He found Kralin largely by accident.

His progress was slow, now, slower even than his earlier stalk; he had much less idea of which way to go, and spent more time looking in side chambers. That was how he noticed what seemed to be an eating area; the storeroom was closed tight, with a pair of human guards watching it from across the room, weapons ready at hand.

They weren’t watching very closely. If they had, they might have noticed that the chains slung across it were weak; some of the links had been repeatedly heated and quick-frozen. The lamplight helped obscure the sullen glow of the metal when it was hot; the ever-present rumble of stone probably obscured any minor cracking noise the metal made as it shifted.

The temper of the iron was quite thoroughly ruined. If he hadn’t spent so much time attuned to stone, feeling his way around the lowest caverns, he wouldn’t have noticed it, but in those moments he could sense the flaws even in the worked metal. A good hard shove, with the weight of the door and a body behind it, could snap them.

Kralin was there, all right, and obviously not too unhealthy. Mulin gripped his knife. He could speed his twin’s release, take down the guards –

But he forbore. If the guards died, the one controlling them would know that someone was there, and there were only a few people it could be.

He committed a few thoughts to a prayer for forgiveness. Kralin was far from the helpless captive the guards thought him. His common magic might not work too well down here, but breed gifts, if anything, were working better the deeper he went – and Kralin had enough ingenuity to put them to use.

And the timing of it might be helpful. Kralin breaking out of his cell could distract the author of this whole plan from Mulin’s approach.

He moved on, and a few minutes later, came to what felt like the centre of the complex.

The chamber was guarded, the vast doors across it closed and barred. Nobody would be getting through those doors without being seen and engaged first, and the half-dozen mail-armoured Sachi and four humans, all well-armed, would be a significant problem for any one person. The air was so charged with raw mana that anything beyond the subtlest magic would be more likely to backfire than to accomplish anything which might get rid of those guards.

All of which made Mulin quite certain that his quarry lay inside.

Yes, the entrance was well guarded, but the neighbouring hall was not. Wading through the stone took nigh half an hour, by the end of which fatigue and heavy concentration were combining to make his head spin; but he was able to look into a great round chamber. Spell-forms wove metal traceries over the stone, gathering and focusing mana from the machinery that rumbled just below, pumping it through this space. It was crude, compared to the finely-tuned Nexus of the Druumat mana font – but it was effective, and handled far more power than those calibrated forms possibly could.

Another cage had been set there, near the middle of the room, near the obsidian dome in the floor. A flash of blue told him who was in that cage; and outside…

Siurrah, certainly enough. Through the veil of stone and the distance, Mulin couldn’t make out fine details – but he could see the shape of the great white wings.

The Siurrah was facing the cage – facing away from Mulin. He was gesturing. Speaking, perhaps, to the occupant?

Beside him was another figure, this one just as distinctive in his own way. Tall, broad of wing, curled horns – a Vhark, also facing the cage.

He took a deep breath.

He’d never tried anything quite so finicky as what he did next, and doing so when he was already exhausted was that much worse. But he held on, and he managed to pull it off; while still holding onto the stone, he pulled shadow to him as well. How it looked from outside, he could hardly imagine – a blotch of blackness spreading over the stone wall, perhaps, in one of the few metal-free patches large enough to pass him. And while holding onto the shadow, he freed himself from the rock.

The echoes in the large room made it at first hard to make out what the Siurrah was saying, but suddenly his voice rose to a shout: “Escaped! How? How could he shatter the chains in a single motion? How could his brother slip past capture so many times? He was in a dead end, with the bodies too thick across the corridors for him to possibly push past even if he’d blinded them, and then he was gone! How?”

“There’s too much we don’t know about the Magekin.” An unfamiliar voice, but distinctly Vhark, and male, and after the Siurrah’s fulminic rage, startlingly soft. “But this…” He swept a hand aside in a dismissive gesture. “Never mind that. Don’t you understand, girl? Those two are dedicated to a catastrophic course – stopping the font now will make the whole reservoir collapse! The turbulence could ruin the practise of wizardry for decades! He won’t listen to us, won’t even give us a chance to speak – but one of them, at least, might listen to you!”

“And what do you want me to tell him?” Liri sounded tired, but stubbornly defiant. She did not sound like she was in pain; the relief of hearing that was profound indeed. “That a pair of madmen say he should stop now, and let them do whatever they wish with the world?”

“Foolish girl,” the Siurrah growled, making a sweeping gesture with – relief turned to alarm – a naked longsword. “They come to do a thing that could destroy civilization as we know it, to trade a golden age for one of calamity, and you call us mad?”

Step by step, Mulin advanced in silence. The Siurrah’s form was wrapped in wards, but in this environment, they were fragile things; they might turn a simple blade, but even that wouldn’t be by much. They were so over-laden with mana, it was a wonder they were stable at all; disturbing them would deliver some impressive backlash to their owner by itself.

“Neither of them have ever beaten someone nearly to death and tossed him aside just for saying ‘no’, so, yes, I do.” The chill in that condemnation was oppressive.

“So you measure sanity by innocence? And what of those he has slain on his way here? Do their lives mean nothing to you, then?”

“They meant little enough to you,” Liri snarled, “when you robbed them of their own minds and sent them to attack us.”

Four Winds, this cavern hadn’t looked this big from the edge. As fast as he could move his feet across the stone without making more noise than the rumble of wheels could mask, his progress was distressingly slow. If Liri could just keep him talking for a minute more…

“Do not presume to judge me.” Some of the Siurrah’s explosive anger had faded, and in its place was every bit of the haughtiness the race was known for. “I have ever done what I must, and damned be those who refuse to see it! If you will not be of use to us alive – ”

What? Oh, no – Mulin shifted his stance mid-step, sinking low, wings mantling for a final leap.

“Then perhaps your lover will be dissuaded when my guards present him with your corpse!”

Mulin leapt, wings sweeping down and back, propelling him forward. Mana coiled in his arm, in his fist, in the crystal blade. Too late – even as he reached the apex of his leap, he saw the sword thrust through Liri’s body and twist.

No – !

With the shadows still ebbing from him, his eyes met hers; she saw that he was there. An instant of surprise flickered into grim satisfaction.

His jump had been short; his feet struck the stone, and both the Siurrah and the strange Stonekin stiffened at the noise.

“Too late,” Liri croaked. Even through the pain, there was a note of bitter triumph.

The Siurrah was starting to turn. Red haze swept across Mulin’s sight, tinging those white feathers with the hue of blood.

Howling with rage, Mulin shoved his arm forward. The charged crysknife shattered wards, punctured cloth, pierced skin, sliced through flesh, and hooked into his foe’s heart – and there it discharged, claws of mana tearing through its victim’s body, skin itself glowing for an instant from the magical flare.

The Siurrah tumbled, dead before he hit the floor, with Mulin atop him; the Stonekin was stumbling back, the echoes of a gasp still lingering in the air.

Too little, too late. The Siurrah’s thrust had been only slightly less effective than Mulin’s; now, with the hilt of the sword no longer held, Liri slumped to the floor of her cage.

There wasn’t much blood, not yet – but her eyes did not fix on his, nor on anything; when his flailing hand slipped through the bars and seized hers, she did not respond to his touch.

Too late, indeed. It wasn’t to him the words had been said, but they were no less true for that.

The red cast to his sight bled away, filtering into a deep, dark blue; he squeezed his eyes shut, trembling from the storm of grief.

If only he’d been faster – if only he’d paused less, or been more moderate in his cautious steps, or just started running across the room earlier – he might have won. But now?

Now, he had failed. He had taken too long, and because of it, one he loved had paid. Liri was dead.