Suren walked over to Tinkwick and nudged him with his foot.
"Don't bother me," the gnome grumbled, sprawled in the grass. "I am going to die on the Broken Plains."
"Broken Plains?" Rickon echoed, tilting his head.
Tinkwick groaned, then sat up and dusted himself off. "Yes. Broken Plains. That's where we are."
He started walking again, dragging the still-shackled Suren and Rickon along with him.
"So where are we going?" Suren asked, tugging at his chains.
Tinkwick didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled them toward a large boulder, climbed onto it, and reached for Suren's collar. His Mark flared faintly as his palm pressed against the metal.
"What are you doing?" Suren asked, already growing impatient. The collar had grown slightly warm.
"Shh," Tinkwick said, closing his eyes. "My profession is a Metallurgist. One of my skills is Metal Manipulation. I'm using it to open the collar."
Suren frowned. "So why didn't you do this from the start?"
"It doesn't work quickly," Tinkwick snapped. "Takes time. And I need to concentrate."
A few tense seconds passed, and then—click—Suren's collar popped open.
Tinkwick grunted, already moving over to Rickon's.
"Not like I've got an arcane skill or anything," he muttered under his breath. "Just years of study and molten burns…"
After removing Rickon's collar as well, they resumed their journey across the desolate plains.
"So… where exactly are we going? And what even are the Broken Plains?" Suren asked, brushing dust from his shoulder.
"I'm looking for the natives of these lands," Tinkwick replied, grinding down bits of metal into powder and refilling one of his many pouches. "There's a legend. When the Lost Continent fell to the demons, the survivors fled to Arvessia—this continent. But their arrival didn't go smoothly."
He paused, tightening a pouch drawstring before continuing.
"They fought with the native race— the Igin, tall humanoid creatures with a third eye with black sclera tall and strong warriors attuned to the energy of the world around them.. In time, the survivors won, conquering most of the continent… except the Broken Plains. The natives resisted here with everything they had."
"And then came the demons?" Rickon asked quietly.
Tinkwick nodded. "Aye. Demons hit both sides hard. Too hard. The fighting stopped. The land was ruined. What was left of both races had to retreat beyond the Titan's Crown Mountains—they wrap around the plains on three sides like a giant's jaw."
He pointed vaguely to the distant ridgelines.
"The natives stayed here, claiming the Broken Plains. Became nomadic. Scattered tribes. The rest? The survivors built their own nations—"
He held up three fingers.
"—The Church of Balance in the West. Fanatics and priests. They say they keep the world from tipping into the Abyss."
"One hell of a job," muttered Suren.
Tinkwick ignored him and raised another finger.
"Then the Empire of Draleen in the East. Fertile lands, great cities, magic, and machines. Richest nation on Arvessia."
"And last—the Confederation of Silvium in the North. Loose alliance of old clans and trade cities. Tough, independent types. No kings, run by the Silvium Council."
He dropped his hand and kicked a pebble down the path. "The Broken Plains are what's left of the middle. A war-torn area that no one truly owns, filled with demon nests and nomadic tribes."
"And we're heading into that?" Suren asked.
"We're already in it," Tinkwick said. "Now we just need to find someone who hasn't gone mad from the whispers."
They fell silent.
They walked for several miles, encountering only a few imps—easily dealt with by Tinkwick, Suren, and Rickon. The former shackles that had once bound them now served as makeshift weapons, swung to keep any demon spawn at bay.
Eventually, in the distance, they spotted movement—a convoy.
Several large carriages rolled forward, pulled by heavy-plated beasts with quadruple horns and thick, grey leathery skin. Around them rode several Igin, mounted on sturdy desert horses. Behind the convoy, more riders herded strange sheep-like creatures whose wool came not in white, but in shades of grey, black, and deep blue.
Tinkwick squealed with joy. His short legs churned beneath him as he sprinted toward the caravan, waving his arms and shouting.
Suren and Rickon, though weak with thirst and hunger, dug deep into their remaining reserves of strength. They followed, waving desperately as they ran after him toward salvation.
As they neared the convoy, one of the riders broke away from the group and galloped toward them.
He wore armor stitched from beast leather, scarred and well-used, and carried a curved composite bow slung across his back. His horse stood nearly five feet tall at the shoulder, its coat marked with strange, swirling patterns that shimmered slightly under the sun. Two full quivers hung from his saddle, the fletching of his arrows dyed in tribal blues and ochres.
"Halt!" the rider barked.
In a single fluid motion, he unslung his bow and drew an arrow, raising it with precise intent. He closed two of his three eyes—marking him as one of the Igin—and took aim.
All three fugitives skidded to a stop, hands raised instinctively.
"You are entering the grazing path of the Grest Tribe," the Igin said, voice calm but cold. "State your purpose."
