52

  Barry wiped the sweat from his brow, the torchlight jittering across the narrow stone corridor beneath Diospyrus Castle. The maze below was ancient—older than the kingdom, older than the castle itself. Lionel pressed his palm against another dead-end wall, feeling nothing but cold stone. Jinn marked a line with charcoal, a futile attempt to keep track of the twists and turns.

  They had spent days searching for the door of vines. The one place where the dragon pacts were entombed—their bones, their words, their magic. And somewhere among them, the Goblet of Blood. The Great Barang’s orders were clear: occupy Diospyrus, infiltrate its depths, and retrieve the artifact no matter the cost.

  But the passages rearranged themselves. Doors appeared where walls had been. Echoes whispered, shifting the air, misleading them. Every night they returned to the hall above exhausted, no closer to their goal.

  By dawn of the next day, the air grew unnaturally cold. Three Revenant arrived, shadows in red and black. Behind them walked the Great Barang himself.

  Barang entered Diospyrus Hall with a presence that filled the chamber like a storm. His layered cloak of dark blue and black trailed behind him, hood casting much of his face in shadow. The leather belts and etched metal ornaments at his waist chimed softly as he approached the throne.

  The throne—carved from the hardest timber in Maharlika—seemed almost alive. Legs shaped like dragon claws gripped the stone floor, and the high backrest curled like the tongue of a dragon frozen mid-roar. Barang sat slowly, the weight of his disappointment heavy in the room.

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  The Revenant knelt before him in a perfect line. Barry, Lionel, and Jinn lowered their heads as he surveyed them silently.

  “Our search has… failed, my lord,” Barry said, voice cracking slightly.

  Barang tapped a finger against the dragon-tongue armrest, thinking. His plans were unraveling. The attempt to retrieve the girl had failed. Princess Sophia had been healed—by a druid boy, no less. Durante had been seen in Maharlika for the first time in years. Every thread was slipping from his grasp.

  His voice cut through the silence.

  “Is the Karit still in Diospyrus?”

  Lyra, standing at the far right, lifted her head. “The last report says it is in the alchemy tower of Aurum, under Hector’s care.”

  A long, tense breath.

  “And the druid?” Barang asked, voice low. “Durante. Does anyone know his path?”

  Silence. Then Barry stepped forward. “A letter from Baldirion arrived three nights ago. The druid was spotted in Freska. He is believed to be traveling toward Aurum.”

  Barang leaned back, cloak flowing like dark water around him. “Hmm.”

  They could feel the irritation simmering beneath the surface.

  “Mundi knows where the door of vines lies,” Barang muttered, half to himself, half to the stone walls. “We should have taken the Karit. With Mundi… or with force, the druid would tell us the location.”

  Jinn swallowed. Lionel lowered his gaze further. No one dared breathe too loudly.

  Barang stood.

  “Prepare to depart for Aurum.”

  His voice was sharper than the edge of a blade.

  “Yes, my lord,” the Revenant responded in perfect unison, heads bowed, fists pressed to the floor.

  And the shadow of the great hall seemed to thicken as they rose, preparing for the march toward Aurum—toward the druid, the Karit, and the next move in the deadly game for the Goblet of Blood.