Riven moved down the slope with a growing certainty in his steps, the kind that came not from confidence but from pain shaped into purpose. Anything was possible with the right materials, Torvil had taught him that. Wood, bone, stone, flesh, spirit itself, all could be bent with enough strength of will and knowledge of how to guide it. Riven’s will was iron now, his purpose sharpened to a point like the head of a spear. A spear he meant to use.

  The idea had begun forming the moment he heard Brann and Dorian whispering about the creature that killed Torvil. A golem…a summoned thing made by human hands, given unnatural life. If such a creature could exist once, then it could be made again. And if Riven could build one from the remnants of the first bound to him, perhaps something inside it would remember its former shape. Perhaps a trace of its origin would remain, and that faint echo would lead him straight to the one who commanded it. Straight to the meaning of the name Torvil gave with his dying breath.

  First he needed the materials. The golem had been scattered across the streets when Torvil’s light had torn it apart. If the army had not cleaned the remains by now, pieces might still lie where they fell. Stones wrought with runes, metal threaded through old magic, fragments of something older than the city itself. He needed to gather whatever he could before the soldiers swept it all away.

  Then he would need Torvil’s books in the grove. Books Riven had never been allowed to open, books filled with lore and binding methods written in a script he probably couldn’t even read. He did not know how much he could understand, but he would try. He would learn. He would shape what he needed. And while moving through Avenwall he would listen, catching every whispered rumor, every hint of who had sent the creature that killed his father.

  It sounded simple enough. The kind of plan that felt unbreakable when grief burned hot.

  Yet as he approached the southern road into Avenwall the cold truth rose in his chest like a stone. The gates bristled with guards. Two lines of soldiers checked everyone who passed through, questioning travelers, searching carts, studying faces with sharp eyes. Every few moments Riven saw another unlucky soul pulled aside for a deeper inspection.

  There was no way he could pass that.

  He stopped on the ridge above the road. His palms grew damp and his breath tightened. Fear gripped him with sudden force. Had he truly walked all this way, abandoned his friends, abandoned the group, only to be stopped before taking the first step of his plan.

  Riven lowered himself into the grass, heart pounding. Think, he whispered to himself. Think Riven think. There has to be a way.

  He stared at the gate, at the guards, at the steady flow of people shuffling through like livestock. Soldiers would suspect a lone boy outside the keep. They would question him, search him, discover his druid markings. Capture would come swift as a knife.

  He dug his fingers into the soil beside him, cold earth pressing under his nails.

  There had to be another entrance. There had to be a place where walls met forest or river or rock. A place shadows gathered thick enough for a boy like him to slip through.

  Then something stirred in his memory.

  Torvil once told him that old cities always had forgotten doors. Old drains, old culverts, old tunnels carved by hands long dead. Avenwall was no different. Somewhere beneath the walls a stream ran through stone channels. Somewhere in those cracks and corners there would be a way in.

  He drew a long breath, steadied his racing thoughts, and rose to one knee.

  If the soldiers blocked the main gates he would not use the main gates. He was a druid’s son, trained to walk paths others overlooked.

  He would circle the city wall. He would find the hidden way. And he would not fail.

  Riven stayed low in the grass, watching the guards move like restless crows along the walls. His heartbeat steadied as another memory surfaced, one he had nearly forgotten beneath all the grief. He had overheard Torvil and Brann speaking in hushed voices days before the attack, speaking of tunnels beneath Avenwall. Brann had been forced to fight in them, cornered there by a man named Therun. So tunnels did exist.

  Hope flickered inside him, fragile yet sharp.

  Guards stood atop every tower that had not been burned, silhouettes against the sky. Others paced the rooftops, clearing debris, patching holes, shouting orders. Riven saw ropes hanging like vines from shattered beams, and voices of soldiers beneath them.

  He swallowed hard. Moving unseen would be difficult in daylight. Every shadow was watched, every street corner guarded. He could wait for nightfall, slip in under the cover of darkness, but waiting meant risking everything. By night the soldiers might have cleared away whatever pieces remained of the golem. His only chance to gather those fragments would be lost.

  There was no time to spare.

  He circled the hill and descended toward the southern wall, keeping his head low and his feet light. The guards at the gate were busy harassing a merchant, shouting as they tore through his crates. The man protested loudly, flailing his arms as if trying to hold the soldiers back. They focused on him with such intensity that no one glanced toward the grassy rise behind them.

