Seeker and Bright dragged the palisade into place, wedging it across the cave’s mouth. “That should hold,” Seeker said—but the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.
Seeker raised the Phial, its light spilling into the darkness. The ceiling arched high above him like the nave of some forgotten cathedral. Pillars of limestone loomed out of the shadows—natural yet shaped as if by purpose—some carved in the likeness of forgotten gods.
The floor was smooth—worn by centuries of passing feet—and somewhere in the darkness, a thin trickle of water echoed, steady and patient, like a clock marking eternity.
Along one wall, stone shelves jutted from the rock itself—half buried, half formed—lined with scrolls and codices, papyrus and parchment, even clay tablets impressed with ancient script. They bore the tongues of forgotten ages: Greek, Coptic, Aramaic—and others marked with runes no one alive could read. Dust lay thick on them, though not a single cobweb clung.
Seeker lifted a cracked volume from the shelf. “Odysseia,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across the faded letters. “Song of the Wanderer.”
“Who would’ve thought a giant could read?” Bright quipped.
“Like Daddy,” said Wonderful, her face bright with pride.
As they moved deeper into the cave, the walls came alive with bioluminescent moss, while threads of light filtered through cracks above. The air carried the soft fragrance of myrrh and old incense. Candles rested in shallow alcoves along the stone. Seeker struck his clasp-knife against flint, and one by one the flames flickered to life, filling the chamber with a steady glow.
On a stone arch was carved the words: Sapientia per lumen naturae. Beneath it, scrawled in a rough, trembling hand, were the words: Quaesivi veritatem et perdidi pacem.
On the far wall, a cracked relief of a human face was carved in stone—split clean down the middle. Beneath it, the words were etched: ΓΝΩΘΙ ΣΕΑΥΤΟΝ.
Bright pointed at it. “What’s that one say?”
“Know yourself,” Seeker answered quietly.
Merry darted ahead, panting with excitement, stopping every few steps to sniff this and that.
Along one wall stood an altar carved from black basalt—smooth and cold, its grooves worn deep where blood once ran. Symbols were etched along its sides: the sun, serpents, constellations. Scattered nearby lay ancient offering bowls, cracked and rimmed with soot.
“We can use it to cook.” He crouched beside it, gathering stones and kindling a small fire to chase away the cave’s chill.
–
Near the back of the cave lay a hollow in the cave—a vast depression worn smooth by Giant Pagan’s weight. Scattered around it were fragments: broken chains, rusted armor, splintered bones, and the remains of an idol. The rock still held a chill, as if it remembered him.
“I’m not sleeping there,” Beautiful exclaimed. Instead, she and Comfort began to unroll their bedrolls around the fire Seeker had lit on the altar.
***
Days passed, then weeks. Each morning Seeker pushed the palisade aside just enough to slip through and look outside. The heaps of corpses grew higher with each passing day, all bearing the same marks—Plague’s work. When it became clear they would be trapped longer than a few days, they began to ration their food, eating only what was necessary to endure.
Seeker spent his days poring over the books—those written in the tongues he knew, and those whose symbols taunted him with meaning just beyond reach. But the bruise on his forehead throbbed with a dull, relentless ache that clouded his thoughts. At times the pain blurred his vision, forcing him to lean against the wall, eyes closed, breathing through the dizziness until it passed.
At night his sleep was broken and thin, haunted by the treadwheel, by Giant Wrath, and by Charm’s deceit. He tried to still his thoughts, but the weight of the dead beyond the cave pressed against his heart, as though their silence reached even his dreams.
Months passed. Outside, the bodies no longer rose in heaps. Flies thickened in clouds over the decay, and the flesh wasted into bone. Inside, their rations dwindled day by day until at last there was nothing left—not a fragment, not a crumb.
Seeker stepped out of the cave as he did every day. The sun shone strangely bright through the gloom of the Valley, casting long, sharp shadows across the ground. In the distance, he saw a lone figure walking the Narrow Way, moving slowly through the haze.
“Hail!” Seeker called.
As the stranger drew nearer, Seeker saw the guarded way he moved—his eyes scanning the shadows, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“What news of Plague?” Seeker called.
The stranger’s shoulders eased, though his eyes were hollow. “Horrible, horrible,” he said. “Millions have died. In Coveting, the mayor refused to close the silver mine. ‘There is no Plague,’ he told them. ‘The King Himself has blessed our labor.’” The man gestured toward the bones. “And this is their reward.”
“We hid in the cave,” Seeker said quietly, “Too afraid to go on.”
The stranger smiled at Seeker. “Rest easy, my friend,” he said. “A band of true warriors rose up and struck Plague a mortal blow. They nearly finished him—but he escaped north into the lands of Doubting.”
Seeker and Good-Confidence—for so he introduced himself—spoke for some time. When at last Good-Confidence took his leave, Seeker wished him Godspeed and returned to the cave, eager to share the good news.
–
Seeker gathered his pack, adding to it a few of the books from the cave—for even in this place, there were fragments of truth to be found. Their provisions were gone, so there was little else to carry.
As they prepared to depart, Bright said, “I will return to the Valley of Humility.”
“No,” Beautiful replied softly but firmly. “Our way lies forward. We do not go back.”
“I will go back,” he insisted. “If any of the flock yet live, I’ll seek them—and tend their wounds.”
Beautiful pleaded with him, but it was no use. Seeker recognized that stubborn set of the jaw, that unyielding fire in his eyes—he’d seen both a thousand times before, in her. There was no arguing with it. Bright had made up his mind.
At the edge of the Narrow Way, Seeker drew Bright into an embrace and pressed the Phial into his hands.
“This will keep the fiends at bay,” he said softly. “Don’t linger—don’t stop for anything. The horrors of the Valley of the Shadow of Death are beyond words. The sooner you reach Humility, the safer you’ll be.”
“Bright,” Beautiful whispered, pulling him close and holding on as if she could keep him there by sheer will. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “My Bright…”
Bright eased back from the embrace. “It’s all right, Mama,” he said softly. “I’ll be fine.”
He turned and started down the Narrow Way toward the south—staff in one hand, the Phial raised in the other—his voice fading into the distance as he sang.
They watched until Bright’s light was swallowed by the darkness. Beautiful sank to her knees, her body shaking with sobs she could no longer hold back.
Wonderful knelt beside her and wrapped her arms around her mother. Her voice trembled but carried a quiet conviction. “Don’t cry, Mama,” she whispered. “Bright will be fine. He’s stronger than you think.”
–
Seeker, Beautiful, Wonderful, and Comfort turned northward, stepping carefully over bones and watching for hidden snares. They passed through a narrow gap in the mountains that bordered the Valley of the Shadow of Death and came out upon a gentle knoll. The air felt lighter here, touched with the scent of grass instead of decay. Above them, clouds drifted across a pale blue sky.
Seeker reached for Beautiful’s hand. Wonderful set Merry down gently, and he bounded forward, tail wagging, barking in the wind. Far ahead, the bright tents of Vanity Fair shimmered in the sunlight, their banners fluttering gaily in the breeze.