Together, they descended lower and lower through a twisting passage beneath the forum. The Eidolon passed between structures grown into the very bones of the city. Crumbling walls and grand columns stood three times his height and more in breadth, supporting the vastness above.


    This deep bunker was Layman’s Keep — once a great fortress, then buttressed even further to receive the Pilgrim’s tower, long ago transplanted atop it as a final shining bastion of hope, now lost to the depths. Though the Eidolon knew this massive structure to have been first picked up and carried by mighty Acetyn in an age before, he could not imagine the movement of such a weight. He could not fathom the scale of the forces at work here. All of his life had been spent in the confines of the city. What did the heavens truly look like, spanning overhead, spilling into the forever? What did it take to move the world?


    Even here, the Eidolon saw the small creatures of low Acetyn, scuttling insects and things with far more limbs than they should by any right possess. They were squatting in the passages, using them as shelter, and once they saw the Eidolon, Marchemm, and Menmarch, they fled in fear. Their small, oblong bodies moved in a stagger, crawling around him as they scrambled for the exit. They grabbed and reached, shuffling in their weird movements.


    The Eidolon strode on with his companions close, knowing that the scuttling animals were mindless and posed no threat to their order. Yet bile built in the back of his throat at the sight of the verminous creatures. Nevertheless, he continued through the structure until the bony palace belied its purpose. Though the progenitor’s shrine within the tower was inaccessible, for now, there were other interior sections in the structure. Thick, shelled doors, dead but propped open, gave access to the keep. He and his order had been instructed of them some time ago before they turned their blades upon their previous master.


    Through another arched doorway, the fleshy walls and interior were covered with remnants of decorated scaled skins and thick furs, trophies of great hunts, turning from the random pattern of city biology to that of an abandoned royal court. It held a black and blue banner that was adorned with jewels and woven sigils in a tight, rich design, but it was long-rotted with age. Precious metals glimmered, embossed into the walls, though they were muddied by an age of dirt and grime. There, they found a meeting chamber filled with a long table made from the corpse of a dragon’s thickly plated hull.


    Here, the Eidolon, Marchemmm, and Menmarch joined three others, all carved into the same bipedal shape, equally shelled in star metal and armed for war as their companions.


    Less than one hundred freaks in the city openly professed their faith in the Pilgrim’s return and the cause by which the Axiamat was slain, the inheritors of a once-mighty crusade that laid the world bare in an age before inequity. Now assembled, they were six of their faith’s most skilled warriors, burdened with a self-appointed duty.


    “My shape, my kin,” they all spoke in unison.


    “Did you get the offering?” Barked a giant of a warrior without colours from the corner of the chamber.


    To that, the Eidolon reached into his ragged cloak and presented the artefact. The sight of the field cutter — scored carbon black after ten thousand years — stilled everyone in the room. Held up for all to see, the holy zealot then placed it in the centre of the table.


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    “I have,” the Eidolon said quietly but firmly. “It will be enough to sate the gatekeeper.”


    As if to answer that, an armoured pale who loomed over the table stabbed his sharp gauntlet against his holographic map, scoring the table beneath.


    “Then we should focus on the next step,” said Sir Enhash, ever filled with spite. “A hound lurks hidden within the depths. It stalks the ruins of the Gates, preying upon those who wander the reach without trial.”


    The Eidolon considered Sir Enhash, who had once been his superior when they were both loyal to the Lord of Bones and his witch lady — a leadership supplanted when he put a knife in the back of the former Eidolon and took up the burden of his identity. Sir Enhash, recognising that the former Eidolon had become a puppet and tool of the Lord of Bones, used to keep the faithful under control and subservient, changed his loyalty in turn. Together, they dreamt of this new purpose, the restoration of the old age. Yet still, they chafed in command.


    “The shrine is sealed, kept secure by its keeper until the beast is slain,” Marchemm reminded them, narrow eyes turning between the Eidolon and Sir Enhash as he observed their shifting positions of authority.


    “We tracked the beast’s progress, gathered information, maintained distance,” added Llewtoll, their hunter, who was vigilant and predatory. “The creature has slaughtered every one of our seekers.”


    From his corner, the hulk of Taneberr, the wrotheful, said, “We must strike now and eradicate it from this place.”


    The Eidolon waited for their words and assent but didn’t need to wait long. At his sides, Marchemm and Menmarch, ever obedient and carved from the same vat-born, were of like mind. So he looked over the maps, projected out over the table’s surface, and considered the situation.


    “But we do not know where it is now,” the Eidolon said, looking to Taneberr and Llewtoll for confirmation. They gave it reluctantly and carefully in turn. Having surrendered his identity, the Eidolon was honoured to take charge of these skilled warriors, a sacrifice interrupted by this invading monster.


    After consideration, the Eidolon focused on the map where the hound was last seen and flicked through the collection for a thousand days before. Finally, he found what he sought on the amethyst shine. The hound had been spotted again close to their location, deep. It was always so deep.


    “The hound has been travelling under the forum, using this very labyrinth,” the Eidolon pointed, and the others nodded. “We can be certain it is not stationary and we have not the numbers to scour every passage. So we must drive it out.”


    “The cavity is sick with fevers, trying to break down the Gates,” Sir Enhash noted quietly. “Perhaps a rare provenance.”


    The Eidolon’s broad head turned heavily, suppressing a scowl, the skin along its sharp ridges pulling tightly away from the bone. Eventually, he nodded, realising Sir Enhash’s unspoken suggestion.


    “Ironic,” the Eidolon said thoughtfully, turning the map to the borders of the Gates, where the walls of the reach held the chaos at bay. “We will use it to drive out the hound.”


    “Yet why would Acetyn try to break down the Gates?” Marchemm asked. “After all this time, is it not still bound to the old oaths?”


    “The city has been driven mad,” Menmarch replied, his thin lips pursing into a tight line. “The chaos spreads vindictively now.”


    “Sickness then, it has truly taken a hold of this city,” Llewtoll hissed.


    “All the more reason to kill this beast quickly and complete our glorious work,” Taneberr growled.


    “I agree,” the Eidolon replied, turning his back to the table, wanting to be immediately underway. “We will lure the hound into the open and, together, slay it. I know exactly how to draw it out.”