Their throats were cut. Their blood was collected in bowls, then poured onto the seals. The runes drank the blood eagerly, glowing brighter with each sacrifice, responding to something in the barbarians' essence that other blood couldn't provide.

The mark.

The death-mark of the Supreme Deity. It was written into every barbarian's blood, a permanent reminder of the god who had perished in the Thirteenth Region.

And it was also a key.

After the twentieth barbarian died, the door opened. Slowly, ponderously, revealing darkness beyond that even the vision couldn't penetrate.

The soldiers entered, carrying torches and weapons, seeking whatever treasure or power lay inside.

The vision didn't show what they found. But it showed what happened next.

The barbarian who looked like Galthor, who should have been dead, whose throat had been cut just like the others, opened his eyes. He shouldn't have been alive. The wound was fatal. But somehow, impossibly, he was clinging to consciousness through sheer stubborn refusal to die.

He dragged himself toward the open door, leaving a trail of blood, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond with an expression of absolute hatred.

The vision ended.

Galthor stood in the present, breathing hard, his mind racing.

"They've been doing this for years," he said aloud. "Using barbarians as keys to open sealed places. That's why we were enslaved. Not just for labor, but also for the access."

The implications were staggering. How many Abyssal cores had been opened with barbarian blood? How many sealed chambers, hidden vaults, forbidden spaces? His people hadn't just been enslaved but they'd been used as living keys with their blood the price of entry to places that should have remained locked.

And the other banners knew.

Of course they knew. That's why they'd invited the Stronghide to this expedition. That's why they'd been so insistent about having barbarians present. They needed the keys.

His masters were walking into a trap.

Galthor's divine senses reached out, feeling for the worship chains that connected him to his followers. They were there, stronger than ever thanks to the power he'd accumulated. Through them, he could sense his masters' emotions, determination, fear, exhaustion, but not panic. They're not feeling that yet.

They were alive. They were moving. They were approaching something.

"No," Galthor breathed. "No, you fools. Don't go there. Don't..."

But they couldn't hear him. The distance was too great, the connection too tenuous for actual communication. All he could do was feel their presence and know that they were walking into danger.

He had to reach them. Had to warn them. Had to stop whatever was going to happen.

Galthor began to run.

The valley blurred past him as he pushed his divine strength to its limits. The visions tried to grab him, tried to force him to witness more betrayals, but he tore through them like cobwebs. The bodies beneath his feet crunched and scattered, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered except speed.

The valley opened ahead of him, widening, leading toward something he could feel more than see. The Abyssal land. It was close now, so close he could almost taste its power on the air.

And beyond the core, somewhere in the twisted geography of the Abyssal land, his masters were approaching their own doom.

"Hold on," Galthor snarled. His body became shadow, flowing through the darkness faster than flesh could move. "Just hold on. I'm coming."

The Valley of Betrayal fell away behind him, its lessons learned, and its warnings delivered.

Trust no one who walks beside you.

The blood of the innocent will open the way.

We did what we had to do.

But first, he had to save his people.

The path ahead blazed with corrupted light, and Galthor plunged into it without hesitation, racing toward a confrontation that had been brewing since the moment he was reborn.

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The meeting point was a clearing carved from corruption itself.

Karathra saw it as they crested the final ridge of a roughly circular space two hundred feet across, surrounded by twisted rock formations that rose like the walls of an amphitheater. The ground was unnaturally flat, smoothed by essence or deliberate effort, and in the center stood three distinct camps.

The Winged People's camp was the most elaborate. They had erected structures that defied gravity, platforms suspended in the air by their flight relics, connected by bridges of woven light. Their warriors moved through the air with casual grace, their wings catching the corrupt light.

The Kobolds had claimed the eastern section, their tents arranged in military precision. Even from here, Karathra could see the organized patrols, the weapon stations, the defensive perimeter they'd established. Alpha Carter's influence was obvious in every detail.

The Xyrrh occupied the western section. Their presence was harder to define, because it's a small structures that seemed to shift when not looked at directly, areas of shadow that moved against the light, the sense of being watched by eyes that had no single location.

And in the center, left conspicuously empty, was space for a fourth camp.

"They've been expecting us," Brakthar murmured.

"Of course they have." Lady Pelica's voice was dry. "Look at the positioning. The Winged camp controls the high ground and air superiority. The Kobolds have the defensive perimeter and close-quarters advantage. The Xyrrh have infiltration routes and escape paths. And that empty space in the center..."

"Is a kill zone," Karathra finished. "Surrounded on three sides, exposed from above, no cover."

"Precisely."

Karathra took a slow breath, steadying herself. "Remember the plan. We're exhausted travelers, grateful to have reached our allies. We don't know anything is wrong. Weapons sheathed, but hands ready. Stay in formation. Nobody separates from the group."

The masters formed up behind her. Hrothgar and Ashclaw on the flanks. Brakthar and and another in the center, protecting the wounded Drakira. Rukar at the rear, watching their backs. Lady Pelica drifted alongside like a ghost, her expression carefully neutral.

They descended into the clearing.

The moment they crossed into the open space, Karathra felt it, the shift in attention, the sudden focus of dozens of hostile eyes. The Winged warriors stopped their aerial patrols and began to circle.

The Kobold sentries turned to face them, hands drifting toward weapons. The Xyrrh's shadows grew deeper, more concentrated, and the ground shifted.

A welcoming party emerged from the three camps.

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