10,000 Years Too Late

Shen was awake, though that might not be the right word. He sat on the hideout's worn floor, hunched over a stack of diagrams and notes he'd sketched, as though sleep was an afterthought. Morning light found him there, bent low beside a flickering lantern. Not that the sun's rise brought him any relief; he'd spent nights like this for days—obsessed.

Riley came upon him, arms folded, gently clearing her throat. She'd noticed his pattern: pacing the halls, taking measurements along walls, whispering half-finished theories to himself about geometry and city layouts. This hideout, at first just a place to rest, had become something else for Shen: a puzzle begging to be solved.

"You've been up again all night," she said quietly.

He looked up, eyes rimmed with weariness, though a spark of curiosity still burned there. "Couldn't help it," he admitted. "Everything about the Undawild entrances in this district points to a deliberate pattern. I can't prove it, but it's—important."

She glanced at the scrawled lines on the paper. "And no one here knows why?"

He shook his head. "No one in Sveethlad can tell you how the Undawild came to be. The story goes that early miners dug down and found these tunnels. The same miners who vanished. Feels oddly close to our mission: we're looking for missing people underground. Like it's all repeating."

Riley crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. She saw the tension knotting his brow. "You'll drive yourself mad with that," she said, offering a soft grin. "You need sleep."

His gaze flicked to the notes again. "Just a few more questions. The statue of the One-Eyed Pilgrim, for instance—everyone says he led humanity out of some tunnel once. If that's true, maybe all of Sveethlad's people came from below. It sounds insane, but it might explain the arrangement of these entrances—like Stonehenge circles from back home." He paused, voice turning quieter. "But there's no mention of a religious or ritual tradition here. So either they forgot, or it was never theirs to begin with."

Riley understood. She patted the papers, then set a blanket over his shoulders. "I want to hear more. I do," she murmured, "but you're running on fumes, Shen. We head down into the Undawild soon—whatever time we have left to rest, we should use it."

He glanced at the window, seeing the morning's gray creeping in. "We still have a few hours?"

She nodded. "Enough to grab some sleep before we go."

The thought of bed made Shen's shoulders sag. He released a breath he'd been holding and closed his eyes. "All right," he said at last, letting the tension ease. "We'll see if the truth's down there anyway."

Riley rose, guiding him away from his scattered notes. They stepped over the creaking floorboards, back to a quiet corner where a makeshift mattress awaited. Shen settled, mind still pulsing with questions. Where did the sickness in Sveethlad originate? If these tunnels weren't built by the people above, who made them? And if the city's entire culture of healing and disease was rooted in some ancient unknown, could the answers lurk below?

Before he drifted off, he sensed Riley's presence, watchful and calm. He opened his mouth to say something else, but she just shook her head, smiling faintly. That was all it took for him to close his eyes, finally letting the day's weight pull him under. She stood by a moment longer, ensuring he was settled, then moved away to find her own place to rest.

A few hours, she thought, was better than none at all.

A couple of hours later, Shen stirred from his makeshift bed. He rose, rubbed the lingering drowsiness from his eyes, and saw that the others had begun gathering in the central room. They moved with a subdued energy—excitement for the mission tempered by an undertone of nerves.

Moira and Voss arrived soon after, accompanied by a lean, quiet fellow who carried a peculiar contraption on his back. Moira, as ever, came with a parcel of food, setting it down on a table in the corner.

"Eat lightly," Voss cautioned, gesturing at the simple fare. "Better to save the bulk of your rations for down below."

They obeyed, taking just enough to steel themselves for the day. In the meantime, Moira handed each of them an Ashen Lantern. One by one, they examined their lanterns, each connected to a specific device tailored to that person's role in the mission.

"Introduce yourself," Voss said, motioning at the lean man. He wore a harness strapped to his torso, a glass tank on his back that oozed cold vapor through snug metal valves. Food parcels and tonics were stored within it, sealed away from contamination.

The man offered a slight nod. "Argos," he said in a calm, level tone. "I'm your bagman."

Riley gave him a measuring look. "So you handle supplies, keep them chilled?"

He tapped the tank behind him with the tip of a gloved finger. "Yes. Also carry extra ash if we run low. Lantern's powering the refrigeration seals. Don't bump me too hard, or we'll both regret it."

Moira checked over his equipment, then turned to Angela. "Here's yours." She held up Angela's Ashen Lantern, connected by a braided wire to a pair of goggles with multiple lenses folded into the frame. "The Fisherman's Lens," she explained. "You'll adjust the range with that knob. You can switch between infrared, X-ray, or extra-clarity views."

Angela took the lens set in hand, a half-lidded curiosity in her eyes. "So I'm the scout," she mused.

Moira smiled. "Your sense of direction's solid, and we need someone who can see trouble before it sees us."

Angela nodded, collecting a few small bottles of healing tonics and a stash of crimson ash—rare, but apparently crucial. She also strapped a blade to her hip and tested the heft of a small pistol, satisfied with the loadout.

Surya busied himself checking a slim halberd made of stainless steel, tapping the blade against a stone floor to gauge its balance. His Ashen Lantern was wired to a compact defibrillator strapped along his forearm. He clicked it on, seeing a faint spark at the contact points.

"Defibrillator?" he asked.

Voss gave a short nod. "You might not need it, but if someone goes down, a quick jolt can pull them back from the brink—or rattle a Spectral at the right moment."

Shen listened in silence, retightening the cords on his own lantern and ensuring his notes were tucked securely in an inner pocket. He glanced at Argos's chilled tank, Angela's multi-lens goggles, Surya's crackling defibrillator. Each person had a specific tool, each tool powered by the glow of ashen light.

When everyone had finished adjusting gear, Voss stepped forward. "We descend soon. Eat, rest what minutes you can. Once we're down there, we'll rely on each other."

They filed out of the central room, half-nervous and half-eager, reminded yet again of the weight of this venture. The morning had only just begun, and already the air felt thick with expectancy. The Undawild beckoned just below their feet, waiting for them to prove they could survive whatever haunted paths lay ahead.