The southern cliffs of Mirandir stood as a jagged wall of black basalt. Here, the white stone of the city ended, replaced by rock that felt cold and slick. The water did not merely ebb; it pulled back with a violent, rhythmic suction that exposed the ribcage of the shore.
The mouth of the Low-Tide Caverns emerged from the foam. It looked like a weeping wound on the cliffside, draped in thick ribbons of black kelp and barnacles. Crispin stood at the threshold. He adjusted the strap of his satchel.
"Regy," Crispin whispered. "We have work to do."
He stepped into the dark. The air inside the cavern tasted like salt and ancient decay. Every footstep echoed against the damp walls. Pools of seawater remained trapped in the hollows of the floor, reflecting the dim, refracted light from the cave entrance. He moved deeper.
A shrill screech shattered the silence.
Crispin froze. He raised his staff, his knuckles white. High above, in the crevices of the vaulted ceiling, a pair of bioluminescent eyes ignited. They were a sickly, pale yellow. The cave sprang to life with eerie eyeshine.
Their bodies were lean, covered in slick, rubbery skin, the color of a bruise. Their wings were translucent membranes stretched over hollow bones, ending in hooked claws that scraped against the stone.
The first one dropped like a stone, and Crispin lunged to the side. The creature's claws hissed through the air. He swung his staff in a desperate arc, but the rod connected with the wyvern's flank with a dull thud.
"Regulus! Now!"
Crispin reached into his satchel and scooped the slime out. He threw the creature toward the approaching wyvern. Regulus hit the wet stone with a wet slap. It wobbled once, then sat still.
The second wyvern lunged from a shelf of rock, moving with terrifying speed. Crispin raised his arm to shield his face. The creature opened its maw. A glob of luminous emerald fluid sprayed from its throat.
Fluid hit Crispin's shoulder and neck.
Pain erupted. It was a hungry, melting heat. The acid ate through the rough-spun fabric of his tunic in heartbeats. He screamed as the fluid touched skin. The chemical reaction turned his flesh into a roadmap of white-hot blisters. Second-degree burns blossomed across his collarbone, the skin bubbling and peeling away.
The staff clattered against the floor, and he dropped to his knees, gasping.
The wyvern did not give him time to breathe. It scrambled forward, its hooked tail whipping around. The serrated edge caught Crispin along his thigh. A deep, jagged gash opened in his muscle. Blood, dark and hot, spilled over the cold stone.
Crispin gripped his leg, and the cavern spun. The pack, with their yellow eyes, circled him.
The translucent body resonated. It slid across the floor, moving toward the wyvern that had tasted Crispin's blood. The slime expanded, stretching itself thin like a sheet of living glass.
The wyvern snapped at the goo. Its teeth passed through the membrane as if biting water. Regulus wrapped itself around the creature's head. The wyvern thrashed. It slammed its body against the cave walls, trying to dislodge the suffocating mass.
The slime's nucleus shone with a sudden, violent light. A series of microscopic filaments sprouted from the slime's interior, sinking into the wyvern's skin. The beast gave one final, muffled shriek, then went limp.
Regulus did not let go. It glowed with a deep, throbbing violet. Symbols flickered within the slime's center.
The System whispered in the back of Crispin's mind.
[Blueprint Acquired: River Wyvern (Low-Tide Variant)]
Acquisition: 1%
The darkness of the cavern felt like a physical weight. His shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat. He forced his weight onto his good leg, leaning heavily on the staff. The wyverns did not retreat. They scrambled along the damp ceiling, their claws clicking against the stone.
Four more creatures detached from the shadows. One lunged.
"Regy, left!"
It remained at Crispin's heel, its center swirling. The wyvern sprang, and he swung his staff. The rod caught the beast in the throat, but the force of the impact sent a jolt of agony through his burned shoulder. He stumbled. A second wyvern seized the opening. It struck from the right, its wing-claws digging into Crispin's ribs.
Regulus's essence churned. The golden light it had absorbed from the sun crystals during their cave trekking pulsed. The translucent body grew opaque, turning brilliant, searing white.
A flash of pure radiance erupted from the floor.
A unison shriek came from the wyverns. The light acted like a physical blow to their sensitive eyes. The creature on Crispin's ribs let go, thrashing blindly.
"Now!" Crispin roared.
He brought the heavy end of his staff down on the skull of the blinded wyvern in the water. The bone cracked. Regulus surged forward. It found the third wyvern, which was currently clawing at its own face. Becoming a razor-sharp whip, the slime lashed out. The membrane caught the wyvern across its throat, severing the windpipe with a wet, tearing sound.
