Page 146 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

That didn’t help him build any theories.

If he’d known this task was going to involve sneaking all the way to the edge of the Eighth District, the damp air threatening another bout of rain any second, he may have offered to help Emmeline break into Rocarri’s office instead.

But Lola’s pleading eyes flashed through his mind, and he was a goner. He hated how she’d pulled away from him at that last moment.

His teeth ground as he descended a steep, narrow set of stairs between two buildings, plants drenched from the day’s rain sticking to one side. The stairwell led to a lower alley lit by foggy mystlights. He tugged his hood tighter around his face and followed Falliare’s exquisitely-cloaked form as he took the winding street down.

Desmond passed the occasional group of tavern or incense den goers, but the further they went, the scarcer they became. Finally, the Temple Master left the narrow streets and exited the city walls, walking through patches of Cypher trees.

This certainly wasn’t the same area Desmond had followed him to a few nights ago. A wide dirt-paved road led to a large stone structure in a rocky field. The sign at the head of the path read Quarry Lock.

“Arenothos’s bloody heart,” Desmond swore from his spot tucked beneath a cypher.

There was no mining in this part of the continent that Desmond knew of. Most was done in the Mystique Mountains due to the magical nature of the stone, but there were other significant locations, both on the continent and the Constellation Isles.

Desmond waited until the Temple Master disappeared inside the building to continue up the path. There was no shelter on the short dirt road, fields stretching wide on either side, and the moon lit him up like a beacon each time it blazed between the clouds. Patches of tall grass stretched toward the dense grey skies, their feathery tops rippling in the wind.

A chill rode down Desmond’s spine as he approached the building. The cracked stone was cold beneath his palms when he pressed his ear beside the door, but other than his own shallow breathing, he couldn’t hear a thing.

He tried to decide how Roremar would go about this. Reckless ways aside, he wasn’t dumb, which meant he doubted his friend would use this entrance to try to follow Falliare.

Desmond carefully trod along the circular exterior, doing his best to step on rocks rather than leave boot prints in the damp ground. Clouds shifted over the moon, obscuring his sight even more.

He kept his hearing trained on his surroundings—the natural breezes versus man-made shifts, seeking the distant drone of voices. Mentally preparing for the scent of blood and incense, the sight of another ritual.

About halfway around the side, Desmond realized the top of the round structure was sloping down.

No, not sloping⁠—

It had been cleaved apart. Large chunks were missing from what might’ve once been a complete building but was now in ruins. Light pooled over the jagged edges, eventually dropping low enough that Desmond could see right over the stone exterior.

“What in Aevollon’s realms?” Desmond whispered.

The floor descended into a large pit. The building he’d been approaching wasn’t even a building, but an exterior wall. Its three stories were walkways running between pulley systems, a few tents standing across from where he hid.

The earth below had been carved into steps, rubble and boulders strewn along the wide plateaus. If he had to guess based on the choppy nature, whatever had dug out that hole had acted first, then the steps had been built so men could climb down, though no one was here tonight.

Not a body in sight.

Pickaxes, wheelbarrows, and a host of other tools were abandoned around the pit, some hung on racks and others were tossed carelessly aside. On the other side of the wall Desmond peered over, a flame cast shadows against stone. It hissed and crackled, drowning out any noise from the tents across the way, but that had to be where Falliare was.

Which was a damn shame because he was sure Roremar would want to know whatever the Temple Master was talking about. Was there another ritual taking place in there?

Desmond waited, leaning as close to the wall as possible without slipping on the gravel beneath his boots, but he couldn’t see enough.

He eyed the tents, not seeing anyone moving within.

“Fates spare me.”

Pressing his palms against the ledge, he pushed himself up to get a better look.

“What in all the realms?” he whispered.

It wasn’t only a fire flickering in the corner. It was a forge unlike anything he’d ever seen. A large, elaborately carved archway that looked centuries old. Tall and wide enough for two or three men to stand beneath with inscriptions along the top, blurred by soot.

Desmond could only imagine the heat from the pathways of fire bubbling through it, actively spitting sparks and streaks of flame into the air. Sweat beaded along his neck at the thought. His head swam from an unexpected pressure, the world melting into watercolors.

As he watched, inky streaks wove through the rivulets of flame, but Desmond couldn’t see where they were deposited or what it was used for. All he could parse out was the familiar shining aurora rippling through the depths.