I feel Yorl nod next to me. “I assumed as much the moment I went to the surface. The quake was enough to fracture only the arena walls, and it touched none of the city. If I was to guess, whoever cast the spell was attempting to flush us out knowing roughly where we are, but knowing nothing about what’s actually down here.”

“So it wasn’t Varia?”

Yorl answers my question with silence, and then, “No.”

“Something wrong, celeon?” Malachite chirps. “You sound suspicious.”

“It’s just…” Yorl exhales. “The data on the spell we collected from the Crimson Lady—it wasn’t intentional.”

“What are you talking about?” I frown.

“Magic has a pattern,” Yorl says. “And that pattern can be detected by the Crimson Lady. I’ve seen many such patterns. But this one wasn’t tight. It wasn’t well-constructed. It’s almost as if it was…unintentionally done. Instinctually. Fueled by emotion, not by concentration.”

“So your rogue witch can fly off the handle,” Malachite scoffs. “So what? We still have to clean up their mess.”

Reminded of the immediate valkerax emergency once more, we take the steps as fast as possible, but about halfway down, we hear the clash of armor and the horrible cacophony of dozens of celeon roaring in pain and anger.

The deep, loud breathing—I notice chillingly—is gone.

Yorl starts walking faster, dragging me along by the hand with his urgency. We reach the bottom of the stairs, and I’m shocked to see actual oil lanterns lit along the walls. The lights illuminate something far more sinister—blood smearing in vivid crimson banners for far longer than blood has any right to. The smell of burned fur singes the air, blackened scorch marks enveloping what looks like the smoldering skeletons of celeon. My stomach revolts, and I grip the hilt of my father’s sword hard enough to bite skin.

Malachite’s irritated expression instantly dissolves as he turns to Yorl. “How many have we lost already?”

“Six.” Yorl’s flinch is so well disguised by his picking up of a nearby lantern that I almost don’t see it. A true professional—or a young man barely managing to hold on to his failure. He hands it to me. “The breach is obvious. I want you two to follow it and stop that thing.”

He pulls a heavy brass weapon off his back, handing it to me. It’s a spring-loaded crossbow of some sort, loaded not with bolts but with glass phials that glimmer with a clear substance, their tips ending in sharp needles.

“Get these shots in as close to the throat as you can. Not the chest or the spine—the bone is too thick there. The throat. Inside, if you can somehow manage it, is the most effective. Five should be enough to knock it out cold.”