Sergeant Doferty was an old warhorse in every sense of the word. Age had bent him slightly at the shoulders and silvered his hair, but nothing had managed to dull the iron steadiness in his eyes.

  He had been a soldier once in the imperial legion.

  For his years of service, he’d been granted a modest allotment of land, like so many veterans. Unlike most, he’d sold it without sentiment, packed his kit, and returned to the city of his birth, Hagian.

  The city had grown explosively since he was a boy, expanding outward at a fervent, almost unruly pace. Districts that had once been fields, gardens, or scattered hamlets were now dense with tenements, workshops, and market streets that never seemed to sleep.

  The current city walls had been built twenty years earlier, thrown up in haste when it became clear the old fortifications no longer even came close to containing the city’s sprawl.

  Even now, neighborhoods pressed right up against the stone, and some had already begun to creep beyond it again, as if the city itself refused to be contained.

  Getting a position in the city guard had been easy for a veteran like Doferty.

  The watch was always short on bodies, and even shorter on men who knew how to hold a line, read a battlefield, or keep their heads when steel came out. His scars and calloused hands had spoken louder than any recommendation ever could.

  Adventuring companies, standing armies, and the endless demands of the eastern frontier drained able-bodied fighters from the heart of the empire like water through a sieve.

  The result was a peculiar imbalance: a constant shortage of trained manpower, and yet too many people crowding the major cities, desperate for work that did not exist. Veterans like Doferty slipped easily into uniform, while unskilled laborers loitered in taverns and alleyways, waiting for opportunities that never quite came.

  Doferty’s uniform reflected that practical, unglamorous reality. He wore no heavy armor just a bright green long-sleeved shirt, the color marking him unmistakably as city guard, covered by a well-maintained breastplate polished more from habit than vanity.

  His trousers were dyed a dull maroon, the color faded unevenly with age and wear. On his head sat a tricorn hat, stiff-brimmed and old-fashioned, adorned with a single blue feather tucked neatly into the band which was his mark of rank.

  A thick, gray-streaked walrus mustache dominated his face and twitched slightly as he spoke.

  “So,” Doferty said, his voice gravelly but controlled, eyes sweeping over the group with the practiced efficiency of a man who had survived long enough to trust nothing at first glance, “you’re the adventurers assigned to the sewer detail,” he said his disgust rising as he didn't like adventures.

  On the eastern frontier adventures and soldiers often got into fights over watering holes and places of female company, leading to enmity between the two.

  His gaze lingered on the party, already judging them. If asked, Doferty would have commented that Kavisha stood too relaxed, too cocksure for someone about to descend into the sewers.

  Isadora unsettled him in a different way—too still, too composed. She was the sort of woman he expected to see on the other side of a cell door, not walking freely, and he was faintly surprised he hadn’t already encountered her in the jail below.

  His eyes paused a fraction of a second too long on Eleonora, whose armor and unblemished complexion practically announced fop to a man like him—fine steel worn by someone who had never needed it.

  But it was when his gaze slid to Lucien that his expression hardened for real. The faint curl of his lip vanished almost at once, smoothed away by discipline, but the feeling remained.

  Doferty hated orcs. To him, they were godless savages, barely kept in line by imperial law, and he privately believed that the First Empress’s only true failing had been not wiping them out entirely.

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  “Yes, we are,” Kavisha said brightly, offering a coquettish smile that might have softened a lesser man. “And thrilled to be of service.”

  Doferty snorted. “Thrilled,” he echoed flatly. “Good. You’ll need enthusiasm. Courage would be better, but enthusiasm’s cheaper,” he said, disdain evident in his tone.

  Eleonora opened her mouth, then hesitated, glancing at Isadora as if weighing whether speaking would make things worse. However, she noticed Doferty’s look and was suddenly reminded of the dwarf. She then ducked behind Isadora, who instantly put Doferty on her list.

  “Listen carefully,” he continued, already half turning away. “This isn’t a glory crawl. You are here to scout the tunnels and kill any monsters you see, so don't go doing anything stupid becuase we will not save you.”

