The Warrens were a living tomb.
Eryk Thorn crouched in the flickering blue light of the cavern's central fire, his fingers curled around the Null Grimoire as if it might vanish if he loosened his grip. The book pulsed against his chest, a second heartbeat in sync with his own. Around him, the last of the Spellbreakers watched with hollow eyes, their faces carved from hunger and time.
The old man—their leader—had called it a feast.
Eryk called it a nightmare.
The mage's corpse lay at his feet, gray and withered, his magic siphoned away drop by drop. The bone knife had done its work. The hunger had been fed.
And for the first time in his life, Eryk felt full.
It sickened him.
Sera stood apart from the circle, her knife still in her hand, her jaw clenched so tight he could see the muscle twitch. She hadn't spoken since the ritual. Hadn't looked at him. Not really. When their eyes met, hers skittered away like a rat from flame.
The old man—Veylin, he'd called himself—clapped a hand on Eryk's shoulder. His fingers were cold, his grip unyielding.
"You see now," Veylin murmured. "What you are. What you were meant to be."
Eryk swallowed. His throat was raw, his voice a rasp. "I didn't ask for this."
Veylin's smile was a knife-slash. "None of us did."
A murmur rippled through the cavern. The other Spellbreakers—dozens of them, gaunt and hollow-eyed—shifted in the shadows. Some clutched bone knives of their own. Others bore scars where their cores should have been. All of them watched Eryk with something between reverence and hunger.
"The Grimoire chose you," Veylin continued. "It remembers what we were. What we could be."
Eryk's fingers tightened around the book. "And what's that?"
Veylin leaned in, his breath reeking of old blood and older magic.
"The end of mages."
~○~
The tunnels beneath the Ashen District were a maze of half-collapsed passages and whispered warnings. Eryk moved through them like a ghost, Sera a silent shadow at his side. The Grimoire hummed against his chest, its presence was a constant, gnawing weight.
He didn't know where they were going.
All he knew was that he couldn't stay.
Not after what he'd done.
Not after what he'd felt.
The hunger was worse now. Sharper. It coiled in his gut like a serpent, restless and insatiable. Every step sent it writhing, every breath made it twist. He could still taste the mage's magic on his tongue—bright and burning, like sunlight filtered through glass.
It had been good.
And that was the worst part.
Sera stopped abruptly, her hand snapping out to bar his path. Her eyes were narrowed, her body taut as a bowstring.
"Wait."
Eryk froze on his stand.
The tunnel ahead was dark, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and blood.
Then he heard it.
The scrape of boots on stone. The rustle of cloth. The low, guttural mutter of voices.
"...said he came this way!"
"...got the Grimoire, gotta be worth something!"
"...kill the girl, take the book."
Sera's fingers curled around her knife. Her lips peeled back in a silent snarl.
Eryk didn't need to ask who they were.
The gangs of the Ashen District had long memories and longer knives. And now they'd caught the scent of something rare.
The Null Grimoire.
Sera mouthed a single word. "Run."
Eryk shook his head.
He was tired of running.
The first of the gang members rounded the corner—a hulking brute with a face like hammered iron and a cleaver in his fist. His eyes lit up when he saw Eryk, his grin splitting his face like a wound.
"Well, well. Look what we found."
More figures emerged from the shadows. Six. Seven. Too many. Their weapons gleamed in the dim light—knives, clubs, a rusted sword or two. All pointed at Eryk.
All hungry.
The leader—a wiry man with a scarred lip—stepped forward. "Hand over the book, Hollow Thorn. Maybe we let you walk away."
Eryk's fingers twitched. The Grimoire pulsed in response, its warmth seeping into his skin. The hunger stirred restlessly.
"Last chance," the man said, his voice slick with false cheer.
Eryk exhaled.
Then he pulled.
The world unraveled.
The air itself screamed as the Null Magic surged forth—a wave of darkness that devoured light, sound, and substance. It crashed into the gang like a tidal wave, swallowing their shouts, their weapons, and their flesh.
The leader had half a second to widen his eyes before the magic reached him. Then his skin grayed, his veins blackened, his body collapsing in on itself like a puppet with its strings cut.
The others fared no better.
One man raised his sword—only for the blade to crumble to rust in his hands. Another turned to flee, but the darkness licked at his heels, dragging him back. A woman screamed, a sound that cut off abruptly as her throat collapsed inward.
