“For the record,” Amara said as we weaved through thick jungle vegetation scaling a treacherously steep slope to the west of Yunnam, “I am not happy to be doing this. You”—she shot me a frosty look through the slits in her bone-mask—“may have passed the initiation ordeal, but I still don’t enjoy being a babysitter. Like some common forest guide.”

“Glad to see you’re bringing your positive outlook with us on the trip,” Cutter replied, in between labored wheezing.

“This from the man who oozes sarcasm and scorn like an infested wound,” she snapped, glaring at him. There was certainly no love lost there. As long as they kept it to bickering and didn’t stab each other, I could handle it.

“So what’s the deal with this Nangkri Dynasty your father mentioned?” I asked, sidestepping a mucky pool of brown water, then clambering over a downed tree, covered in fuzzy moss and riddled with brown-capped fungi. It reminded me a bit of the Moss Hag, actually.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked sharply, a hint of warning in the words.

I’d been hoping to steer things back onto more friendly—or at least neutral—ground, but apparently, I’d hit some sort of sore spot. Either that, or this was just the way Amara responded to every question. Hard to tell with her at this point. “Curiosity?” I finally replied with a shrug. “Just seems like something interesting to talk about while we walk.” Plus, I was savvy enough as a gamer to know there was likely a quest chain tied to something like that.

She sniffed in disapproval and looked away, resuming her restless scan of the land, eyes never ceasing their search. “Instead of your chit-chat,” she replied, “maybe you should practice the art of silence. You make enough noise to alert every potential enemy in the area of our presence. You are like a baby Troll, blundering through the forest without a care in the world.” She turned away and picked up the pace to a near-jog—a clip fast enough to ensure Cutter and I were too winded to talk anymore.

Eventually, the sloping hill began to level out and after a few twists, turns, and switchbacks to avoid some particularly difficult terrain—a sheer rock wall, a fetid pool studded with yellow reptilian eyes, a steep chasm that sliced into the earth—we crested the ascent and spotted what had to be the mine. Not far off was a small hillock of rough, moss-covered rock jutting up from a tangle of vines of trees. Even from where we were standing, it was easy to spot the deep fissure gouged into the rock face, leading back into the earth. I activated my player map and saw a location marker pop up on the screen: Ancient Darkshard Mine.

“You. Thief,” Amara said, as she drew a recurved bow of dark wood, carefully checked the string, then pulled an arrow from the quiver at her back. “Likely, there will be traps or wards. You will go first. To disarm any potential hazards and scout for enemies.”

“Woah, now,” Cutter replied, holding up his hands in protest. “That sorta sounds like a command, and last I checked, I don’t take orders from you.” He paused. Squinted. Eyes narrowed in defiance. “In point of fact, I don’t take orders from anyone, ever, not unless they’re dangling a fat bag of gold in front of my face. And me? I see no gold. Besides”—he folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow—“you’re a Huntress, which is basically a less-awesome Rogue, so I know you have Stealth and Trap Detection.”

“Yes,” she said, face deadpanned and unamused, “but if you perish, no one will miss you. If I perish, Grim Jack fails his mission.” A ghost of a smile seemed to touch the corners of her lips, self-satisfied by her wicked burn.

He shot a look back at me, indignant.

“She’s got a good point, Cutter,” I said. “Plus, I thought you’re the best thief in Eldgard, right? This seems like your thing.”

“For the sake of our friendship, Jack, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear you just question my thieving credentials. And as for you,” he said, rounding on Amara, “obviously, your feelings for me have addled your brain—my roughish good-looks sometimes have that effect on the fairer sex—so I’ll let your insult go. For now.”

I snorted and shook my head. He was delusional. “Oh, she’s definitely got some strong feelings for you, Cutter, but I think you might be misreading the situation. I’d say she’s fighting off an urge not to spear you through the guts and fed your corpse to the village pigs.”

Ignoring my jab completely, Cutter turned and set off, padding forward on silent feet. When he wanted to, the man could move like a ghost. I stole a sidelong glance at Amara—she was watching the thief with something that might’ve been begrudging respect plastered onto her face. That or nausea.

Cutter paused at the cave’s entrance, dropping to a knee as he ran fingers over the forest floor, probing the dirt and looking for some sign of a ward. After a moment, he stood and began to inspect the rock wall to the left, before moving on to the right. His fingers gently prodded and poked at the stone, examining every inch for traps. Satisfied with whatever he’d found, he dropped into Stealth, shadows reaching out to him—curling around him, blurring the lines of his body until he was little more than an indistinct blur. Then, in a blink, he was gone.

Disappeared into the yawning mouth of the ore shaft, cloaked in shadow.

