Grae cast the same spell three more times, each time noting its effects. The first water bullet was weak, quivering in the air then collapsing into strings of water. The second was more defined, but still an odd, egg-like shape. By the third cast, Grae achieved a perfect sphere…

But each cast wore him to the bone.

Casting normally, Grae could conjure two bullets in rapid succession, and barely pause before casting again. For this method…

Casting a single time consumed vastly more mana. It left him on the edge of exhaustion, with several seconds to go before he could safely create another.

Clearly, this method was less efficient.

But Grae could see the writing in the stars now. From what little he'd uncovered tonight, he could theorize three separate forms of casting.

First was casting from nothing. Pure manipulation of mana to form a spell's framework; this was what Grae had accomplished, albeit only by observing and copying a spell cast through the second method. It was the most 'limitless' form. It required no tools, no crutches.

The second was casting via Stars and Constellations. It was the easiest way, in fact, it seemed to take no effort at all. The difficulty was, it was 'locked' behind the gift of Constellations and finding the right stars to form the spell you wanted. Even Grae could only cast two spells this way at once…

But he could use his Constellations to learn how a spell felt and functioned, then copy it with the first form.

Right now, Grae's first form water bullets were far weaker, slower to form, and less efficient than his second form castings. But that could change. Even with a little practice, the difference grew less pronounced…

Going by what he'd learned, spell-shapers were a combination of the first and second forms. They used Stars slotted into an artificial Constellation, but the bearer could combine those Stars into multiple combinations.

Finally, the third form.

The third form was to use his Constellations to create the base of a spell, then modify it on the fly. Grae had managed in the thick of battle to change his water bullet, killing the metal-skinned man by flooding his lungs, but now without the roaring adrenaline to block the voices out, he was unable to do so again.

But done properly, Grae imagined this was the strongest form for combat. Flexible and quick, powerful and efficient.

The only problem was…

The damn voices.

Whatever they were, they seemed to invade the moment he tried to draw mana from his surroundings, meaning he could only hold the spell for a few fleeting moments before it became a liability.

The voices…

Grae was certain they must have something to do with why the humans relied on spell-shapers. Either they interfered with human casting more harshly, or there was some root cause for both…

He shook his head. Something was wrong here.

Every part of magic felt natural, fluid, even beautiful. His will and his mind melded into a strong, flowing stream of power that shaped the world. But the voices were different. They were an intrusion, a violent force disrupting that flowing sensation. They brought disorder and chaos to the beauty of creation.

Grae found himself growing angry.

It was like discovering a flaw in a beautiful painting, or a sickening rot eating a tall tree from within.

Magic was injured; the voices flowed like blood from a wound he had yet to discover. It was yet another question that needed an answer. Who had done this, and why?

Lifting himself from his seat on a moss-covered stump, Grae returned to the camp. He found Oriole sleeping on a bed of leaves, as Sarcer sat over the fire prodding the embers with a stick. The kobolds sat together in the glow, Larktongue murmuring a story to Greenleaf.

It was a story told in a pidgin-mix of common and the kobold’s own native tongue, impenetrable to Grae. The only word he caught was ‘dragon’.

Sarcer smiled to himself, his teeth cracked and ruined. “We gonna kill the human, boss? Figger he’ll sell us out sooner or later. Only thing is, he’s workin’ up the courage for it.”

“If we have to.” Grae responded, slowly. In truth he didn’t see a way around it. When they reached the city, Oriole would be fast to run back to his father’s shadow. The story would come out soon after that.

If Grae wished to walk among the humans, he would have to be careful, stealthy, and prudent.

Letting Oriole warn them he was coming would be none of those.

“Tell me about this human city…”

“Tingate?” Sarcer sniffed. “It’s a city of oil-stink. They’re pullin’ a dungeon up by the roots, digging it free day’n day’out. Whole town is slavery, all the way through. Nobody but a slave would do what they do. Even the humans ain’t much better off’n us. And they feel the stink, the humiliation of doing slave-work, they feel it eating away at them, so they come down heavy’n hard on us to keep us knowin’ our place.”

“Pulling up a dungeon?”

“Digging it out of the earth, boss. Mining it.” He smiled his greasy smile. “T’ feed to other dungeons what made deals with ‘em.”

“I’m sorry. I came from… well, a long ways beneath the earth. You’ll have to begin from the beginning with me.” Grae explained. “Dungeons are cannibalizing each other?”

The thought made him sick.

“Yuh-hep. S'posed to be dying, the dungeons. Getting starved ‘n mean. So they feed on one another, chew each other up t’ keep going… Bad business, boss, bad business…”

Grae fell silent. He stared into the fire.

At every turn this world turned out to be sinking into itself. Humans fought monsters. Dungeons turned on one another.

His little dungeonhome, tired and quiet, may have been the last peaceful place on earth. Perhaps Heidrich’s farm had been another, carved out by bloodshed so that Lena could have a childhood. Yes…

“Is there anywhere we can go, after Tingate? Anywhere that still welcomes the dungeonborn?”

Sarcer made a short, sharp choking sound.

For a second Grae thought it was a laugh.

Then he turned, and saw the gleam of firelight reflecting on something metal between Sarcer’s teeth. The hobgoblin was choking, trying to swallow as blood filled his mouth. Laid over his tongue, sharp and edged and terrible, was the protruding head of an arrow.

He had been shot through the back of the skull.

Gurgling in blood and spit, Sarcer toppled onto the fire.