A boat. The man lay on his back on a deck, eyes shut, feeling his body sway with the sea. Only, the wave held – as if the water and boat themselves were frozen in time.

And the boat’s deck felt like stone.

He opened his eyes.

He was greeted by a void. A darkness from all directions, broken only by the insignificant, warm, flickering glow.

“You’re finally awake.”

A woman’s voice. He turned to look at her; indeed, she was holding a torch. He stood up, foot slipping slightly. Rocks tumbled down the slope he rested on and disappeared into the darkness past the light.

He looked to the ground, and saw destruction. Deep cracks lined every part of the once ornate stone floor; the surface was in waves, as if an ocean was simply fixed in place in the midst of a raging storm.

He tried to speak, but – nothing came. The woman called out again.

“Can you understand me?”

He nodded.

“Do you remember your name? You need to breathe to speak.”

He did, then opened his mouth. He paused, then slowly whispered:

“I can’t remember.”

“As expected.”

She placed down a large dish and filled it with the waterskin around her belt. The torch was then carefully put on the ground; the surface of the water became a makeshift mirror.

“Do you recognise yourself?”

He concentrated on his reflection. A bearded man with sunken eyes, long hair and with heavy wrinkles glared back.

“Mogren… I feel that’s who… the person behind this face. That must be my name.”

She picked up the torch.

“Interesting. Now, Mogren, you must follow.”

A diagram faded into the light as she walked away – it appeared to be a map.

Distant, she became the only bastion of light, if small, amongst the suffocating darkness. Her glow passed by a diagram, drawn in dust on a rock – a map, of sorts.

“Where am-” He breathed. “Where am I?”

“Ruins, underground. Several hundred feet below the surface, half of this below the next lowest human.”

“I don’t feel alone.”

“You would be correct. There is a reason I need a companion for this task.”

A wall appeared inside the glow, then an opening inside it – it felt out of place in contrast to the wall’s decorum, and the same could be said of its pieces on the floor.

The woman entered it, disappearing for a moment before bringing out a few small barrels. She took out several sets of these, setting them in neat piles around Mogren.

“You were not mistaken – the camp does indeed store explosive powder. Now, I need you to carry it for me. I would suggest being careful with them – if you drop one, you will be vaporised.”

“When was I correct?”

“Earlier. You have temporary amnesia.”

The many barrels fitted into his open arms – despite their appearance and cumulative volume, he found them to be incredibly light. He had little trouble maintaining a secure grip nor keeping balance.

“Here, I will need your assistance in placing these around some of the more fragile parts of the ruins. We will trace a path with this fuse, then light it from the surface.”

As she was carefully fixing one end of the string to rest in one of the many barrels still lying in the nook, he spoke.

“How did the cut on your arm come about?”

“A small fight. The person who made it is dead.”

“No, that one is a flesh wound. The other, bandaged one – I can smell the blood still dripping from it… old blood, this isn’t a fresh cut.”

“Yes, your sense of smell is as I would expect it to be. This one I inflicted myself – you need not know the reasons.”

“How much else need I not know?”

She stood up, picked up the torch and walked by him. The thick coil in her hands left behind a trail of fuse.

“Nothing I personally need to say. Your memories have everything, but it would be a terrible idea to rush the recovery.”

Making their way through another opening, they began their journey up a steep slope of a corridor. From the sparse light, he could see the walls were covered liberally in decorations – masterful artwork depicting the mundane, the not mundane and the very grandiose. Wheat, faces, battles, swords, funerals – all etched lovingly into the rock, then pierced by countless cracks and put to rest for an eternity.

“What happened here?”

She took one of his barrels and placed it in a corner, before sprinkling some of its contents to link it to the fuse.

“It collapsed. Or, to be precise, it was collapsed. If my research was correct, dwarves build in a system in their newer underground cities to destroy them in case of an emergency. I have heard it has much to do with artificial destruction of supports, which would seem accurate.”

While speaking, the woman set up another barrel.

“Why?”

“A threat from the depths.”

She took one more of his barrels.

“There is absolutely nothing about this ‘threat’ in any literature I have seen,” she continued, “other than the fear that it would bring ruin to the world. The extent of this fear can be seen in this very place.”

She finished the new powder trail. It neatly connected the explosive to the string acting as a detonator.

“Is there truly no other way? Can this threat only be destroyed by collapsing a… city?”

“Incorrect. It cannot be killed by collapsing a city, not to a significant extent. The best the dwarves hope for is to plug the depths to hold off their offensive.”

She paused, another barrel in hand.

“The survivors of the collapse are still here, underground. It is difficult to not feel their very presence, after all.”

She placed it down.

“Our goal, however, is to ensure they stay underground.”