Mitch adjusted the weight of the Warden’s bound body over his naked shoulder. Sweat dripped from his brow as they trudged through the metal lined tunnels leading to the prison where the Abyssal monsters were held. Through his ever-persistent tendril, he felt Rex continuing his grim feast of the fallen in the Farm cavern. Their connection was distant but steady.

  Bugs swarmed across every available surface, trailing behind them in an eerie procession. They lined the ceiling, floor, and walls at Mitch’s command. The Warden groaned weakly, his muffled voice barely audible through the gag. Mitch ignored him.

  Sable walked beside him, her gaze fixed ahead. In her arms, she carried the unconscious form of a frail gnome, the tiny figure emaciated and trembling with the effort of holding onto life. His breath came in shallow gasps, his body on the brink of death. Sable’s grip on the gnome’s soul jar was firm. Her free hand wrapped protectively around it as the faint soul within flickered erratically. The tendril that connected to the gnome’s body was impossibly thin.

  They had chosen the gnome deliberately. His failing health marked him as an unfortunate but necessary subject for their grim experiments

  “We’re running out of time,” Sable said. Her mismatched eyes darted to Mitch. He nodded but didn’t respond. The prison loomed ahead, its oppressive heat intensifying with every step. They had opted to question the Warden in the relative isolation of the Abyssal prison, away from the eyes of the freed pod prisoners.

  Mook brought up the rear, trailing just behind Mitch and Sable. The small but wiry Abyssal monster bore an unsettling resemblance to a bear with demonic features. Sharp, angular claws, and a jagged maw that never seemed to fully close. His glowing, eager eyes darted about as he carried an empty soul jar cradled in his claws like a sacred artifact.

  Mook’s inclusion had not been Mitch’s choice. Varak had insisted they bring along the unbound creature she had freed from the prison. Her adamance had been impossible to refuse. “Good. Smart. Loyal. Know…soul magic. Help you,” she had said, pushing the shy creature, Mook, forward.

  Mitch had rolled his eyes at the time but relented. He glanced over his shoulder at the monster. “She practically threw you at us. Do you know your stuff, Mook?” Mitch asked, his voice laced with skepticism. The weight of everything, the prison, the jars holding souls, the Warden, was almost too much.

  To his surprise, Mook straightened, adjusting the jar in his claws with almost human precision. When he spoke, his voice was steady, rich, and unexpectedly articulate. Entirely unlike the jagged body he inhabited.

  “Do I know my stuff?” Mook said, mildly annoyed. “I wasn’t always…this,” he gestured at his twisted form. “Once, I fought against the Abyss. I was a scholar, a mage. A gentleman. My comrades thought they could outwit it and get rich. We failed. You think I was in Abyssal prison to be tortured and then killed for no good reason?”

  “How lucky to be to be within the first cycle. I endured centuries of imprisonment and recycling,” Galadrith said bitterly in Mitch’s mind.

  Mitch blinked, thrown by the eloquence. “You…kept your mind? You remember who you were? All of it?”

  Mook’s jagged mouth twitched into something resembling a grimace–or a smile. “Not everything,” he admitted, his claws tightening on the jar. “The recycling is not kind. Nor is the Abyss. What I do recall is fragments. I know I fought. I know I lost. And I know it didn’t kill me–not completely.”

  Sable’s eyes met the monsters. “Why would it keep you alive then? The Abyss doesn’t seem the type to leave loose ends.”

  Mook’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning bitter. “It doesn’t. I was recycled, Miss Patchling. Broken down. Then sent for torture. To die and then be remade again. Until it stuck, probably,” His claws tapped lightly against the jar, a steady rhythm like a twitch. “I suspect the Abyss wanted to reforge me into something useful for it.”

  Mitch frowned, his grip tightening on the Warden as they trudged forward. “But you held onto some of it. Your knowledge. Your mind.”

  Mook’s head dipped in a nod. “A sliver. My precious previous Skills must have anchored me somehow. I was obviously a genius. Yet it is a cruel irony–the very talents that damned me must have kept me sane enough to remember what I lost.”

  “And now?” Mitch asked. “What’s keeping you going? Why have you decided to help us?”

