Their new journey was a study in fragile dependencies. Anya, true to her word, took the lead, her movements sharp with a frustrated energy. She translated Loric's rambling, fear-muddled directions—a uniquely shaped fungal stalk, a passage where the air grew colder, a patch of moss that glowed amber instead of blue—into a coherent path, her skepticism a tangible presence.
Elias walked beside Loric, offering a steadying arm. The man was a dead weight, leaning on him heavily, his breathing still shallow. But with every step away from the Sorrow-Eater's cavern, a little more strength seemed to return to his limbs, a little more awareness to his eyes. He was a flickering ember, and Elias's quiet, constant presence was the shield protecting him from the wind.
"Anya doesn't believe me," Loric murmured, his voice raspy.
"Anya doesn't believe in anything that hasn't tried to kill her at least once," Elias replied, his tone gentle. "It's how she has survived."
"And you? Do you believe me?"
Elias looked ahead at Anya's tense shoulders. "I believe in giving hope a chance to prove itself."
After several hours, the character of the Gloomwood began to shift. The oppressive density of the giant fungi thinned, giving way to wider clearings. The constant, predatory clicking of the bone-white insects faded, replaced by an unnerving silence.
"No small scavengers," Anya noted, her eyes scanning the high ledges. "That's not a good sign. It usually means something bigger has claimed the territory."
But Loric's face, for the first time, was filled not with fear, but with recognition. "We're close," he whispered, pointing a trembling finger. "Just through here."
He indicated a narrow fissure between two massive stone pillars that looked like the petrified roots of a mountain. Anya eyed it suspiciously, her hand resting on her crossbow, but after a moment's hesitation, she led the way through.
The fissure opened into a vast cavern, and the sight stole the breath from all three of them.
They stood on a wide ledge overlooking a huge, circular chamber. The ceiling soared hundreds of feet above, and in its center was a gaping hole through which a faint, pure light—impossibly, the light of the real world's moon, perhaps—filtered down, illuminating the space in a way that felt holy. Directly beneath the hole, nestled in the cavern floor, was a wide, serene pool of water so clear they could see the smooth pebbles at its bottom.
And jutting from the center of the pool was the top of a church.
It was a gothic-style bell tower, made of dark, surface-world stone, covered in ancient moss but miraculously intact. The water lapped peacefully against its masonry, its surface disturbed only by a gentle flow from an unseen spring. The air was clean, devoid of the scent of decay. The oppressive hum of the Verse was muted here, replaced by a profound and sacred quiet.
"The Sunken Chapel," Elias breathed. It was real.
Anya stared, her mouth slightly agape. For a long moment, her hardened, cynical mask fell away, revealing the twelve-year-old girl who had been stolen from the sunlit world. She saw an impossible piece of that world, drowned in the darkness, yet still defiant.
Her pragmatism quickly reasserted itself, but it was now tinged with curiosity. She cautiously approached the edge of the pool, unhooking the pouch of crawler meat from her belt. With a clinical motion, she tossed a small piece into the clear water.
It didn't just sink. The water around the meat began to shimmer and fizz, as if boiling with cold energy. The chunk of Verse-flesh dissolved rapidly, vanishing into nothingness in a matter of seconds.
"Blessed…" Anya whispered, a word she probably hadn't used in a decade. The water wasn't just clean; it was anathema to the creatures of the Verse. It was a true sanctuary.
"Loric!"
A woman's cry echoed from a series of caves carved into the far wall of the cavern. A small group of people—no more than a dozen—emerged, their clothes ragged but their faces filled with stunned relief. They rushed towards them.
"You're alive!" an older woman with grey-streaked hair and kind, weary eyes exclaimed, enveloping Loric in a hug. She was clearly the leader. She looked from Loric to Elias and Anya, her gaze cautious but grateful. "He told us what happened. The Stalker ambush… we thought he was lost."
"We found him," Elias said simply.
The woman nodded, her eyes assessing them. "I am Elara. Thank you. We have little to offer, but you are welcome to rest and take your fill of the water. You have returned one of our own."
The reunion was a quiet, emotional affair. Loric was guided back towards their camp, already recounting his tale. The objective was complete. The promise was fulfilled.
Anya walked over to Elias, who was watching the small, fragile community. Her expression was complex, a mixture of vindication, confusion, and her usual impatience.
"Well, Healer," she said, her voice even. "Anya's rule of survival number four: know when a job is done." She gestured towards the survivors. "He's safe. The chapel is real. Our deal is fulfilled."
She looked at him expectantly, her gaze clear and challenging. "We leave them our thanks, we fill our waterskins, and we head for Deep-Well. No arguments. Right?"
The question hung in the quiet, sacred air. He had saved the man and delivered him to his people. His principle, by the letter of the law, should be satisfied. But as he looked at the small group of survivors huddled around their blessed pool, a tiny island of hope in an ocean of despair, he knew, with a sinking certainty, that it wasn't that simple.