Eryk didn't stop. One reason is because he didn't know how to control it.
The magic was a living thing now, a beast unleashed. It tore through the tunnel, through the stone, through the very air around him. The walls trembled. The ceiling cracked. Dust rained down in thick, choking clouds.
CRACKKKKKKKK!
A section of the tunnel gave way.
The stone didn't fall. It vanished, dissolving into nothingness as the Null Magic consumed it. A yawning chasm opened in its wake, edges smooth as glass, as if the world had simply forgotten that space existed.
Sera grabbed Eryk's arm, her nails digging into his skin.
"Stop!" Sera shouted. "You're making it worse!"
Her voice snapped him back.
The magic recoiled, slithering back into the hollow place inside him. The hunger receded—but only just. Only for now.
The tunnel was silent.
The gang was gone.
Only the chasm remained, a gaping wound in reality.
Eryk's hands shook. His breath came in ragged gasps. The Grimoire felt heavier than ever, its weight dragging at his soul.
Sera stared at him, her eyes wide and her face pale.
"What the fuck was that?"
Eryk had no answer.
~○~
Aboveground, the Ashen District trembled.
The collapse had sent shockwaves through the earth. Buildings swayed. Windows shattered. The few people still on the streets stumbled, their faces twisted in confusion and fear.
None of them saw the figures emerging from the shadows.
Tall. Silent. Cloaked in black.
The Council's hounds had arrived.
At their head strode a woman with eyes like frozen mercury and a smile like a razor.
Magister Illyn of the Black Tongues.
She knelt, pressing her palm to the cobblestones. The ground still hummed with residual magic—a discordant, wrong sensation that made her teeth ache.
"Here," she murmured.
Her companions shifted, their hands drifting to their weapons.
"The Spellbreaker?" one asked.
Illyn's smile widened.
"Oh yes." She rose, brushing dust from her robes. "And he's hungry."
~○~
Eryk didn't know how long they ran.
The tunnels blurred together, a nightmare of twisting passages and dead ends. Sera led the way, her movements sharp with panic, and her breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
What was there to say?
The Grimoire pulsed against his chest, a constant, accusing weight. He could still feel the magic coiled inside him, restless and eager.
It wanted more.
He wanted more.
That was the truth of it. The horror of it.
The hunger wasn't just in the Grimoire.
It was in him.
Sera skidded to a halt, her hand snapping up. Ahead, the tunnel opened into a wider chamber—a crossroads of sorts, littered with debris and the remnants of old fires.
And standing in the center, waiting, was Veylin.
The old Spellbreaker's eyes gleamed in the dim light, his bone knife clutched in one gnarled hand.
"I wondered when you'd come," he said.
Sera's knife was out in an instant. "You set us up!"
Veylin chuckled.
"No. I tested you." His gaze slid to Eryk. "And you passed."
Eryk's fingers curled into fists. "Those people—"
"Were fodder." Veylin shrugged. "The Grimoire needed to feed. As did you."
The words struck like a blow.
Eryk took a step back. "I didn't—I didn't want that."
"Didn't you?" Veylin's smile was knowing. "I felt it, boy. The joy of it. The rightness!" He spread his arms. "This is what you are. What we all are. The end of magic. The doom of mages!"
Eryk shook his head. "No!"
Veylin's expression darkened. "Then you are a fool."
A sound echoed from the tunnels behind them—boots on stone, and the clatter of steel.
The Black Tongues.
They are now close.
Too close.
Veylin didn't flinch. "They're coming for you, boy. For the Grimoire. Will you run? Or will you... fight?"
Eryk's breath hitched.
The hunger stirred.
Sera grabbed his arm. "We need to go!"
For a heartbeat, Eryk hesitated.
Then he turned and ran.
~○~
The streets of the Ashen District were chaos.
People screamed, pointing at the sky, at the hole where a building had once stood. The edges of the unmade space were smooth, perfect, as if carved by some divine hand.
Magister Illyn stood at the precipice, her robes fluttering in the wind.
"Fascinating," she murmured.
One of her companions—a hulking man with a face like scarred leather—shifted uneasily. "What is this?"
Illyn's smile was razor-thin.
"The beginning," she said. "And the end."
She turned, her gaze sweeping the district.
"Find the Thorn boy. Bring me the Grimoire."
Her eyes gleamed.
"Before he learns what he's truly capable of."