The voices reached them before they saw the owners.
Kaelen heard them as a thin, wavering chorus pleading, praying, weeping carried on the dead wind that moved through the Grass Sea.
"Survivors," Kaelen murmured.
"Or bait," Lysander replied.
Kaelen moved forward anyway, daggers drawn, the grass parted.
The clearing was a circle of flattened brown blades, pressed down by bodies that had been sitting or cowering for hours. Seven figures in the grey robes of the Veiled Chorus huddled together, their backs against a low outcropping of black stone. Their faces were tear-streaked, pale, smeared with dirt and something darker that might have been dried blood.
One of them, a woman with a shaved head and a silver ring through her nose, looked up as Kaelen approached. Her eyes went wide, then wider, as she recognized him.
"Caelus Verant," she breathed. "You…you survived, I mean how are you here ."
"The same way you came in," Kaelen said. He did not lower his daggers.
The woman scrambled to her feet, her hands raised in supplication. Behind her, the other six cultists stirred, hope breaking across their faces like dawn over a battlefield.
"Please," she said. "Please, we were separated during the collapse. We don't know how to get out. The beasts, they keep coming, we've lost three already…" Her voice cracked. "Help us. In the name of the old compact, help us."
Kaelen tilted his head. Old compact?
The system flickered:
[Detected: Veiled Chorus Cultists (Human)]
[Status: Terrified. Unarmed. Low mana reserves.]
[Note: These individuals are responsible for the trafficking ring. They have spent approximately 1.2 million of your gold.]
Kaelen's smile spread slowly, sweetly, the smile that made him look like a saint
"Help you," he said. "Of course. I'd be happy to help you."
The woman's face flooded with relief. Behind her, a man began to weep loud, ugly sobs that echoed off the black stone.
"For a fee," Kaelen added.
The weeping stopped and the relief froze. The woman's hands lowered, inch by inch.
"We have nothing," she said. "The dungeon took everything. Our weapons, our supplies, our…"
"Three million gold coins," Kaelen said.
Silence. The dead yellow sky seemed to press down on them, heavy and expectant.
The smile though unchanged looked like a devil's.
"You're extorting us?" a man at the back sputtered. He was young, barely twenty, with a face that had probably been handsome before terror had carved it hollow. "We're going to die in here!"
Kaelen crouched down, bringing himself to eye level with the woman. His face was calm, pleasant, almost kind. But his eyes they were dead.
"You have a hidden vault," he said quietly. "Beneath the manor's east wing. Three million in raw gold, plus another million in uncut mana stones. You've been hoarding it for the Sleeping King's revival." He paused. "But the King isn't waking up, is he? The gate is a trap. You know it. So give me the gold, and I'll give you your lives."
The woman's jaw tightened. "And if we refuse?"
Kaelen straightened. He turned to Lysander, who had been standing in the grass, silent as a grave, his presence enough to make the cultists' skin crawl.
"Duke Lysander," the woman whispered. Her face went grey. "You're…you're with him?"
Kaelen frowned a little wondering why the woman just saw the duke.
Lysander did not smile. He simply looked at them with the absolute indifference of a man who had seen a thousand people like the ones before him.
Lysander said. "I am merely observing. Caelus is the one offering you a deal. I would advise you to take it."
The cultists exchanged desperate glances. The woman's hands shook.
"Three million is impossible," she said. "We don't have that liquid. The gold is tied up in…"
"The vault," Kaelen interrupted. "I know where it is. I know what's in it. You will write a letter of authorisation, witnessed by the Duke, and you will swear an oath on your mana that the gold will be delivered within seven days of our escape."
The woman stared at him. "You want us to swear?"
"In blood," Lysander said.
He produced a small knife from his coat plain, unadorned, but its edge caught the dead light in a way that made the cultists flinch. He held it out to Kaelen, hilt first.
Kaelen took it. He pressed the blade against his palm just enough to sting, just enough to draw a thin line of red. Then he offered the knife to the woman.
"Your turn," he said.
She hesitated. Behind her, the young man shook his head frantically. "Don't. Don't do it. A blood oath is-."
"I know what it is," the woman snapped. Her hand closed around the knife. She drew it across her own palm a deeper cut than Kaelen's, a deliberate wound that welled up dark and fast. Then she reached out.
Their hands clasped. Blood smeared between their fingers, warm and slick.
"I, Silvara of the Veiled Chorus, swear by my mana and my blood," she said, her voice trembling, "that three million gold coins shall be delivered to Caelus Verant within seven days of our escape from this dungeon. If I break this oath, may my channels collapse and my heart cease."
The air tightened. Kaelen felt pressure behind his eyes, a tug at his navel, a thread of something invisible and unbreakable spinning itself between their clasped hands. The system flickered:
[Blood Oath Formed: Cultist Silvara – Three Million Gold]
[Binding: Absolute. Breach results in immediate mana collapse and cardiac arrest.]
[Note: Oaths in this world are enforced by ambient mana. They cannot be broken by mortal will. They can only be transferred or fulfilled.]
Behind them, the young cultist burst into tears. "She's damned us," he wailed. "She's damned us all."
"Oh, shut up," Kaelen said. He was still smiling. "You're getting out alive, aren't you? That's more than you deserve."
He got three million, all he had to do was make sure this girl survived.
Lysander's lips twitched.