Tinkwick took a cautious step forward—only to freeze as the Igin drew the bowstring further, the arrow tip now glinting inches from his head.
He dropped to his knees.
"We're escaped slaves!" he said quickly, words tumbling from his mouth. "The mine—we were in—it's gone! It was overrun by demons. An Abyssal Bridge has formed there. We've been running for hours—no food, no water. We beg you, share some rations, a bit of water, and let us travel with you a little while."
The Igin's expression didn't change.
"The Igin do not shelter outlanders," he said flatly. "Return to your tall walls, if you can."
He began to turn his mount away—then paused mid-motion, his head snapping back.
"Did you say… an Abyssal Bridge? Newly formed?"
"Yes! Yes, just a few hours ago!" Tinkwick nodded furiously.
Suren and Rickon both dropped to one knee beside him, bowing their heads repeatedly in desperate agreement.
"Wait here," the rider said, turning sharply before galloping back toward the convoy. The sound of his horse's hooves echoed across the cracked earth as he rode off, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
The three stood still, shackled wrists aching, and watched him disappear.
"Why did he treat us like that?" Suren asked, frustration leaking into his voice.
Tinkwick gave him a sideways glance, the look almost pitying. "Did you miss the part of the legend where the Igin and the rest of the races were at war?"
"I understand that part," Suren replied. "But we didn't do any of that. That was generations ago."
Tinkwick let out a dry laugh. "Understand this, boy. Hate isn't something that has to be born. It's passed down—father to son, mother to daughter—like a bad scar or a cursed name. Some wounds outlast history. And that's one thing in this world no balance can fix."
Before Suren could respond, a shadow grew on the horizon.
"Shh," Tinkwick hissed, standing straighter.
The rider returned—but this time, another figure rode beside him.
As they drew closer, the difference was striking.
The new rider wore robes of dark beast leather, layered like scales. A high-collared mantle of deep indigo and black wool clasped at his shoulders with a bronze medallion carved with a spiraling motif, catching the dusty wind. His head was crowned with an antler circlet adorned with four pieces of bone, twisted and jutting up like the horns of the massive beasts pulling the carriages behind him.
His hair was long charcoal-black, it was styled into a braid threaded with three thick metal rings, each one glinting under the grey sun. Red markings curled across the skin of his exposed arms in sacred patterns, and his central eye—situated between his brows—was lined with dark pigment, as though staring into one's soul.
At his belt dangled the fangs of many beasts, each carved with a different glyph. He carried a large recurved bow across his back, and in his hand he held a glaive—its blade etched with intricate markings that pulsed faintly with some inner force.
His horse was larger than the scout's, easily towering above them. Its eyes glowed a dull red as it stared them down, unblinking. Those red eyes sent shivers down their spines.
The rider brought the beast to a halt just feet from them. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and thunderous, like a distant avalanche rolling through the hills.
"I am In'ang Grest, Chief of the Grest Tribe—Blood Rider of the Broken Plains. Ni'nan tells me you claim to have escaped a mine… one now turned into an Abyssal Bridge."
The presence of the chief—In'ang Grest—froze Tinkwick in place. The gnome, so lively moments ago, stood motionless as if gripped by a spell.
Suren, though equally intimidated, took a deep breath and stepped forward. His throat was dry, but he forced the words out.
"Yes, sir… it happened roughly when the sun was behind us and our shadows were about an arm's length long."
In'ang gave a slight nod. "Good. Tell me everything. From beginning… to end."
And so, Suren did.
He recounted the strange howls that echoed through the mine tunnels, the way the Overseer's office exploded in black flame, and the sight of twisted, horned creatures emerging from the fissures in the rock. He told of the chaos, the screams, and the crushing collapse that buried men and monsters alike.
When he paused, Rickon added how the guards were the first to fall, how one of them started convulsing before a new, misshapen limb burst from his chest. Tinkwick explained how the black flames seemed to consume not just matter but sound and light. All three described the final moments—the sight of the last demon seemingly absorbing Shinji.
In'ang said nothing at first.
He stared quietly toward the horizon—the direction they had come from. His central eye narrowed, and the wind seemed to still as if nature itself waited for his thoughts.
After a long silence, Tinkwick finally took a hesitant step forward.
"Excuse me… so… can we travel with you?" His voice was shaky, more squeak than speech.
In'ang blinked, breaking from his reverie.
He turned his red-eyed horse around to face the convoy, his expression unreadable. Then, with a deep grunt, he replied.
"Sure. Come. You've earned it."
He leaned toward Ni'nan and whispered something. The younger rider gave a sharp nod and spurred his horse into motion, galloping toward the front of the convoy.
The chief led the trio forward, not looking back.