  Lucien crossed his arms and sighed. “We’ve handled worse than sewers,” he said quietly.

  Though he was loud enough that Doferty’s eyes flicked back to him, cold and assessing. “Have you,” he said. “Funny thing about monsters underground, some of them look a lot like they belong there.”

  Lucien shot Kavisha a warning look as her fist began to clench, then he chuckled lightly. “We’ll behave sergeant.”

  “Hmph.” Doferty turned fully and gestured sharply toward a guarded door. “Follow me. And try not to touch anything.”

  A pair of guards swung the door open, revealing a narrow stone stairwell spiraling down into darkness. Doferty took the lead without another word, boots striking stone with steady confidence.

  As they descended, the air grew cooler and heavier, damp enough to cling to the skin. A faint metallic tang mixed with the distant, constant echo of running water. Torchlight flickered along the walls, throwing long, warped shadows that stretched and twisted with every step.

  Eleonora slowed despite herself, eyes darting as she took in the close stone, the low ceiling, the oppressive sense of being buried alive. “It’s… much deeper than I expected,” she murmured.

  Doferty didn’t seem to hear her nor did he slow down. Isadora shifted subtly closer to Eleonora, trying to use her presence to settle her ward. Eleonora noticed and relaxed a fraction, steadying her breathing.

  The stairwell bent again, plunging deeper, until the sounds of the city above were nothing but a memory.

  It was then at last, the stairwell opened into the basement.

  Calling it a basement felt like an insult.

  The chamber was enormous, standing three stories tall, though there was no true second floor.

  Instead, a broad U-shaped balcony ran along the walls at the third-story height, overlooking a vast square room below. Stone pillars reinforced the corners, and engraved runes glimmered faintly in the torchlight.

  At the center of the far wall stood the gate.

  It was a massive thing, made of thick iron, its surface covered in layers of etched runes that pulsed softly with restrained power. Heavy chains and locking mechanisms ran through the wall itself, all of them controlled from the upper balcony.

  From the third floor, the gate could be raised or sealed completely.

  Near it, set into a stone pedestal was the crystal array, which was faceted and carefully aligned to sync with the runes. Doferty gestured toward it with his chin.

  “That’s the signal crystal,” he said. “Anything on the other side that needs the gate opened again channels mana through it. It lights up and we hear the tone. Once we do, we'll decide whether it’s worth opening.”

  He paused, then added flatly, “Most of the time, it isn’t.”

  Along the balcony railings, ballistae had already been positioned and manned, their thick bolts resting in place, aimed directly at the gate. Guards stood beside them, hands steady, expressions grim.

  Between the siege weapons were archers with bows strung and ready, arrows nocked but not yet drawn.

  Sergeant Doferty stopped and turned to face them, eyes settling on Lucien.

  “Uncle,” he said, nodding once. “Can you support my men when we open the gate?”

  Lucien blinked, then nodded. “I can do that,” he replied evenly, voice calm despite the tension in the room.

  Kavisha felt her jaw tighten.

  She kept her face carefully neutral, but irritation burned beneath the surface. Uncle was an insult to her friend.

  Lucien should have been called sir mage, or at the very least magus. Instead, because he was an orc, he got a term that hovered somewhere between dismissive and condescending.

  Better than boy, she supposed. But not by much.

  Doferty didn’t seem to notice or if he did, he didn’t care.

  “All right,” the sergeant said, raising his voice slightly so it carried across the chamber. “Positions everyone!”

  Guards snapped to attention. Hands tightened on levers. The ballista crews adjusted their aim one final time.

  Doherty placed one hand on the control mechanism, the other resting casually on the pommel of his sword.

  “Gate team,” he called out, “prepare to open.”

  The runes on the massive door began to glow brighter, humming low and deep, like a beast stirring in its sleep.

  Doferty glanced back at the adventurers one last time.

  “Stay sharp,” he said. “Once this opens, anything could come out.”

  The party nodded as he gave the order.

  “Open the gate.”