its smoking husk was drawn into the viscous sludge coating the dark orb, smoke and all. He'd been meaning to ask her where she'd commissioned one so that he could make ranging in the early summer months both more pleasant and more entertaining.

She passed an arm through the water where it twisted close together but didn't quite meet. The water clung to her skin, sheathing her hand in a thick gauntlet of water. She stopped just shy of her short-sleeved blouse and her entire arm glistened in the early morning light. She repeated with her left, leaving only a thin stream of water to swirl in the air.

He'd queued behind a handful of customers seeking the scallops in the couple short weeks he'd been here. Yet despite their seeming popularity, he'd only found these scallops at Galene's stall. From the cagey way that she'd spoken of them, there must be some secret to finding them. From the gauntlet thickness she used only for the emerald scallops, they must dwell deep where water lay heavy. Even so, it barely inhibited her speed and precision of her skills that had piqued his interest in the first place. However, there was a reason this scallop yet survived. From the way he had seen it move, Hyndall hoped it would give her a bit of a challenge.

Clomping back to the tank, she frowned down at the scallops.

She jabbed one water-gloved hand up into the tank, and the loose cluster of scallops burst apart. A twist of her hip and a crook of her elbow set her hand darting straight for the large scallop only for it jet between her fingers. Galene's left hand speared into the water towards it from the other side but, as if it could feel the movement in the water currents, it jerked away from both hands. In what he suspected was a deliberate act, it careened into its kin to send them scattering, and even Hyndall lost track in the confusion. Clenching her left hand as if to grip the water itself, she swirled her arm sunwise around the tank. The water swirled in sympathetic motion until the scallop wheeled readily into her right hand. She yanked the troublesome quarry from the water and thrust it triumphantly above her head.

Then, a sudden jangle of discordant notes cascaded through his mana core.

They were at once the rising tones of anticipation, the clarion call of challenge, and the exhilarating trills of reward. He swept his gaze across the market along the billow of growing realization that snapped up head after head like wind sleeves gaping south whence the siren song blew. There, a distant mountain—the mountain to the locals—dominated the horizon on a clear day like today, peeking even over the city walls: Mendwhi.

He'd spotted among the gawkers the distinctly broad but squat frames of a couple of dwarves and the buoyant haloes of dark hair typical of Durst-over-the-sea. However, neither were out of place in the keTzhyul empire, let alone in such a busy port. Most who turned had the telltale triangular crinkles of guildsign texturing their Miens, marking them as fellow Guild members. Of the few remaining were older merchants and patrons, locals judging by their chartermarks.

A frisson of excitement rippled through him and he suddenly knew. He had heard and, for a time, believed the tales. Tales varnished into a lurid sheen by generations of storytellers to enchant children and fools. Tales from when his childhood ambitions had not yet caught onto the circumstances of his birth, he would steal away to the Guild hall to listen to the visiting troubadours. There, before an audience of rapt children and nodding grandparents, they would regale them with epics of delvers wandering wondrous worlds and coming back with power to beggar the gods themselves. Blades so keen that reality would cut itself upon them. Truths so brilliant that they cast long shadows into the past, present and future. Magics so sublime that they made the world seem less real.

Johessi the Smitten who stole the hearts of gods until doom fell upon him from the skies. Though the accounts of what befell her was as numerous as the tellings.

Menaereo who used a shard of the Ravening to decapitate the King-beyond-Death on his mountain-throne, creating the plateau on which their eponymous city still stands.

Sedera the Farseer who had studied the magnifying powers of grand water bindings and replicated them in miniature, delighting nearsighted scholars everywhere. Though lenses of water had given way to ones made of crystallized mana, they still bore her name.

Each and every one had heard the undeniable call of adventure draw them to the dungeon that began their legends. Or, so the stories would have him believe. It was only years later when he joined the guild that he could confirm how dastardly effective it was at drawing in new members while also laying bare the kernels of truth. This was a song heard by all who had returned from delving into those cryptic holds of risk and reward.

This was the dungeonsong heralding the birth of a dungeon.

The song's initial trill faded, releasing Hyndall from its irresistible pull. He wrenched his gaze away to see the market exploded into motion. All around him, prospective goods and conversation were discarded with equal abandon as people jockeyed to be first. The first to leave. The first to find the dungeon. The first to plumb its depths.

He wasn't about to let them beat him to it. He spun around to leave.

"Hyndall! What's going on?" shouted Galene over the ensuing din. The faint quaver in her voice spun him around. Her looked from the mountain to the different groups of delvers, trying to triangulate what they were seemingly fleeing from. He could not help but laugh but he was impressed with her instincts. She still held his scallop in one hand but her left hand was clenched into a fist surrounded by a whirring disc of water. He'd seen her gut fish and saw through shells with those water blades.