  Riven moved quickly. His back pressed against the cold stone of the city wall, his breath shallow. From this height, narrow as he was, he became just another shadow clinging to the base of the fortification. He waited, motionless, until the rhythm of the guards’ steps settled once more into a predictable pattern.

  Then he began to move.

  Step by step he followed the curve of the wall, slipping along the foundation stones. He kept his eyes wide, searching for anything out of place. A crack too deep. A stone too smooth. A line in the dirt where water had flowed. Torvil had taught him that human hands always left a sign. Even hidden doors breathed differently than the stone around them.

  He touched each stone as he passed, feeling for hollow places, for seams that did not belong. His breath fogged lightly in the cool air. Above him he heard guards calling to one another, boots thudding across wooden planks, ropes creaking as repairs continued.

  Riven ignored it all. His eyes were sharp, trained to notice what others overlooked.

  Somewhere under these walls, the tunnels waited. Somewhere close, a forgotten entrance had endured beneath the ruin. He only needed to find the first whisper of it, a single clue that would open the path below.

  And he would. He had not come this far to fail at the edge of the city.

  It took him longer than he wanted. He had to circle half the city, slipping from shadow to shadow while the sun crept higher toward its throne in the sky. Every time he thought he saw something odd in the stone he found only cracks or roots or nothing at all. Frustration gnawed at him, but he kept going, pressing onward with the same quiet stubbornness Torvil had praised in him so many times.

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  At last he reached the northern wall, and there the land dipped slightly toward a dry trench filled with old stones. The northern side was quiet, guarded but not watched as sharply as the scorched southern districts. Most of the damage had happened near the main gate and the market. The north had been spared the worst of the destruction.

  Riven knelt near a cluster of rocks half buried in moss. Something caught his eye at once, a shape too even, a line too straight to be nature’s work. He brushed dirt aside, fingers quick and careful. Beneath the soil lay a stone that curved faintly inward, fitted with a seam so fine he had missed it earlier.

  Of course it was here.

  Riven slapped his forehead and let out a short breath through his teeth. In hindsight it made perfect sense. The fortifications were built to withstand an assault from the south, where the open plains allowed armies to gather. If the walls ever fell the only safe escape route for citizens or soldiers would be north, toward the heartland of the kingdom. Anyone with sense would place their hidden exits there.

  He made a mental note, sharp and embarrassed, to think about simple defense strategies next time before wasting precious hours circling the wrong side of a wall.

  He pressed his palms against the curved stone and pushed. At first nothing happened, then the slab shifted, grinding softly along hidden tracks. The weight of it moved inward, revealing a narrow passage that breathed cool air and faint light.

  Riven stepped inside.

  The moment he crossed the threshold the stone door slid shut behind him with a low rumble. He flinched and spun around, heart jumping, but the wall had become a smooth surface once more, no gap, no seam, only silence.

  He turned back to the tunnel and his eyes widened.

  The walls glowed with a soft orange light. Hundreds of small stones had been pressed into the mortar, each one giving off a gentle pulse that seemed to follow the rhythm of a slow heartbeat. The air smelled faintly of clay and old water. The floor dipped downward, leading deeper beneath the city, where forgotten halls and shadows waited.

  Riven set his jaw and stepped forward.

  Whatever waited in these tunnels, it would bring him closer to the truth. He would not turn back now.

  He followed the narrow passage until it opened into a small junction, a crossroads carved deep beneath the earth. Two paths stretched north-east and south, and the last was the tunnel he had come from. Riven stood for a moment and let the soft orange glow wash across the stone. These tunnels ran farther than he had expected, an old network built long before his time. He wished he could map them, learn their purpose, explore every branch, but he had no time. He needed to reach the heart of the city. That meant the southern path.

  He took it without hesitation.

  For a long while he walked in silence. The pulsating orange stones became familiar, warm little lanterns guiding him deeper. The air was stale and unmoving, thick enough that each breath tasted of dust. His footsteps echoed faintly along the stone floor, a lonely sound that reminded him how far he stood from the others now. Yet he felt no fear. Only the steady burn of purpose.

  When the scenery began to change he stopped at once.

  The walls ahead glistened with moisture. Damp moss crawled up the stone and patches of mold stirred faintly in the dim light. In places the stone bulged outward where water had warped the mortar. Thin vines hung from the ceiling like old threads, and some roots pushed through cracks that had not been there long. Several stones were marked by charring, and deeper still he saw the telltale lines of an impact, a burst that had cracked the walls from within.

