Chapter 7 | Part 2

“Wyrmreach.”

Drusniel knew the name. Every drow did. The prison realm. The land of exile. The place beyond the barrier that separated the mortal world from something older and more dangerous. Children were told stories about Wyrmreach to keep them obedient. Adults used it as a curse.

“You want me to go there?” He stared at Zaelar. “Now?”

“Revenge requires power.” Zaelar settled into his chair, seemingly untroubled by the chaos around them. Broken glass crunched under his feet. Papers scattered across the floor. But his attention was entirely focused on Drusniel. “Wyrmreach has power that Umbra’kor forbids. Power that House Vrinn cannot match, cannot defend against, cannot even comprehend.”

“It’s a death sentence. No one survives the crossing.”

“Almost no one.” Zaelar leaned forward. “The barrier exists to keep things in, not out. Criminals have been exiled there for centuries—thrown through the boundary with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Most die within hours. The Nightmare Sea claims them, or the things that live in those waters, or the land itself.” He paused. “But some survive. The strong ones. The clever ones. The ones with the right gifts.”

“And you think I have the right gifts.”

“I believe you do.” Zaelar’s voice carried conviction, if not quite certainty. “Your air and water affinity makes you uniquely suited for the passage. The crossing requires surviving what we call the Nightmare Sea. Most drow drown—their earth and fire affinities work against them in water. Most surface-dwellers freeze—they can’t sense the currents, can’t feel the pressure changes that warn of danger. But someone who can sense water presence, who can breathe when the air turns wrong…” He spread his hands. “Someone like you might not just survive. You might thrive.”

Might. The word hung in the air between them.

“Why are you telling me this?” Drusniel asked. “Why now?”

“Because before, you had a life to return to. Family. Possibility. I couldn’t ask you to risk everything for power you didn’t need.” Zaelar’s voice softened with something that sounded like regret. “But now? What do you have left to lose?”

Nothing. The answer was nothing.

“Even if I survive the crossing,” Drusniel said slowly, his analytical mind pushing through the grief to examine the proposition from every angle, “what then? Wyrmreach is a prison realm. Everyone who enters is trapped there forever. I’d be trading one death for another.”

“Not trapped. Training.” Zaelar rose and crossed to a locked cabinet—one of the few things in the study that remained undisturbed. “I have contacts in Wyrmreach. A mentor who trained me, decades ago, before I was exiled from Umbra’kor myself. His name is Szoravel.”

“Szoravel.” The name was unfamiliar.

“A master of forbidden magic. The kind the priests of Venemora would burn you for learning. The kind that doesn’t fit their neat categories of approved and disapproved.” Zaelar’s hands moved over the cabinet’s locks with practiced precision. “He agreed to take on a student with potential. Someone who could learn what he has to teach and carry that knowledge back to the mortal realms.”

“Carry it back?”

“The barrier works both ways. Hard to cross, yes—but not impossible. I made the journey once, in my youth.” Zaelar turned to face him. “The same passage that brought me into Wyrmreach might bring you out again—if you have the training, the resources, the knowledge. Szoravel can teach you what’s required. Whether you master it…” He spread his hands. “That depends on you.”

Drusniel’s fingers tapped against his thigh. Counting. Weighing. “How long will training take?”

“As long as you need. Months. Perhaps years. Time moves differently there—what feels like a season in Wyrmreach might be only weeks in the mortal world.” Zaelar smiled. “But when you return, you’ll have power House Vrinn has never imagined. Power to make them pay for what they did. Power to rebuild House Thel’varin—or to burn the entire drow political system to the ground, if that’s what you choose.”

The words resonated with something deep inside Drusniel. The void that had opened when he watched his father fall. The hollow space where his family used to be. This was what could fill it. This was what would make meaning from meaninglessness.

“Will Szoravel help me?” Drusniel asked. “Against Vrinn? Against everyone who did this?”

“Szoravel will teach you. What you do with that knowledge is your choice.” Zaelar smiled. “But I suspect, once you’ve mastered what he has to offer, House Vrinn won’t be a challenge at all. They’ll be a warm-up.”

Drusniel stood. His body ached. His mind reeled. But somewhere beneath the exhaustion, something was crystallizing. Purpose. Direction. A path forward through the wreckage of everything he’d known.

“I’ll go,” he said. “What do I need?”

“First, rest. A few hours at least—you’re no use to anyone dead on your feet.” Zaelar returned to the cabinet. “Then I’ll give you something that will help you survive the crossing. Something old. Precious.”

“What is it?”

Zaelar’s hand closed around something inside the cabinet. When he withdrew it, Drusniel caught a glimpse of metal, symbols, and a faint pulse of something that wasn’t quite light.

“Something that will make you invisible to the things that guard the barrier. But that explanation can wait until you’ve slept.” He gestured toward the stairs. “The upper chambers are intact. Use my bed. I’ll watch the approaches.”

Drusniel hesitated. Every instinct told him to push forward, to keep moving, to channel his grief into action before it could drown him.

But his legs trembled. His vision swam. He hadn’t slept in what felt like days.

“A few hours,” he agreed.

He climbed the stairs, leaving Zaelar alone with his hourglasses and his secrets.

Behind him, the old mage studied the artifact in his palm. The Null plate. Admin Phase II of a machine Drusniel couldn’t imagine. A weapon disguised as a tool.

The bait in a trap that had been closing for years.

End of Chapter 7.2 —> 7.3: The Package: The Artifact