  “Spite,” Mook said simply. “If the Abyss made me to be a tool, then I shall be a broken one.”

  A dry laugh escaped Mitch. “Tell me about it, Mook,” he said, giving Sable a look. She gave him a questioning glance back.

  The Warden groaned softly, breaking the moment. His muffled protests grew louder as they rounded the corner. Mitch pulled the rusted metal door open.

  As it opened, the oppressive heat spilled out, suffocating and thick. The Abyssal creatures held captive caught sight of the Warden, and the air erupted with snarls and howls. Twisted forms lunged against the bars of their cages, claws raking the metal.

  The gnome in her arms stirred but didn’t wake, his fragile frame trembling even in unconsciousness.

  Without ceremony, Mitch slammed the door behind the bugs, and threw the Warden onto the rock floor. The bound man landed with a muffled grunt, his head bouncing against the hard surface.

  The creature’s howls grew louder. They slammed themselves against their enclosures, warped bodies trying to snake through. Mitch’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the reactions.

  “Even they hate him,” Sable said sharply. She crouched down, placing the gnome gently on the floor. The soul jar was placed right next to the dying gnome.

  Mook entered behind them, the heavy heat seeming to have no effect on him. He carried the other, empty jar with deliberate care as he set it near the thrashing Warden.

  The Warden flinched, his body twitching as the jar clinked against the floor. His muffled protests became more frantic.

  “Quiet,” Mitch ordered. He gestured to the swarm of bugs trailing and waiting behind them.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  With a silent command, the bugs moved, crawling across the Warden’s limbs. Chitters filled the room as they swarmed his face.

  Minions: Abyssal Mice: 4, Abyssal Fodder: 4, Abyssal Bugs: 423

  The Warden trashed violently, muffled screams locked behind the gag. Mitch pushed the bugs to bite down, hard, but not too dig deep.

  “Keep still, or they’ll dig deeper,” Mitch warned like ice. He crouched beside the Warden, feeling the burn of purpose.

  Time for some real answers.

  “You’re going to answer my questions. At the end, you will die. How you die is up to you. I can have these bugs eat you for days, or I can end it quickly,” he sucked his teeth. “The choice is yours.” The Warden’s frenzied eyes stayed locked on Mitch.

  Mitch reached over and tugged the gag out of the Warden’s mouth. The man gasped for air, coughing before stammering. “I’ll talk! Just–just keep them back!”

  Mitch gave a nod, and the bugs stilled but didn’t retreat. Their precedence remained, a reminder of Mitch’s control.

  “How do you know about the debt?” Mitch asked, not caring that Sable heard him.

  The sharp intake of breath from Sable beside him didn’t escape Mitch’s notice. She had heard it. The confirmation of something she might have suspected. Mitch didn’t look at her, his focus on the Warden in front of him.

  “The…ring,” the Warden stammered. “It-it told me. When I wore it, it spoke. Whispered truths! Demands in exchange for power!” Mitch analyzed the man’s face, and didn’t see any lies present.

  Mitch leaned closer, “Who gave you the ring?”

  The Warden flinched, his head jerking back. “A man…from the Sect! A handler. Shadowreach has many, but he–he’s the one who captures them for me! I provide marks in the notebook! That’s…that’s how I speak with them!”

  “What Sect?” Mitch pressed, letting the Warden continue.

  The Warden hesitated, sweat dripping down his face, but a few bugs skittered closer to his neck, their mandibles clicking menacingly. He winced. “The Sect of Dread! That’s what they’re called. They handle things. Know the Abyss better than anyone. Practically worship the damned thing.”

  Mitch briefly glanced at Sable, whose mismatched eyes burned with intensity.

  “And how do you receive your instructions? Don’t lie to me,” Mitch asked, his voice razor-sharp.

  “The ring! Only the ring!” the Warden shouted. “I had no choice–it–it–it makes you listen! You don’t understand what it’s like, the pressure–it—”

  Mitch slammed his hand down on the rock beside the Warden’s head. Mitch knew the pull the Warden spoke of. The graze and prod of the Abyss. It bound and pushed him in ways he barely comprehended. From stomping the Grimmer on his first day in Shadowreach, to controlling Sable’s mind.

