The shadows around them deepened as they descended the worn stone steps. Apollo hung back, letting the others press ahead into the underground chamber that opened before them like a wound in the earth.
The air grew thick with incense and the press of too many bodies, the ceiling low enough that Thorin had to stoop slightly as they found places along the back wall.
Hundreds of cloaked figures crowded the space, their collective breath creating a fog that hung in the torchlight. At the center of the chamber stood a raised dais, upon which rested a wide stone vessel filled with water that reflected the torches with unnatural brightness.
Apollo leaned against the cool stone wall, watching the proceedings with detached interest. The gold in his veins remained quiet, neither warming nor responding to the ritual unfolding before them.
This wasn’t the first ceremony he’d witnessed in his long existence, nor would it be the last, though the others didn’t know that.
A hush fell over the crowd as a figure in elaborate robes erged from a side passage. The priest, for that was clearly what he was, wore a mask that reminded Apollo of the distorted effigies from the procession, only more refined, its features suggesting both man and fish in unsettling combination.
"What is this?" Nik whispered, leaning close enough that Apollo could sll the nervousness on him, sharp and acrid beneath his usual scent of leather and stolen perfus.
"So kind of offering," Apollo replied, keeping his voice low. "To what, I’m not certain yet."
The priest raised his arms, beginning a chant that echoed strangely in the chamber. The crowd joined in, their voices creating a dissonant harmony that set Apollo’s teeth on edge. The language was old, older than the city above them, its syllables twisted by generations of oral transmission into sothing barely recognizable.
As the chanting reached a crescendo, the priest stepped forward to the vessel. He extended his hands over the water, palms down, fingers splayed. His voice rose above the others, commanding rather than beseeching.
Then it happened.
A thin fla appeared in the priest’s right palm, not from a hidden chanism or sleight of hand, but manifesting directly from his flesh. It twisted into shape, coiling like a serpent before spreading to his other hand. Both palms now cupped fire that cast no shadow, its light unnaturally steady in the still air of the chamber.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd, reverent and awed. Beside Apollo, Thorin swore under his breath, the dwarf’s usual composure cracking at the display. On his other side, Renna’s knuckles whitened on her spear, her stance shifting subtly into one of combat readiness.
"That’s... impossible," Nik whispered, his voice barely audible over the renewed chanting.
Lyra narrowed her eyes, suspicion flaring in their green depths. "No. It’s sothing else. Trickery." Her hand drifted toward her knife, an unconscious gesture of self-protection.
Apollo, for once, felt nothing but boredom. He’d seen this before, countless tis, in countless variations, perford with varying degrees of skill. This particular demonstration was diocre at best.
"Not a trick," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Just crude."
The words fell into a montary lull in the chanting. Several nearby worshippers turned, their masked faces unreadable but their postures suggesting offense. Apollo didn’t care. The gold in his veins remained cool, unimpressed.
His companions turned to him as one, their expressions ranging from shock to suspicion to curiosity. Even Cale, usually so impassive, raised an eyebrow in silent question.
"What do you an, ’crude’?" Lyra demanded, her voice low but intense. "That man is holding fire in his bare hands."
Apollo sighed, feeling the weight of their stares. He’d said too much, revealed too much knowledge, again. The relic in his pack seed to pulse once, as if in anticipation.
"Fine," he relented, speaking quietly but firmly enough for all of them to hear. "Every living thing has an Aether Core, a crystalline structure ford at birth. It sits here." He tapped his sternum lightly. "The core gathers ambient aether, energy that suffuses the world around us."
The priest’s flas grew brighter as Apollo spoke, casting dancing shadows across the rapt faces of the crowd.
"With training," Apollo continued, "a person can draw from their core and channel it through the body, shaping it into heat, light, motion, whatever they need. What you’re seeing is basic Evocation. The fire priest is using his own life-energy, filtered through the core, and directing it outward."
Nik’s eyes widened with fascination, but Lyra’s narrowed further in suspicion.
"It’s inefficient," Apollo added, unable to keep the disdain from his voice. "Dangerous, too. Burns the body if pushed too far. This is why mortals age faster when they practice. They spend themselves for power."
He fell silent, aware he’d said more than he intended. The others stared at him, processing this revelation. The ceremony continued before them, the priest now lowering the flas to touch the surface of the water, which began to steam and bubble.
Thorin was the first to speak, his gruff voice barely audible over the chanting.
"Dwarves have tales," he muttered, tugging at his beard. "Stone hearts, they called them. Crystals in the chest that glowed when a master craftsman worked. Always thought it was just stories ant to inspire the apprentices. Never believed it was real."
Nik leaned forward eagerly. "Could I learn it? To do what he’s doing?"
Apollo glanced at him, asuring the young man’s potential with a single look. "If your core is strong enough. Most aren’t."
Lyra’s expression had gone cold and calculating. "So this city has trained mages," she said, her tone flat. "That complicates things."
Renna just looked uneasy, her grip still tight on her spear. "Playing with fire like that... it feels wrong."
The relic chose that mont to make its presence known, its voice sliding into Apollo’s mind with practiced malice.
"Listen to you," it chuckled, the sound like stones grinding together. "Pretending you’re a teacher now. Explaining scraps of what you hoarded for centuries."
Apollo kept his expression neutral, though the barb struck deeper than he cared to admit.
"Careful, golden-boy," the relic continued. "Teach them too much, and they might not need you at all."
Apollo ignored it outwardly, but inside, he felt the sting of truth. The relic had a talent for finding the exact fear that would hurt most, in this case, the growing realization that his companions valued him primarily for his knowledge, not for himself. Knowledge that, piece by piece, he was giving away.
’They’ll never know what I was,’ he thought, watching the priest’s display with renewed bitterness. ’Only what I know.’
Before them, the priest’s flas roared higher, bathing the chamber in orange glow. The chanting rose to match it, hundreds of voices rging into a single, pulsing sound.
The offerings, bundles of herbs, strips of cloth inscribed with prayers, small figurines carved from wood and bone, ignited as the priest passed his burning hands over them.
Smoke curled upward toward a narrow fissure in the ceiling, a black column spiraling into the darkness above.
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