Chapter 12 – Dungeonless


    I was roused by a sudden, heavy thump against my chest, followed by a penetrating, musky odor that invaded my senses. Before me, the very ground seemed to writhe, and the oppressive cold had given way to a more tolerable warmth. As I adjusted my position, I found myself collapsing onto the earth.


    “UGH!” came my startled cry as I realized Jericho had stepped on my hand. The pain was sharp and immediate, banishing any remnants of sleep. As it gradually subsided, I allowed my eyes to take in the unfolding scene. In the distance, a serene lake lay cradled within a valley, beyond which loomed a snowless mountain—a silent promise that, if I crossed it, I would reach Niege.


    Jericho ambled over, nuzzling against me, and I reached out to stroke his head. “Let’s walk from here,” I murmured, gazing at the pale sunlight that caressed the distant peaks. “After your relentless night of running, you deserve a rest.”


    With a renewed sense of purpose, I led us down toward the valley. Though my eyes still stung with the remnants of sleep, any pain had long since faded. By the time we reached the valley, I was fully awake. I washed my face, sipped some water, and couldn’t help but address the voice in my mind.


    “Couldn’t you have brought some food? Embarking on such a journey without rations or water—imagine what might have happened had you not encountered any monsters or if there had been no snow at all.”


    Hah! Ramblings of the weak. I would’ve forged a path to survival even in the heart of a desert. Came the reply, The words arrogant, and the loud sound causing me to wince.


    Unfortunately, I can’t shut him out, I thought.


    “Jericho, let’s race to the mountain foot,” I called out, my tone light as I set off at a brisk pace, my steadfast companion bounding after me. Our games made the final stretch seem shorter, and soon the final town appeared – unchanged, despite the looming threat of destruction.


    Winding through the town’s streets toward the guild, I resisted the temptation to simply collapse into an inn’s embrace. I needed to verify whether any changes had occurred in the dungeon or if Mirabel had taken any action.


    The guild was as usual, with sparse activity and my staff engaged in subdued chatter.


    “Hey people, how goes the guild?” I asked after entering. All of them went alert, looking at me.


    “Sir, it’s good that you are back. Someone sent by the Margrave is here, and they’ve been waiting for two days,” Montel said with urgency.


    I paused, considering those words. Margrave – a noble surpassing a count, nearly akin to a duke, endowed with special privileges by virtue of military duty. There was only one Margrave in Dreseon – Stromvale. To send someone here was completely under his jurisdiction as the ruler of Fedhara dutchy, but the fact that it happened only after my recent accord with Mirabel was somewhat disconcerting.


    Drawing a steadying breath, I replied, “Alright, where are they?” Montel’s directions led me to the guildmaster’s office.


    Someone sitting in my office without me – it was blatant disrespect, a reminder that in this modest town of Niege, where I had been exiled in all but name, no one found me worth anything.


    As I ascended the stairs, I was immediately aware that an important person had graced Niege. The corridor was lined with knights, resplendent in gleaming steel armor etched with the sigil of Stromvale – a pentagon with five rivers converging to its center, crossed over by an unsheathed sword.


    These knights, trained to a razor’s edge, instantly went on guard as they perceived my arrival. Their hands rested on the hilts of their weapons, their armored visages fixed intently upon me, and the aura woven in their bodies shifted, slowly – a sign that they were progressing towards the master rank.


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    Reaching the top, I declared, “I am Liam, guildmaster of Niege. I was informed that a messenger sent by Margrave is here to see me.” One knight, stationed at the far end of the corridor, knocked before entering my office, while the others maintained their unwavering gaze.


    Soon, the knight came out and announced, “Please, enter. My lord will see you forthwith.” I noticed the form of address. ‘Lord’ was always used for either the noble themselves or their heirs. I moved to the gate and paused, perplexed by the absence of any effort to halt my progress.


    “Do you not wish to keep my axe?” I asked, unsure of what to make of it. On one hand, retaining a weapon was always prudent; on the other, should any mishap befall the Lord, I would be an all too convenient scapegoat.


