The cart jolted along for more than four hours, through dust and rising heat.
Alvern used that time to turn the silence into work.
He opened the folder Lady Rose had given him, spread the map across his knees, and began to speak in that low, firm voice that allowed no interruptions, outlining their formation.
First, he divided the team into three action groups:
Vanguard (reconnaissance and security):
- Blake
- Alvern
- Ananya
- Brann
- Roric
Center (raw power and defense):
- Morwen
- Joren
- Zoltan
- Darick
- Isaac
Rearguard (support):
- Seren
- Dorran
- Lirael
- Felisia
- Aisha
Next, they quickly agreed on hand signals in just a few minutes:
- Closed fist raised = immediate stop.
- Two fingers spread in a V = all clear / proceed.
- Palm turned downward = crouch down silently.
- Three taps on the chest = silent and immediate emergency retreat.
They also discussed each person's role, rope management, quick anchor points in case of collapse, protocols for involuntary group separation, and even the use of alarm whistles.
In addition, Dorran listed all the equipment and supplies the Association had provided for the mission: pickaxes, oil lanterns, coils of rope, two barrels of water, food provisions, and so on.
Everything was repeated several times, mentally noted by every member of the team.
None of them asked pointless questions: they were professionals, but above all, they were focused.
When Alvern declared the briefing over, an even heavier silence fell over the cart than before.
The creaking of the wheels and the breathing of the horses became the only background sounds.
"We're almost there," the driver announced from the front, expertly handling the reins.
Mirac closed his eyes for a few seconds while the warm wind brushed against his mask.
He just wanted to enjoy those last few minutes of calm before entering the depths of the mountain.
Meanwhile, the path began to climb.
The wheels screeched against the gravel, the cart tilted, and Raerno appeared far behind them, small and gray under the sun.
But it wasn't the only detail on the horizon…
A little further beyond Raerno, toward the southeast, lay a vast dead plain: black, charred earth, devoid of a single blade of grass. Hundreds of rough stone tombstones jutted from the ground like broken teeth.
At that sight, Mirac's eyes flew open and he jolted upright. "But that's…!"
Yes, he was certain!
Back then Mirac had been only three years old, yet he still remembered clearly the agitated voices of the maids as they polished the silver at dawn: frightened voices talking about "a fire that fell from the sky," about "a roar that shook all of Ardorya," about "the catastrophe that struck the innocent."
That blackened, lifeless plain was all that remained of the tragedy from twelve years earlier…
Once, not far from Raerno, there had stood a small farming village. It wasn't famous for anything in particular, but among those houses there had been a serene atmosphere, the kind of place ideal for taking a break between one adventure and the next.
For some members of the Association, it had also been home—the village where they had grown up and where they occasionally returned to see their loved ones.
Under the wooden roofs that once brought the village to life, a certain quiet hung there, made of routines and familiar faces—a quiet that seemed destined to last forever.
But apparently, fate had other plans…
On an ordinary day, the unimaginable happened.
On the night of April 26, 1410, an inexplicable catastrophe struck the entire village.
A huge, sudden explosion swept away the whole rural area, obliterating houses, cultivated fields, and inevitably the people who were there at that moment…
The fury of the blast had reduced everything to ashes within a 200-meter radius.
And as with every disaster of that magnitude, there was not a single survivor from that tragedy…
The following day, the kingdom's best investigators were summoned to shed light on what had happened.
Upon arriving at the site, they found faint traces of Mana at the presumed point of ignition, but they were never able to trace the origin of the explosion.
Among the many theories that emerged, the most plausible—and widely accepted—was that of a terrorist attack orchestrated by a secret organization whose true target was supposed to have been Raerno and the destruction of the headquarters of the Intercontinental Association Against Dangers.
According to this hypothesis, part of the preparations for the attack had been carried out inside one of the village houses, used as a temporary and inconspicuous base. A mistake during the accumulation or handling of magical explosives had then caused a premature detonation that struck the entire settlement before the plan could be completed.
The suspicion that one or more families in the village had colluded with this hypothetical organization led to numerous interrogations. Anyone with ties to the village but who had not been present that night was summoned, in the hope of identifying connections, accomplices, or clues buried beneath the ashes.
However, no concrete evidence ever emerged. The leads proved inconsistent, the testimonies fragmentary, and every attempt at reconstruction ultimately dissolved into nothing.
With no more trails to follow, the World Government officially closed the investigation, leaving the matter forever shrouded in unsolved mystery.
Confused and grieving, with no culprit on whom to vent their anger, the people simply commemorated the dead, erecting a tombstone for each victim in the place of the disaster—even though there were no bodies to bury.
Since then, that night has been remembered as the "Red Night," in memory of the glow that lit up the sky during the explosion.
News of the disaster spread like wildfire, to the point that now there was no living soul on the entire continent unaware of that tragedy.
So when the so-called "Black Plain" appeared on the horizon, a respectful silence fell over the cart.
Even Joren stopped drumming his fingers on the hilt of his sword, as if the gesture could pay homage to the innocents who perished that night.
