<h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Twenty-Five: War Beneath the Blessed Land</h2>


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    They hadn’t lingered in the streets for long before they were ushered into a guardhouse built into the thick stone wall.


    As they neared the entrance, Chronifer caught fragments of a hushed conversation.


    “This will not end well. Finding Liquid Flame deposits is always a curse rather than a blessing. Look at what it has caused.”


    A woman sat with a group of others, her voice low, gaze fixed on a cluster of soldiers in black uniforms.


    “Just look at what happened to Yongul,” another murmured grimly.


    “If the Montcroix-Wythe clan catches wind of this again—”


    “No! No!” A third woman suddenly burst into tears. “They won’t. They won’t.” Her voice cracked as she began reciting something—prayer or desperation, it was hard to tell.


    Chronifer watched her. Pale golden eyes, dirt-covered golden hair—a full-blooded Montcroix-Wythe. He didn’t need to guess what she was feeling; the terror rolled off her in waves.


    “Poor Yongulies,” one of the soldiers muttered.


    “This is all the Montcroix-Wythe’s fault,” a female soldier replied, her tone sharp. “This is why we need to win this war and keep the Liquid Flame under wraps.”


    The weight of the conversation should have stirred something grim in him, but instead, Chronifer found it funny. He stood right behind them, within earshot, listening to every word. They had no idea. He almost laughed, but he held it back, the absurdity of the moment a strange balm against his ever-present fear.


    He wanted to ask what Liquid Flame was, but his curiosity felt distant, dulled by exhaustion. He also felt like he understood what his family had done


    No doubt they took a world because of something they wanted.


    The guardhouse doors swung open, and they stepped inside.


    A man sat waiting, his face sharp and wicked-looking, his eyes unfocused as though lost in thought.


    “Sir?” The three soldiers and the city guard escorting them saluted.


    The man’s gaze snapped to them, focus sharpening.


    “At ease, fine men.” His eyes swept over the children clustered around Chronifer. “I see you’ve brought me reinforcements.”


    One of the soldiers hesitated before speaking. “Sir, if I may ask you a question?”


    The man waved him on.


    “I remember hearing that this land was blessed by a god from the Concinnity.”


    “You’re right, son,” the man said. “But the truth is, it only applies to the crops. With and around it.” He leaned forward slightly. “So, how does an enemy that needs the resources of such a great farming city takes land that is divinely blessed?”


    Chronifer’s toes curled against the stone floor. His mind latched onto the question like it was a riddle, tracing the logic, pulling on something familiar.


    “Beneath the crops.”


    Silence followed. The soldiers and the other children turned to him, startled.


    “You can talk?” The female soldier stared at him in shock.


    “Yes,” Chronifer said simply.


    “But—”


    “Enough,” the seated man interrupted. His gaze lingered on Chronifer before he smirked.


    “I see you’ve brought me a sharp boy—a fitting replacement for one of my squads.”


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    The sounds of people grew unmistakable as they descended, following the man deeper into the earth.


    “Listen up, soldiers,” he called over his shoulder, his voice steady even as his boots found footing on the sloping tunnel floor, lit by flickering torches. “I am General Velo. I have kept Culona from falling for the last four months since this war began, and I will keep it standing.”


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    The tunnel soon widened into an open chamber, packed with soldiers. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and medicinal herbs, the soft murmur of voices barely masking the cries of the wounded.


    “Welcome to our battlefield.”


    On the far wall, three gaping holes yawned open, dark and jagged. General Velo gestured toward them.


    The general dismissed the three soldiers, then turned to the children.


    “I know it is cruel to take you from your homes and parents,” he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. “But you are needed—not just to win this battle, but to prevent another disaster like Yongul.”


    His steps were steady as they passed groups of soldiers huddled around fires, some cooking over iron pots, others talking in hushed voices or laughing in tired camaraderie. Each fire seemed to have its own circle, four soldiers for every two children—a pattern that promised Chronifer more conflict awaited him.


    “The Quaborne Kingdom seeks to mine the Liquid Flames and sell them to the sigil universities,” the general continued. “But that could be our undoing. I believe the only reason we haven’t been driven from our planet is the Integration.” His gaze flicked toward Chronifer. “We need to stop them. And for that, we need you.”