Toward the higher ledges, the fourth and fifth beasts attempted to escape. One slammed into a stalactite, breaking a wing-bone. It spiraled down, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Crispin moved with a limp, driving the point of his staff into its chest.
The sixth wyvern lay twitching in the salt spray, its skull crushed by a desperate swing. Crispin didn't have time to celebrate. The seventh lunged from the darkness of a side-tunnel, moving with a predatory silence the others lacked. It struck his good shoulder, the weight of the beast slamming him into the jagged basalt wall.
Crispin's breath left him in a ragged gasp. He tried to raise his staff, but the wyvern's hooked wings pinned his arms against the stone. It opened its maw, the emerald glow of acid building in the back of its throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the liquid fire that would end his life.
The pressure on his chest vanished.
Regulus launched himself from the floor, expanding into a thin, translucent veil that draped over the wyvern's face. The beast shrieked, its acid spray muffled by the slime's membrane. The caustic fluid boiled against the goo, but Regulus did not break. He tightened, dragging the wyvern's head down to the floor. Crispin scrambled back, his lungs burning. He found his staff and drove the butt of the rod into the creature's exposed neck until the thrashing stopped.
He stayed on his knees for a moment; his forehead pressed against the cool stone. His vision flickered. White spots danced in the dim light, and the roar of the sea felt closer than before.
The eighth and ninth fell in a blur of clattering and hissing slime. Crispin moved like a puppet on frayed strings, his body functioning on raw adrenaline and the icy terror of the rising tide.
The tenth wyvern emerged from a high ledge; its eyes fixed on the blood-soaked bandages of his leg. Crispin didn't wait for the strike. He felt a strange, cold clarity settle over his mind. As the beast leaped, he stepped inside its guard. He didn't swing the head; he used the staff as a lever, catching the wyvern's leading wing and twisting.
The hollow bone snapped. The creature tumbled, exposed and screeching. Crispin brought the staff down once, a clean, heavy strike that silenced the cave. He stood over the body, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped his weapon. The victory was total, but his legs felt like water.
Two more... he prayed he could hold up that long. All he wanted was to escape the cavern and collapse.
Regulus took down the eleventh cleanly, but the final beast was a monster of its own class. The strike came from behind.
The large wyvern slammed into his back, pinning him. Its claws dug into the edges of his existing burns. He let out a strangled cry. The smell of his own scorched flesh filled his nostrils as the pressure reopened the wounds.
Regulus surged up Crispin's spine, forming a protective barrier of viscous goo. The creature hissed as its claws became mired.
Crispin rolled. He drove his elbow into the beast's throat. As the wyvern recoiled, he found his staff and thrust it like a spear. The rod caught the beast in the soft tissue of its underbelly.
Regulus flowed into the wound. It expanded within the wyvern's chest cavity. The beast's yellow eyes bulged. A moment later, its heart stopped.
Crispin Thornborn
Level: 2 | EXP: 10/250
Attributes:
Strength 9→10 | Dexterity 10→11 | Endurance 10→11
Perception 12→13 | Will 13→14
Bonded:
Regulus
Level: 2 | EXP: 110/250
Learned: Solar Flare
Crispin crawled around the cave and collected the pieces of soul shards that had dropped from the wyverns. He clutched them to his chest, as the waves lapped at the cave mouth. Hopefully, this wouldn't take long…
The coldness behind his sternum warmed slightly.
[Do you wish to bond the Heart of Perseus to Regulus?]
Crispin studied the words while his mind raced. He scooped the slime up in his palm and studied it.
"Regy, do you want to share this bond?"
The glob jiggled with a nod.
Crispin accepted.
A glimmer within Regulus' jelly breathed. Inside, a pulsing light bloomed and swirled. A crystalline heart formed. Its four chambers did not beat but shimmered faintly.
An unfamiliar warmth lived in his chest. He clutched his hand to it. It felt like a whisper he could not quite hear or understand. What did this even mean? The only one he could ask would be the elder, but would he help? He had already avoided the questions about the staff, and the things his grandfather had shared regarding it.
Crispin dragged the bundle of wyverns from cords over his shoulder through the white stone streets. The reverence of the halflings had turned to shock. He felt their eyes through the port as he stumbled, his tunic soaked in blood and bile.
He reached the Tamer's Wharf as the sun dimmed. Kaelen was still there. Reaching the port, he dropped the bundle. The rope hissed against the wood.
"Twelve," Crispin rasped.
