“What the fuck?” she said, legs giving out beneath her.
Julian leapt forward to catch her. He was warm and dryer than her—above the knees anyway, which were currently submerged—his upper body speckled with rain but otherwise untouched by the spring… until Wren dripped all over him. He didn’t seem to mind.
Remembering that the undead were ranged all around, she threw a wary look over her shoulder.
“They didn’t follow,” Julian said softly, gaze roving the shoreline. “They can’t.”
He said the words as if he needed to hear them himself, as if he needed the reminder. There were so many now, lining both sides of the hot spring, like a hundred flickering candles.
“But you did.” Wren didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but it seemed every conversation between them brought out that challenging tone in her.
“I… yes.”
“You didn’t fall.” It was a statement, not a question. She pulled back to give him a proper once-over. His hair was still perfectly combed back from his forehead, and as she’d already noted, his armor and clothes were mostly dry.
“No,” Julian said. “I swung myself across as fast as I dared and found an old mining shaft. It got me down here in a hurry.”
Laughter bubbled out of Wren’s throat as she imagined the state of the mining shaft and the dark, sightless descent he must have taken. “I bet it did.”
Rather than coaxing a smile out of him, as she’d hoped, Wren’s words caused Julian’s expression to become troubled. Was she talking nonsense? She didn’t think so. Then again, he didn’t know her that well… Wren often talked nonsense. Another shiver racked her body, and her teeth chattered.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked, reaching a tentative hand to her temple. Wren closed her eyes, and when she opened them, there was blood glistening on his gloved fingertips. It brought her back to the last time she had fallen, in the crevasse near the Wall. He had accused her of thinking herself perfect, then presented the blood as proof that was untrue. Why did she think of the memory with fondness?
She had followed him that time, but it had not been on purpose. But here… now… he had come back for her. Chosen to, when he could have kept walking.
Why?
“Come on,” he murmured, slipping an arm around her shoulders, the other drawing her bone sword from his belt and holding it out before them. Wren recalled she had yet to recover her own and tried to look back for it, but Julian urged her forward.
The farther they moved through the water, the more the world around them began to change. The spring narrowed, bringing the shore nearer on both sides… but it was no longer rocky beaches backed by soaring cliffs.
There were buildings—or the wreckage of them, anyway—and other signs of civilization, like crumbling staircases and broken pieces of pottery. The structures rose from the spring on high foundations, as if designed around the flow of the water, though some were almost entirely submerged, suggesting the water levels had changed over time.
These weren’t Dominion ruins—towns that had succumbed to the Breach. No, these were much, much older, their style like nothing Wren had ever seen before, and she knew immediately what they must be.
Ghostsmith ruins.
This was the lost necropolis, the source of all the revenants roaming their lands. The source of the deep-rooted magic that reanimated them.
Magic that apparently continued to spill forth to this day, reanimating fresh corpses and potentially giving them the new abilities Wren had witnessed, like speech. Potentially giving Locke new abilities.
To actually lay eyes upon the city… to see it before her… Wren was overwhelmed.
And confused.
She recalled the view from the watchtower, when Julian had pointed out the mines. The Oreton mine had looked so close to the Breach, it had seemed obvious that mining there had caused the problem. But now, from within the Breach itself, she could see no evidence of it.
She looked back the way they had come.
“You said you came down here through the mine?”
“Not exactly. Oreton is on the eastern side of the Breach, and since it was supposed to have caused all this, I assumed there’d be a way down and through. There was, but it was a path that splintered off the main shaft, heading in this direction. It was narrow and steep… meandering almost…” He trailed off. Frowned. “It looked stonesmith made, like most mining shafts, but this definitely wasn’t for mining. It was like someone was trying to find a way here. To this.”
“You think someone was looking for this lost city? That they meant to disturb all these undead and cause the Breach?”
“I don’t know. Surely whoever did died with everyone else, so what would be the point?” Still, he looked troubled.
Wren couldn’t blame him. It was shocking to consider that the Breach hadn’t been an accident. That it might not have been from overmining at all. That it might have happened on purpose.
But who would do that? And why?
As they continued toward the ruined buildings, the undead that clustered around its edges petered off, unable to cross the water.
Despite this, the ever-present mist lingered. Some of it was green, or tinged that color when the undead were around, but most of it was not. Without them, it was as pale as moonlight, growing brighter the closer they got to the ruins. Was it…？ Could it be magic? Visible when they were so deep underground and close to the source? She thought of Odile’s words, but nothing about it seemed evil or sinister. Wren passed a hand through it but felt no different.
Julian released her to approach a mostly intact structure. It was made of native stone, like all the others, seemingly carved directly from the ground. This wasn’t stonesmith work, however. It had undoubtedly been chiseled and carved by hand.
Undead hands? That’s what the ironsmith historians had believed, according to Julian. She examined the soaring buildings and darkened tunnels, disappearing in all directions like an ant colony. She tried to imagine revenant builders. Revenant servants and guards.
She’d always been taught that the undead didn’t create. They didn’t use weapons or instruments or tools.
But maybe they could, if someone ordered them to.
Before coming to the Haunted Territory, she’d never have thought such a thing was possible, but after the past few days… it seemed not only possible but entirely likely.
Julian glanced over his shoulder, waiting for her to give him the go-ahead. Despite her mind being a bit foggy, her senses felt sharp.
“It’s clear,” she told him, and he nodded, accepting her words as he ducked beneath the low doorway.
The entrance was deeply submerged, causing the water to rise to Julian’s chest as he passed through. He lifted his satchel to keep it dry, and Wren thought longingly of her own, somewhere deep in the spring.
She followed, finding that only half the room beyond was filled with water. There was a second-floor garret, open to them and high enough to be untouched by the spring, with a set of steps emerging from the water, giving them fairly easy access. The walls were solid, the roof intact, and with water lapping on all sides, they’d be safe from the undead.
Julian mounted the stairs, then turned to help Wren. Her shaky legs were evident again as she climbed from the water, but she forced them to cooperate. She would be damned if he had to carry her.