While that reverent quiet enveloped them, Mirac noticed Blake's tense body.
The boy sat rigidly, his right leg trembling uncontrollably. He tried to stop it by pressing down on it with his hand, but the shaking wouldn't stop. His face was pale, his eyes fixed on the Black Plain.
Concerned, Mirac leaned slightly toward him.
"Everything okay?" the masked boy whispered.
Blake started, as if suddenly waking from a lucid dream.
"Oh! Y-Yeah, yeah… Everything's fine…" he replied after a moment too long, his voice cracking.
Mirac understood that he was lying, but, as always, chose not to press the issue.
'Maybe someone he knew was caught up in that tragedy…' Mirac thought to himself, lost in his own reflections.
After that, he slowly turned his gaze away from the Black Plain, but the knot in his stomach remained—just as it did for everyone else, really…
* * *
About twenty minutes later, the iron-rimmed wooden wheels settled into two stony ruts, and the cart came to a halt with one final creak.
"We're here," the driver announced in the hoarse voice of someone who rarely speaks.
One by one, the members of the so-called "Carameo Squad" stepped down onto the uneven ground.
The air that enveloped them was cooler and less dusty than the city air: it smelled of resin and damp stone.
There was also a faint, distant note of burning wood—perhaps a fireplace lit in some hidden cabin among the trees.
After Carmen, Blake, and Mirac, it was Aisha's turn to descend.
The young healer carefully rested her staff on the step, but her gaze drifted for a second to the breathtaking view.
As soon as you stepped down from the back of the cart, a natural rocky balcony opened before you, overlooking the basin below. A forest of firs and larches stretched out like a dark green carpet dotted with coppery glints from the sun. Further on, the jagged mountain ridges stood out sharply against a deep blue sky.
It was one of those views that steals your breath and, for a moment, makes you forget even where you're putting your feet.
Precisely for that reason, Aisha got distracted, misplacing her foot on the step and inevitably losing her balance.
The staff slipped from her grasp, and her body pitched dangerously forward.
'Damn it!' the girl thought, but she didn't even have time to cry out.
She was about to tumble face-first onto the gravel when Mirac intervened just in time to save her: with the instinct of someone always alert, he took a quick step and caught her around the waist with his single arm, stopping her mid-fall.
Aisha found herself bent forward, her black hair falling across her forehead, her blue eyes wide with fright.
In that position, her cheek pressed right against Mirac's chest. And there, through the fabric, she could feel his heart beating: slow, steady, almost drowsy.
"O-Oh, um… Th-Thank you…" she stammered, blushing with embarrassment.
Mirac didn't answer right away.
He held her suspended for another second—just long enough to make sure she had regained her balance—then released his grip with an almost deliberate gentleness, as if he were afraid he had already held her too long.
"You're welcome," he finally replied, letting her go slowly.
Aisha straightened up, tucking a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear, and stepped back, flustered—eyes downcast and cheeks still flushed.
Meanwhile Blake, who had witnessed the entire scene, gave Mirac a thumbs-up and a mischievous grin: it was obvious that, in his mind, Mirac had just made quite an impression on the girl.
"Heh heh heh…" he chuckled to himself.
Mirac, however, immediately shot him a glare—one that would have been lethal if the mask hadn't rendered it completely invisible.
'Damn you, Blake! I already told you: it's not what you think!' Mirac protested inwardly.
Yet he said nothing out loud.
At least for this once, he preferred to swallow the retort pressing against his lips.
After all, having seen Blake so gloomy during the last stretch of the journey, he had no intention of wiping that warm smile off his friend's face.
So, with the same patience one shows when silently tolerating a childish whim, Mirac merely gave a slight shake of his head: a minimal movement, almost imperceptible, accompanied by a long, resigned sigh as he adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of the supplies he had personally prepared.
Then, together with Blake and Carmen, he walked toward the other team members, who were already gathering in front of the mine entrance.
As they advanced, their eyes slowly scanned the surroundings.
The open area in front looked like a small graveyard of carts: twelve of them lay abandoned but perfectly intact, with no visible signs of struggle or forced entry.
Mirac slowed his pace, almost as if wanting to etch every detail into his memory, before finally joining the group already lined up at the entrance.
The Carameo Mine opened like a monstrous mouth in the rocky wall of the mountain: an arch at least fifteen meters high and twice as wide, carved into living stone and reinforced by blackened oak beams stained by the smoke of torches.
Rusted steel rails ran along the ground, sliding into the darkness of the cave.
"There's not a living soul here…" Morwen grunted to herself, the hammer swaying gently in her right hand, the veins on her tattooed arms pulsing faintly.
Beside the burly woman, Brann let out a low, deep grunt, running a calloused hand over his shaved head. "Yeah… Where the hell did everybody go?"
The same question hung in the minds of the entire team.
Zoltan, however, didn't linger on the square.
He descended slowly, the feathered staff tapping the ground like a metronome.
He stopped a few steps from the entrance, the hood concealing almost his entire face.