"Ya look worse for wear, tamer. Come here and stay still. This will burn worse than the wyverns, but it will help."
Crispin slumped against the support beam, his head lolling back. Regulus settled beside his hand. Kaelen unscrewed the lid of the jar. The scent of crushed mint and ammonia hit the air. The man dipped two fingers into the thick, blue paste and smeared a glob directly onto the third-degree burns on Crispin's shoulder.
His back arched. A strangled sound escaped his throat. The salve felt like liquid ice poured onto a forge. Kaelen worked with a steady hand. He moved to the thigh, wiping away the dried blood before applying the ointment to the deep gash.
After cleaning his hands with a cloth, he went to a bundle by his jaguar. He reached for some clean white strips of bandage. Crouching beside Crispin, he worked to bandage the wounds and pulled the linen bandage tight.
Kaelen stood and wiped his hands. He inspected the bundle of hides with his boot.
"Twelve hides. Worth twenty-four bronze and ninety-two copper."
Crispin leaned his head against the beam. "Twenty-five," he whispered. "Make it twenty-five bronze."
Kaelen paused. He looked down at the boy, then at the slime pulsing with dark violet light. He let out a low, dry chuckle.
"Done. Consider the extra eight copper a gift for not bleeding to death on my pier." He tossed the pile of coins onto the porch. They clinked with a heavy sound. Kaelen stood. "You need to visit the local healers, boy. That shoulder won't fix itself with just my grease."
He whistled to his jaguar and walked inside, leaving Crispin on the boards. Kaelen was right. He needed care. Shuffling to his feet, he moved.
The smells of the market stalls twisted his stomach. He needed to eat but didn't dare stop for food. The pain surging through his body was becoming too harsh.
The Healer's Hall stood in the middle tiers of Mirandir, a structure of white marble that seemed to glow with a soft, internal light. Crispin leaned heavily on his staff as he crossed the threshold. The scent of dried herbs and ozone replaced the brine of the docks.
A halfling woman in robes of pale linen approached him. She stopped three paces away, her eyes widening as they settled on the blackened, weeping ruin of his shoulder. She looked at his white hair, then his rounded ears. A mask of pity and reverence crossed her face.
"A wyvern strike," she whispered. "The acid has reached the deep tissue. You require immediate stabilization."
She stepped closer, her fingers hovering inches from the wound to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Her expression grew grave.
"Twenty bronze," she stated. "That covers the stabilization, a cleansing of the blood, a meal, and a room to recover. You cannot walk the streets in this state."
Crispin reached into his pouch. The sum was nearly everything he had earned from the slaughter in the dark. He counted out the twenty coins, his fingers trembling as the metal clinked against the stone counter. He had five bronze left. It was a steep price for a single night, but the fire on his nerves gave him no choice.
"I'll pay," Crispin said.
The healer signaled for two assistants. They guided Crispin to a small, sterile room at the back of the hall. Cool, silk sheets covered the bed.
The treatment was a blur of agonizing clarity. They applied a series of poultices that pulled the remaining acid from his pores. They used small, glowing crystals to knit the edges of the gashes. Crispin bit his lip until it bled, refusing to cry out as the magic forced his flesh to mend.
Eventually, the pain receded into a dull, heavy throb. A tray of food appeared on a small table—roasted fowl, thick bread, and a cup of sweetened wine. He ate with the hunger of a dying man. Regulus sat on the floor, its dark purple core pulsing rhythmically. Crispin finished the meal and collapsed back onto the pillows. Exhaustion claimed him.
The morning light of the sun filtered through the high windows, casting long, pale shadows across the room. Crispin blinked. His shoulder felt stiff and tight, but the burning heat was gone. He shifted his weight, testing his leg. The bandages remained clean.
A low, familiar scraping sound came from the foot of the bed.
Crispin froze. He reached for his staff, but his hand stopped mid-air.
A creature lay on the stone floor. It possessed the lean, rubbery body of a river wyvern, but the bruised purple color of its skin was gone. Instead, it was translucent, a living window of thick, viscous glass. Its wings rested folded tightly against its ribs. The heart inside its jelly shimmered as it moved.
The creature turned its head. It did not have the sickly yellow eyes of the scavengers from the cavern. Two brilliant, golden orbs stared back at him. They were the color of the sun at high noon, deep and intelligent.
"Regy?" Crispin whispered.
The creature did not hiss. It rippled. The wyvern shape lost its definition for a second, the neck stretching and the torso widening before it snapped back into the sharp, predatory form. The golden eyes remained fixed on him, reflecting a flicker of recognition.