  Riven crouched and pressed his fingers to the damp earth.

  This must be the place. Brann had fought here. He could almost see the flames along the walls, the shadows split by steel, the narrow space echoing with shouts. Brann had survived Therun. The memory of their fight had left its mark on the stones.

  That meant he stood directly beneath the town square.

  Perfect. He needed to reach the square, gather whatever remained of the golem, and vanish before the army caught even a whisper of him. But now that he was here he saw the problem clearly.

  The ceiling above him was a mess of roots, thick stone slabs, and hastily patched mortar. Soldiers must have repaired the damage from the fight on the surface, shoring up the weakened ground with everything at hand. Even so, this was the only place in all the tunnels that showed real weakness. The only place where the world above felt close enough to reach.

  It was dangerous. It was foolish. It was the only choice he had.

  Riven laid a hand on the nearest cracked stone, feeling the soft crumble beneath his fingers. If he could break through this point he might crawl straight into the square. If he hesitated, the remains would be gone by nightfall, swept up by the army and taken who knew where.

  He drew a slow breath and set his feet.

  I have to try, he whispered to himself.

  The roots overhead trembled slightly as if answering him, as if the earth itself listened to the promise in his voice. Riven squared his shoulders, lifted his hands toward the ceiling, and prepared to break his way into the city above.

  He did not want to bring the whole ceiling down. That would have shaken the square above and drawn soldiers like hornets to a shattered nest. So he closed his eyes, steadied his breath, and focused on the roots overhead. Thick, tangled cords of earth and life pressed into the stone, holding the ceiling together. If he could shift them only a little, ease them aside without breaking them, he might make enough space to slip through.

  The roots trembled under his power. He felt them respond as if they recognized the bloodline in him, the druidic spark Torvil had planted long ago. Slowly, carefully, he coaxed them apart. First a finger’s width, then another. The stone loosened. A small gap formed above him.

  Warm sunlight spilled through the crack.

  Riven blinked up at it, stunned for a heartbeat, then pushed upward with vines around his wrists, letting them anchor into the soil above. He climbed through the narrow opening until his head emerged into daylight. The square was near but not directly overhead, and no one stood near the patch of broken earth he had forced open.

  He hauled himself through in one quick motion, brushed the dirt off his coat, and slipped up the alley.

  He knew exactly where he needed to go, but he forced himself not to run. A boy sprinting through the streets would draw eyes. Eyes meant questions. Questions meant danger. So he walked with a normal pace, weaving through the back paths until the noise of the city grew louder. Then he reached the square.

  It was chaos given order. People and soldiers moved like ants across the open space. They lifted broken beams, carried stones to clear the walkways, and sorted the dead into two grim piles. Humans in one. Creatures in the other. The human bodies would be buried if names could be found or mourned if families still searched for them. The creatures would be burned, except for the few the army carried away for study. Riven felt bile rise in his throat at that thought.

  He kept to the edges, sliding between men and women who were too busy to notice him. One soldier glanced at him while hefting a body onto a stretcher and barked: go home kid this is no time for curiosity. Riven only nodded, lowered his head, and moved on.

  He made several quick turns through narrow alleys, doubling back once, slipping between two houses. Every step tightened the coil in his chest. His pulse rose. His heart hammered. He finally reached the alley where it had happened, where Torvil had died and the golem had fallen.

  His breath faltered.

  The alley was cleaned out. No bodies. No scattered limbs. No chunks of dark moss. No shards of the creature’s shell. Nothing.

  No no no.

  He broke into a run abandoning caution and reached the patched section of wall where the golem had crashed. His eyes moved over every stone, frantic, searching for anything the soldiers had missed. He pressed his hands against the mortar, climbed onto a small crate, leaned close to the cracks.

  Come on. Come on.

  Then he saw it.

  A small piece of moss wedged deep between two bricks, shriveled and torn but still oozing a dark fluid that glimmered like ink. His breath escaped him in a rush. They had missed this one. The cleaning crews had taken everything they could see, but this tiny fragment had escaped them.

  Riven pulled a small clay pot from under his coat, the one he had prepared since leaving Lysa and Brann behind. He reached up with his fingers and scraped every bit of the moss into it, careful not to spill a drop of the dark liquid.

  When the last piece slid inside he sealed the pot tight with a lid and held it close to his chest for a moment. Warmth pulsed through it, faint but real.

  He had it. He had something of the creature that killed his father.

  And that was enough to begin.