  There are always choices.

  “Yes, Mitchell. You see.” Galadrith’s voice spoke proudly in his mind. The ring pulled in Mitch’s pocket. There was power within it. Twisted and malformed. It tugged like the key, the Abyss, and the hidden depths of the farm they hadn’t yet explored.

  The bugs shifted, but stayed latched onto the man. “I don’t care about your excuses. You had a choice. Now, focus. Are there other Grimlace farms?”

  The Warden hesitated, and Mitch’s eyes narrowed. A bug bit into the man’s ear, and he howled. “Yes! Yes, there are others! I don’t know where–they don’t tell me! They only tell me I did well! Butcher was sent by them as well!”

  “Who brings the jars?” Mitch demanded.

  The Warden’s lips trembled, his face pale. “They–they were here before I came. They’re just–they’re delivered! Dropped off. I–don’t know who sends them.”

  “Lies,” Mitch said, his voice a deadly whisper. “You know more than that.”

  The Warden shook his head violently. “I swear! I swear, I don’t–”

  The bugs surged, their pincers digging into his skin. The Warden belted out a brutal scream. “Please! I don’t know! I swear on the stars themselves, I don’t know more!”

  Mitch studied his bleeding face for a moment, then signaled for the bugs to stop.

  Behind him, Sable finally spoke. “The debt, Mitch. What does he mean by that? What is going on?”

  Mitch felt his back tighten, hands flexing at his sides. He didn’t look at her, but felt her worry in their connection through Abyssal Bind. “Not now, Sable.”

  She didn’t push, but the weight of her stare lingered against his body.

  Mook stepped forward, his demonic form casting a shadow over the Warden. “He speaks the truth about the jars,” the monster said. “They are forged deep within the Abyss. Within the Abyssal cities. Their purpose is clear–to bind. To lock a soul for containment as they were used here. Until the body is dead. The process is cruel, but it is precise.”

  Mitch glanced at Mook, his mind racing. “And the Sect? Have you heard of them?”

  Sable answered for Mook. “I know them,” she said, her voice a whisper.

  Mitch’s head snapped toward Sable. “You know them? How do you know them?” He asked surprised.

  Sable’s mismatched eyes met his. Then, to Mitch’s irritation, a small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

  “Not now, Mitch. Later,” she said evenly, tilting her head slightly. “It’s my turn for answers.”

  The smirk lingered, but her eyes burned with something more—a quiet determination that slightly unsettled him. Mitch opened his mouth to press her, but the steady weight of her gaze stopped him.

  Doubt stirred in his gut.

  He was about to speak again when the bond between them pulsed faintly. There was no deceit there, no malice. Only an iron resolve.

  Mitch grumbled under his breath, turning back toward the Warden. Sable crouched beside him.

  “Careful, boy,” Galadrith’s voice murmured in his mind. “Do not think you know the ways of a woman. Not even the mighty Galadrith claims to know their depths.”

  Mitch suppressed an eye-roll and refocused. He didn’t have the time, or the patience, for games. Answers were what mattered now.

  Her expression mirrored his own—an unspoken understanding. She needed answers as badly as he did. The familiar pull of the Abyssal Debt scratched at his mind, updating in the background.

  Burden: Pay the Abyssal Debt

  The Abyss accepts all forms of payment.

  Status: Incomplete

  Active Debt: -935,830* > 937,162*

  Interest: 666/dayCurrency: Souls, Flesh, Credits

  Do you give up?

  Mitch shoved the thought away, burying it beneath the focus of the moment. An unbidden sense of trust surfaced as he glanced at Sable. She wasn’t just a minion or a First Follower. She was someone who understood the weight of seeking answers in a world that gave none willingly. Someone that mattered to him in ways that he didn’t quite understand.

  He grinded his teeth at the last question of the Burden. Ever present. One affirmation, and he would be gone.

  Do you give up?

  Not now. Not ever, Mitch thought to himself.

  “Now tell me, Warden,” Sable said in her gravelly voice, low and razor-sharp as her wires dug deeper into his flesh. “Where. Is. My. Soul?”