"It's just a new dungeon!" he shouted back, excitedly and she swung a puzzled look his way. "Sorry, Galene, I need to go. Here." He dropped three silvers onto the payment tray as he rounded the stall. "Save that scallop for me for when I get back."

He waved as he ran off without waiting for a response, trying to recall all the rumours that he'd heard of the dungeonsong.

If he could hear it, then the newly manifested dungeon was in his level range and it would only be a few days away at a walking pace. So it was very likely on Mendwhi. That meant two things. The first was the chance to avoid the slow-moving bureaucracy of the local claimant of the guild. The second was the titillating promise of achievements for the first to clear the dungeon.

Moreso than any tales of powerful loot, that promise was why he, like the others, was rushing to leave the market. Instead of meandering along the glittering green sand of the shoreline as had been his routine, he headed out the north entrance towards the inn. He offered apologetic nods as he jostled the queues of patrons crowding the cook stalls to join the exodus of excited delvers pouring onto the sunlit road.

The wide road started at the wharf and quickly became inundated with goods that had flowed in on the morning's tide. Hyndall found himself filing behind the others, squeezing between the warehouse walls and a rumbling wagon whose axles groaned with the weight of Nicta's robust economic engine. He sidled past an endless caravan of manalumin sledges set on the shallow runnels carved into the stone road, and wagons pulled by gray-feathered clucking dray-warks on pairs of scaled claws. There was even a hover pallet carrying a single black chest bound with thick bands of scintillating red metal that glided over cushions of lubricated air, dampening wards and the mana of their four well-armed attendants. All were sized to accommodate one of the various recommended configurations of the unremarkable standardized wooden crates.

Most containers bore the seal of the port's authority with a red prickly texture, which must have been today's cipher. A guard at a checkpoint ahead waved at one of the wagons bearing faded blue and grey plaid seals, and it pulled into a turnoff. With the rate at which the foot traffic was moving, perhaps he would have been better off taking his normal route back. Vehement bellowing drew his attention away from his impatient fuming as he passed by the checkpoint. Sparing a glance inside, he spotted a guard wildly gesticulating at a small unmarked crate on a sledge surrounded by piles of red-sealed crates. If he had to guess, the tensely rigid man being yelled at was being extorted for a bigger bribe.

Soon they left the checkpoint behind them and veered into the lower commerce district. Here, the wagons transformed into a steady stream of porters that ran goods further into the city. It was late enough that the inner streets had once more been closed to wheeled traffic. Bottlenecked no more, the agitated delvers popped through the gate and spread out at a run.

His leather soles barely touched the cobbled streets as he put his full faith in his Stable Footing. In his near-ankle-twisting experience, cities were a blend of the surrounding biome and wherever the stones underfoot had come from. Nicta wasn't full of itself enough to import material from far away, so his proficiency with temperate forests was serving him well.

He wove between bewildered locals and leapt over steamy green piles on the cobblestones. It was that sliver of the sun's ascent, when the dray-warks hauling in goods were prohibited but their spoor had not yet been swept up by the dawn-carts. He'd found the contract holders to be surprisingly diligent in their duties, but not, he thought as he vaulted another malodorous mound, this morning.

He was still crafting uncharitable epithets after skidding through an unexpectedly long slick when he turned onto the cross-road that ran from the south gate to his inn. Immediately, he spotted a handful of delvers barrelling south in their full gear, at least one still doing up his straps.

He eyed the other delvers critically as he passed them, or as critically as he could with just a glance. Though dimensional storage made it difficult to tell at a glance how much people were carrying, it didn't magically make things weigh less. Although imbued equipment could compensate for some impractical fashion choices, the expense tended to be out of reach for delvers of a level for the new dungeon.

Most looked to be dressed lightly for the temperate forest biome of the city delve or their steps looked too light to be weighed down by many provisions. Since the dungeon could be done in a few days by most competent parties and the food was edible, lazier delvers ended up packing light. If the true competition started when they reached the gate, then this boded well for him.

On the scales of happenstance, Pux yet smiled upon him from wherever dead gods go, seeing as he'd already had his bags provisioned for a week in a dungeon. He had just signed on for a two-slot with a group at the head of the queue. They'd been looking to pick up a replacement and he had gotten lucky with the posting. He had also needed provisions prepared for the original slot he'd signed up for when he first arrived in the city.