He carefully peered into the darkness beyond the arch, but said nothing.
Joren, on the other hand, came down with his usual cocky swagger, as though the place itself ought to bow as he passed.
"Tsk! I hope I don't get dirty on this mission…" he hissed between his teeth, his gaze sliding contemptuously over the dust-covered carts.
When he reached the entrance, Mirac noticed, on the left side, a large, half-rotted wooden sign hanging from a chain, bearing the words:
"CARAMEO MINE – Property of the Raerno Merchants' Company"
The letters were slightly faded but still legible.
Mirac stared at them for a moment longer than necessary, his fingers tightening slightly around the hilt of his sword.
But it wasn't fear driving that gesture, no: it was simply the habit of someone who knows that apparent calm is often the prelude to chaos…
'I don't know why… but I have a bad feeling about this!'
Meanwhile, Dorran was the second-to-last to step down from the cart, landing on the gravel with a slow, controlled movement. After that, he set off to join the others, who were gathered in front of the mine entrance.
The enormous backpack on his shoulders—nearly two meters tall and one meter wide, held together by thick, reinforced leather straps—did not seem to weigh on him in the slightest.
Once he reached the group, he stopped in the center of the semicircle the team had formed, unfastened one of the side pockets, and pulled out a bundle of short torches, all wrapped in oiled cloth to protect them from the mountain's moisture.
They were simple but well designed: handles made of ash wood treated with moisture-resistant resin, and heads soaked in high-calorific resinous pitch.
But what truly made them special was the series of magical runes finely carved right at the tip, just beneath the head: sharp, geometric lines, so discreet that to an untrained eye they might appear to be mere decorations.
Thanks to those carvings, the torch could be lit in the traditional way—through natural combustion with flint and steel or by touching another flame—or by activating the Fire Runes, channeling one's own Mana into them.
After briefly reminding everyone of that detail, Dorran began handing out the torches to the group, one for each person.
Some team members fastened them to their belts, others clipped them to their personal gear in easily reachable positions, but no one lit their torch to use it.
This was because, as previously decided during the planning phase, the descent into the mine would rely on Shaman Zoltan and his spell "Shadow-Digging Eye," which would allow the group to see in the darkness even in areas without torches or lit only faintly by the ones fixed along the main tunnels.
Indeed, although some torches were already present, they only illuminated strategic points in the mine, leaving patches of shadow between them where dangerous details could lurk.
For this reason, they had chosen to rely on Zoltan's magic.
However, the spell "Shadow-Digging Eye" required a constant, slow, and relentless consumption of Mana, and no one could rule out the possibility that the magic might fail suddenly—whether due to some geomantic interference from the mine itself or simply an unexpected drop in his Mana reserves.
Whatever the cause, in that case the darkness would swallow them in an instant, leaving them disoriented and vulnerable.
To prevent such a scenario, Alvern had decided that every member of the team would carry a ready-to-use light source to be employed in case of emergency.
When the last torch was handed out, Dorran hoisted the enormous backpack back onto his shoulders.
The weight was so great that the ground seemed to sink a few millimeters under his feet. Yet he showed not the slightest sign of strain, merely adjusting the straps more comfortably.
After being the last to descend, team leader Alvern looked around, his gaze slowly sweeping over the wagons, the rails, and the surrounding environment in general.
"It looks like an abandoned place…" he murmured to himself, his voice low but clear enough for everyone to hear.
The silence that followed weighed more heavily than the mountain itself.
He turned toward the driver, who was still gripping the reins tightly between his fingers.
"Head down the path and go back about half a kilometer. Then hide among the trees with the wagon and wait for us there. If we don't reach you before sunset, return to Raerno and report immediately to the Association."
The man nodded without a word. He turned the horses and the wagon rolled away with a creaking sound, soon swallowed by dust and trees.
At that point, Alvern turned back to the team, already lined up in front of the entrance.
He positioned himself in front of everyone, the double-headed axe resting casually on his right shoulder, though his fingers gripped the handle firmly.
"Zoltan…" he said, without raising his voice.
The Shaman took one step forward.
His lips barely moved, a hoarse whisper that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him. An unnatural shadow gathered around his eyes, as though the darkness beneath his hood had climbed up through his veins to his face.
For an instant, to the eyes of the entire team, the world seemed to fade. Every hue withdrew: the green of the lichens, the dirty red of rust, the washed-out blue of the sky above the clearing—all vanished, leaving only a flat gray, a lifeless black and white.
Then, just as abruptly, the colors returned, and the outlines of the entrance, the beams, and the rails emerged sharp and clear inside the cavern even where no light reached.
'So this is the spell "Shadow-Digging Eye"?' was the thought that crossed everyone's mind.
Alvern let the silence settle among them for another moment. Then, in an authoritative tone, he said:
"Eyes open. From this moment on, we stay alert."
Without another word, he took a step across the threshold carved into the rock and entered the cave.
And one after another, without hesitation but with hearts beating harder than they cared to admit, the members of the team followed him into the Carameo Mine.