The Codex enclave never slept. Even in the still hours, something moved through its bones.
Allen knew that now.
He awoke not to light, but to the hush of footsteps beyond the corridor and the faint scent of ozone lingering in the air. The vents above his cot murmured softly, carrying strange voices in tongues that made the stone seem to pulse with meaning. Something had shifted. He felt it in his bones.
He rose, quietly buckling on his blades and sliding his coat across his shoulders. He had begun to recover well. The scar on his side no longer pulled when he twisted. His steps had lost their stumble. Silence was his again, proper and full.
Outside, the enclave was darker than usual. The hovering lights were dimmed to a faint blue glow, shadows stretching farther than they should. Most doors were shut. Those who passed him did so quickly, cloaks drawn tight, heads bowed. They carried scrolls. Sealed chests. Crates marked with strange sigils. More than one bore blood on their sleeves.
Something was happening. And it wasn't meant for him.
He didn't care.
But he did notice.
****
He made his way toward the deeper caverns. Not the public ones; those were always busy, always speaking. He took the unused tunnels. Ones mapped only in fragments or unspoken memories. And in one of those, a whispering arch of bone and fossil-laced stone, he found something strange.
A door.
It hadn't been there before. Or it had, and someone had gone through the effort to hide it until now. It was made of a dark metal, seamless, set into the stone with no frame. A sigil pulsed softly at its center,not magic, but something older. Carved and burnt and etched again, layered across eras.
He didn't touch it.
Behind him, his shadow flickered. Longer. Thinner.
Watching.
****
That evening, Irvin found him.
Allen had just returned to his quarters, unbuckling his gear and cleaning blood from the edge of his smaller blade when the knock came.
Not a knock. A rhythm. Three taps. A pause. Then one more.
Allen opened the door.
The illusionist stood in the corridor, leaning casually against the wall. His silver tattoos shimmered faintly beneath a sleeveless black tunic. His left eye glowed faintly, a side effect of something he hadn't explained.
"You're lighter on your feet than most of the Codex dogs," Irvin said with a small nod. "Watched you coming back from the Fungal Groves. Didn't disturb a single spore."
Allen said nothing.
Irvin smiled. "Suits me. I don't like talkers. Come. You look like someone who wants to learn how to kill a little more beautifully."
****
The chamber Irvin led him to was narrow and bare; just stone and dust, like so many others. But the moment Irvin stepped inside, the room shifted.
Walls shimmered. Light bent. A dozen versions of Irvin appeared around the edges, all moving differently, fighting shadows that weren't quite there. Illusions. Combat scenarios. Memory tricks.
"We learn by bleeding here," Irvin said, drawing twin crescent daggers. "But you might survive it. Let's find out."
They sparred for hours. Not in words, but in speed, misdirection, and the quiet language of intent.
Allen 'learned' quickly.
****
Afterward, bruised and breathing hard, Allen sat on the floor, watching Irvin manipulate an illusion of his own death over and over—each time different.
"We all rehearse the way we die," the illusionist murmured. "Some of us just prefer to do it consciously."
Allen said nothing. But he watched.
And he understood.
****
The following day, Shardu returned.
The eccentric alchemist strode into the Spine's side hall with moss clinging to his boots and soot up both arms. He sniffed, turned, and stared at Allen without blinking.
"You still alive? Didn't expect that. Good. Come."
He offered no explanation.
Allen followed.
They descended into what Shardu called the "Fume Gallery" - a long-forgotten series of labs and fume hoods once used for heavy reagent refinement. The air tasted like burnt metal and old vinegar. Crates lined the walls, packed with labeled bones, powders, pickled limbs.
Shardu unrolled a map of the outer ridges. Marked a point near the old hollowing cliff.
"Spider venom. Rare kind. Fangs like fingers. You'll know it when you see it. The mushroom you brought last time? Only thing that makes an antidote for it. Get me the glands. Three if you're clever. Two if you're desperate."
Allen took the marked route, left before Shardu could explain further.
He didn't need it.
****
The journey took hours. The cliff path was brittle, the wind sharp. More than once, Allen had to press flat against the stone as shifting scree threatened to slide him into the gorge below.
He found the spider's nest beneath a rocky outcropping, half-buried in bramble. It was massive—a tunnel lined with thick webbing that pulsed faintly. Inside, shadows skittered.
He waited. Listened. Then slipped in low.
He saw three of them. Tall, almost humanoid, but hunched, multi-eyed. They smelled like acid and decay. One turned.
He threw a vial. Smoke. It exploded in their faces. As they shrieked, he moved. Quick. No hesitation.
One down.
The second leapt. He rolled beneath, stabbed upward.
The third bit his arm.
He didn't scream.
He jammed his blade through its mouth, twisted.
Then, panting, he sliced the venom glands clean and packed them in a vial.
He stumbled from the nest, blood dripping from his arm. The wound pulsed with fire. The poison.
He reached for the mushroom pouch. Crushed one, swallowed.
Silence. Then clarity.
He walked back, slower, but upright.
***
Shardu took the glands without a word. Nodded. Then handed him a leather scroll case.
"My notes. Read them. Or don't. You earned them either way."
Allen took the scroll.
Said nothing. Left.
That night, he returned to the hidden door. The one in the fossil arch.
This time, the sigil was gone.
The door was open.
He stepped inside.
Beyond was a staircase, descending into silence.
And from below, a whisper:
"The Old Reap begins again."