The Understudy's Ascent

The torchlight guttered against the stone, casting long shadows that danced like hungry things. Your heart hammered a war-drum rhythm against your ribs as you stared at the gaping chasm before you. The bridge of light—a shimmering, impossible thing made of pure radiance—spanned the darkness, its surface rippling like disturbed water. Behind you, the expedition's breath held in collective anticipation.

You felt Ser Vael's gaze boring into your back, sharp as a blade. "Delver," he said, the name tasting like a question. "The notes say you know the command."

The ancient script on the archway above was indecipherable to you, a tangle of glyphs that swam before your eyes. Mira shifted her weight, her hand resting on the dagger at her hip—a gesture that was either casual or a threat. Kael stood at the edge of the torchlight, his smirk barely concealed.

You cleared your throat and stepped forward, buying time with movement. The Delver's journal was sewn into your coat, its pages worn thin from years of study. But standing here, facing the reality of the Sunken Throne, the words might as well have been written in a language you'd never learned.

The bridge hummed, waiting.