    “Ah, yes, please,” the knight responded. I surrendered my axe and sword with hesitation. The knight’s behavior, as if he was unused to this procedure, sparked a subtle unease.


    After knocking, I entered the room to find a young man seated in the guildmaster’s chair, while a weathered man reclined on the nearby sofa. The young man, with dark hair cascading to his cheat and a beardless face, was dressed in white robes adorned with multiple metals, jewels, and filigree, his gaze fixed on a map unfurled across the table. As he looked up at my entrance, I couldn’t help but murmur, “Vaelric…”


    A sudden outburst from the side made me flinch. I turned to see a man with snow-white hair and a face scarred and contorted in indignation. “How dare you address the child of Margrave Stromvale so casually!” he thundered.


    It was a display of noble propriety—an admonition for my habitual informality with someone as familiar as Vaelric. “It’s all right, Uncle Marcus,” Vaelric interjected with a playful reprimand, “Liam is a friend, though perhaps not the best of them.”


    Ignoring the elder’s anger, I sank into a visitor’s chair. My eyes drifted to the map, meticulously detailing the environs around Niege. “So, after all the times I’ve protected you, you still choose to tarnish my reputation?” I teased, memories of our past adventures—three fledgling adventurers led by an experienced mage—flooding back. The arduous journey of discovering Jericho, attaining masterhood, and ultimately seeking peace after a particularly brutal confrontation all seemed to play out before me.


    “The fact that you left right when everything was finally coming together really makes me doubt your good nature,” Vaelric remarked, his gaze never leaving the map until he finally rolled it up and regarded me fully.


    “Imagine my surprise when Mirabel informed me that the new guildmaster of Niege was named Liam—a man who claims acquaintance with me,” he continued dramatically, “and now I learn that this very Liam intends to defy a direct order from the crown.”


    I cast a glance at Uncle Marcus, but seeing his calm composure and Vaelric’s talking confidently in his presence, I just shrugged.


    “I was exiled here from Raakwell, and then they planned to obliterate this dungeon,” I confessed softly. “I guess, two years of labor left me under immense strain, and this decision was the final spark.”


    “If you were troubled, you could’ve come to me,” Vaelric chided, his eyes locking with mine.


    “I didn’t want to get entangled in the political web,” I admitted, glancing upward at the lofty ceiling. “I believed that serving in the adventurer’s guild – directly under the king – would allow me to harness my strength and gain influence without stepping on anyone’s toes.”


    “And look where that led you,” was Vaelric’s reply. My head dropped in shame. I recalled how, when I chose to abandon adventuring, he had once offered me a commission under his father’s command as a knight. As an aura master, I could have risen to become a captain with my own retinue, yet instead, I had opted for the guild, relegating myself to the role of a mere administrator.


    A heavy sigh escaped me as I shifted the conversation. “Alright, what brings you here?”


    “Couple of reasons,” Vaelric began, his gaze drifting as he withdrew a book and began inscribing intricate designs upon its pages. “Firstly, I’m very interested in the idea of personalized training in the dungeon. And secondly…,” He looked up, his eyes aflame with a resolve I had not witnessed before, “I cannot allow this dungeon to perish.”


    It was evident that the latter was his true purpose. The aetheric flame dancing within his body betrayed his rank as an Archmage, rendering normal training almost superfluous, while his underlying motive remained shrouded in mystery.


    “Why? Even if you save this dungeon, it’s only Red rank. With the haul I’ve secured this past week, I can’t guarantee that it will even attain Orange in time,” I remarked, the unspoken question hanging in the air– why would the Margrave covet such a low rank dungeon?


    Vaelric’s pen tapped thoughtfully against the book before he stated, “Fedhara possesses but one dungeon.” The remark stirred memories of the other twenty-three, scattered across lands where dungeons, though not common, were not altogether rare in sufficiently large areas. Yet, in Fedhara, encompassing the entire northwest of the kingdom, they were conspicuously absent.


    I straightened in my seat as the realization dawned on me. “Do you mean…?”


    “Yes,” he replied softly, “every dungeon born in this land has been choked before it could thrive—its demise always justified by the same claim: unsuitable for development.”