    All the children around Chronifer still looked scared but seeing their fellow kids fitting in seemed to give them courage. They now nodded to the general. Chronifer asked a question, through the fear clinging to his chest.


    “What will we be doing?” He asked.


    “Good. There are two roles you can take on.” He posted to a small boy rapping a brown thread round a string. “That is a needle boy, he keeps our soldiers from getting lost within the tunnels, he is protected at all cost. He also carries the traps.”


    He walked on pointing to a more thin and quick looking boy, he was taller than Chronifer,


    “That is a Quick boy, he is a scout, he checks for enemies, send messages for the teams within the tunnels and and goes through pinholes for ambushes.” the general looked at Chronifer over his shoulders, his mouth went dry.


    “Squared Commandant!” The general’s voice cut through the loose gathering of soldiers, snapping them to attention.


    “Yes, sir!” A balding man with scraps of hair left on his head shot to his feet, saluting stiffly.


    “Introduce yourself to the commandant, recruit,” the general instructed.


    Chronifer stepped forward, seeing no reason to hide his name. “I’m Chronifer,” he said. “New Quick Boy of your squad.”


    The general nodded and left with the other children, leaving Chronifer behind.


    He had barely begun to take in his surroundings when a hush fell over the gathered soldiers. Then—jingling.


    A sound that didn’t belong. A sound that carried dread.


    “Give him a dagger!” the commandant barked, already moving. He snatched up a pickaxe and a wicked-looking dagger.


    The others sprang into action—two more pickaxes, a dagger, a small bag. Hands reached, grabbed, secured.


    “Come on, Quick Boy!” someone shouted, tossing Chronifer a dagger. He caught it just as a smaller boy—the Needle Boy—tied a spool of thread to a pole and darted forward.


    Chronifer fell into line, third behind the commandant and the man who had called to him. They plunged into one of the tunnels, the camp’s firelight vanishing behind them, swallowed by damp, suffocating black.


    The walls closed in. The air grew thick. The further they went, the tighter the space became. Soon, they weren’t just running—they were wedging themselves forward. Then, without warning, the man ahead of him veered right and vanished into the rock.


    Chronifer stumbled, reaching out—nothing. His fingers skimmed rough stone, then an opening. A hole. A burrow carved into the wall.


    “Go,” someone hissed. “Follow Holger.”


    He hesitated. It was barely a passage—just a gash in the rock, tight enough that an adult would have to force their way through.


    “Move, Quick Boy!”


    A shove sent him lurching forward. His hands caught rough stone, his knees scraped jagged rock as he crawled. The air was thick, pressing in from all sides. It felt like the tunnel itself was swallowing him whole.


    Ahead, labored breaths. The faint scrape of bodies shifting against stone. He pushed forward blindly—until he hit something solid. Holger.


    The space behind him filled. Another body. Then another. A single human chain, compressed into a grave of stone and flesh.


    His own breath came back at him, hot and useless. His lungs ached. His ribs felt like they were caving in.


    Then—light.


    A pale, sickly yellow glow flickered to life ahead, casting wild shadows over the hunched, twisted forms of the men crammed together like insects in a dying burrow.


    Holger’s voice, low and steady: “We only get light every ten minutes. For one minute.”


    Chronifer swallowed, throat dry. The glow barely reached beyond Holger’s face, leaving everything behind Chronifer a solid wall of black. He could hear the commandant behind Holger, and another soldier beyond himself, but the darkness made them feel too far.


    Then—the light died. And the dark devoured them whole.


    “Move,” the commandant whispered.


    They crawled forward. Slowly. Silently.


    Chronifer’s heartbeat pounded in his skull, his breath uneven. The tunnel walls pressed closer. His arms ached from keeping himself moving. Every shift of his body brought fresh scrapes from unseen rock.


    His throat clenched. He felt sick. He felt trapped.


    Something brushed his leg. Just another soldier, he told himself. Just someone moving. But his mind whispered other things. Hands in the dark. Something waiting. Something—


    The air shifted.


    The bodies ahead stopped.


    A sharp click—the light flickered on.


    Then—a scream.


    “Ambush!”