He took a smoky yellow, eyeball-sized sphere from his jacket pocket and gently squeezed it as he pushed mana into the speech bauble. He started verbalizing his message and felt the acoustic nodes resonate with each shift in pitch and tone. He dictated a suitably apologetic note on the way on the way—offering "a regret so profound that each step would be made heavier by soul-crushing guilt." Although, he knew the leader of the expedition would herself be scrambling to leave for the dungeon, it would have been rude to not leave a melodramatic note.

He nodded at Jhasz, the innkeeper as he stepped into the inn.

He took the stairs up to the lodging floor two steps at a time, passing another delver before he got to his room. He unsealed the door to his room with his key seal and pocketed the bolt. The room was too expensive by far but vacancies had been surprisingly scarce. It was only big enough for a bed, desk, chair and chest but it afforded him privacy and a view of Mendwhi. It also has reasonably effective sound dampening enchantments. He packed his sundries and swept the room twice before allowing himself a moment to enjoy the absence of the pervasive shrieks of gulls. After double-checking that the door had locked behind him, he headed downstairs to check out.

The delver he'd passed was already gone but Jhasz awaited him at the counter. "I had a feeling I'd be checking you out too." The innkeeper pushed a rectangular wooden coin tray across the counter.

Hyndall placed the bolt from his room onto the tray and pushed it back. "A lot of people leave already?"

"You're the fourth in ten minutes."

Hyndall grunted. He'd hoped his morning breakfast routine hadn't set him back too far but the worst of it by far was that he hadn't actually broken his fast. He'd just have to make up for it while ranging.

The innkeeper picked up the bolt and turned it over in his hand until he saw the number twelve engraved on the metal head. He slipped it into his apron and pulled out a silver coin that he placed on the coin tray that he slid towards Hyndall.

He moved to take back the deposit but paused, his hand hovering over the coin. "Do you have any breakfast I can grab to go?"

"You'll be wanting the oatcakes and hard cheese. We've still got some of the mutton from last night-cold though."

That sounded adequate. "That sounds perfect. How much for one?"

"One silver," said the innkeeper without skipping a beat.

Hyndall glanced down at the tray then back up at the beatifically beaming innkeeper. "Alright, let's have it."

"One traveler's special," he shouted in the direction of the kitchen. He pulled back the money tray and made the silver disappear.

"I also need to run a message to the guild hall." Hyndall held up the speech bauble he'd recorded on the way.

"Oh!" The innkeeper tapped his temple and pointed at him. "One of Ludia's squabs ran a message here for one 'Heimdall'. I reckon that's you." He pulled a pulsing yellow sphere from a cubby with the number twelve and slid it over on the tray.

Hyndall picked it up and the pulse smoothed out into a steady yellow glow as it resonated with his identity seal. Deciphering enough to feel the signing-seal, he could tell that it was the expedition leader. He slipped both baubles into his coat pocket "My thanks. I suppose I won't be needing to run a message after all."

A little boy half his height ran out of the kitchen carrying with both hands a package wrapped in dark green leaf and tied with rough twine. He looked over to the innkeeper who thrust his chin out at Hyndall. The child stepped forward, bashfully offering up the traveler's special which Hyndall graciously accepted with exaggerated gratitude. The leaves were waxy to the touch with widely-spaced veins—nana leaves, if he wasn't mistaken. He hefted the parcel and felt better about the silver.

The innkeeper looked down, quirking his lips into a slight smile, and dipped his head back toward the kitchen. The young courier beamed up with his father's big-cheeked smile and scampered away. The innkeeper looked down, quirking his lips into a slight smile, and dipped his head back toward the kitchen. The young courier scampered away beaming.

"If that's everything," said Hyndall, taking a step toward the door.

"That's everything," said the innkeeper, waving. "Pux smile on your delve."

"Yours too." He waved back, pushed open the exit and immediately felt a twinge of embarrassment as he jogged off.

He had just made it past the cross-road when he used a pulse of mana to decipher the bauble with his identity seal. <Dear...> The greeting came out flat and muffled as the acoustic nodes replicated her voice, followed by a strangely long pause. Then his name tumbled out, breathy and hurried followed. Yet another pause lead into the long, composed expression of her deepest remorse. How <this irrevocable sorrow will chafe at my soul with every waking breath, dimming joy and robbing every achievement of meaning.>

Somehow, despite his swiftness, the expedition lead had already left him a standardized form message. She was irritatingly good and Hyndall had no doubt that run would have been the smoothest he'd ever done. Fresh dungeons were harder to come by, and it sounded like she had already abandoned their slot in the queue. Plus, he had kept his original slot so he was still on track to progress the ketZyhul track of his Guild certification.

Barely a half hour has passed since the market when he joined the long string of like-minded prospectors being pulled to the song's source.

Mendwhi.