“Is there anything I should know about these Void Terrors your dad mention?” I asked Amara as I crept toward the cave, slipping my war hammer from my belt.

“They are dangerous,” she offered tersely before heading into the entry, leaving me to trail behind.

“They’re dangerous,” I muttered as my sight adjusted to the gloomy interior. After a few seconds, my Night Eye ability kicked in and everything took on a spectral blue tinge.

Amara didn’t bother to drop into Stealth, so I caught sight of her easily enough even in the poor lighting. She did tread carefully, though. She had an arrow nocked and ready to loose at a moment’s notice and stared at every crevice and pocket of shadow as though it might potentially hold some deadly beast, just waiting to eat our faces. I gripped my warhammer a little more tightly, fidgeting nervously as I prepared to embrace the dark power of Umbra so I could hurl a ball of shadow at any potential foe.

The tunnel continued to dive steeply into the earth, a musky, damp smell growing in the air while darkness pressed in on me, sapping what little light trickled in from the cave opening. And maybe I was just catching a bit of Amara’s obvious paranoia, but it sure felt like we were being watched. The deeper in we went, the worse the sensation became, until I found myself constantly glancing over my shoulder, sure I’d see something preparing to pounce. Except, there was never anything there. Just jagged rock, dusty, barren ground, and endless darkness.

After what felt like a lifetime in the underground cavern, our muted footfalls finally interrupted by the subtle splat, splat, splat of dripping water. The tunnel leveled out and opened up into a small chamber with a pitiful waterfall—hardly more than the trickle of a leaky shower head—feeding into an equally pitiful stream. The stream, in turn, cut across the path before disappearing into a slim crevice in the tunnel wall, swallowed deeper into the earth. Cutter was on the opposite side of the stream, lounging against the wall, legs sprawled out, ankles crossed, while he fastidiously cleaned his nails with a dagger.

He held up his fingers, regarding his handiwork, before finally stowing the blade and turning his attention on us. “You sure oversold this place, Amara,” he said, while lazily gaining his feet. “They must’ve been relying solely on the creep factor to keep people away. Not a single trap. Not even a whiff of opposition—not that there’s anything to keep people away from. No branching pathways. No secret rooms. No treasure or loot.” He said that last bit like an accusation of high treason. “Just a whole lot of nothing. Other than that stupid plate on the floor.” He gestured at a metal disc, about the diameter of a large tree. “It’s not gold and doesn’t seem to have any sort of activation mechanism. Worthless.”

The disc was composed of a dull, pock-marked silver, covered with runes and glyphs, and set into the stone so it sat flush with the rest of the ground. Though Cutter insisted the disk was worthless, it made my stomach flutter just to look at: violet energy radiated from the thing in cold waves of power, calling to me. Beckoning me. Touch me, it seemed to whisper in the back of my head. The black hand print on my forearm—a gift from a dying Murk Shaman, who’d first set me on the path of the Dark Templar—began to throb with a dull chill.

There was a resonance, here. A familiarity.

“So, what do you expect us to do now?” Cutter asked Amara, accusation coating his words, as he planted hands on hips.

“You are a fool—” she began.

I held up my hand, cutting the argument short.

“Hold on,” I said, quietly. “There’s definitely something here.” I moved forward, shouldering past a disgruntled Cutter, before dropping to a knee at the edge of the circle. I bent over and ran my fingers along the metal, feeling the corroded surface, tracing along the strange lettering. As I did, the throbbing palm-print branded on my skin began to pulse in concert with the beating of my heart. After a few heartbeats, the icy chill in my arm became almost painful, sending frozen tendrils of power radiating through my body like a creeping fog.

Then, working on hazy intuition, I triggered my Shadow Stride ability.

A cloud of smoky black exploded out from me as normal, but instead of time crawling to a stand-still, the strange ring drew in the eruption of Umbra power. I stumbled back a step, landing on my ass as portal of dark, flickering purple sprang to life inside the confines of the metal ring. I quickly scrambled to me feet, never taking my eyes from the shimmering gateway into the unknown, as though something might charge out at any second.

“As I was saying,” Amara offered coolly, “you are a fool, Cutter. This disk may appear useless to one without a key. But we”—she strutted up and slapped a hand against my back—“have a key. Come. The Shadowverse lies beyond.”

I gulped, suddenly unsure I wanted to go through that gateway. “So, Cutter,” I finally said, “you’re our official scout and thief—wanna go first?”

He frowned and shook his head. “Yeah, naw. I’m good. This seems like your show, Grim Jack. Why don’t you lead the way, oh fearless one?”

I stole a glance at Amara. She shrugged, noncommittally. “It is your quest.”

I sighed, blew out my cheeks, then readjusted my grp. Finally, I stepped into the portal, cold power washing over me, as my stomach did summersaults.