Relics of the Five-Headed Goddess

Bottu discovers a dry elven alcove beside the chamber, safely removed from the poison and unstable passages. Seraphine remains far behind at Histol’s northern waystation; no companion has followed him.

He settles the Pearl Claw, Sapphire Fang, Ruby Heart, and Emerald Eye together upon a shallow stone basin. Their four colors mingle, and the Emerald Eye projects several branching paths across the alcove floor.

The green routes shift between distant landmarks: one descends beneath the Verdant Wound, another turns toward buried catacombs, and a third reaches into lands hidden beyond the old elven maps.

A red reflection gathers across the basin’s surface. It lengthens into the immense silhouette of Tiamat, five heads rising above the projected paths while the relics pulse beneath her image.

The red reflection ripples, and one route briefly darkens before the others brighten again. Tiamat’s silhouette offers no command, only a patient presence waiting across realities.

The alcove remains still around Bottu. Four relics rest within reach, the Emerald Eye keeps its uncertain paths alive, and the reflection waits for what he will do next.

Bottu lifts the Emerald Eye above the basin. Its green radiance enters his true sight, and the projected routes sharpen from uncertain lines into distinct currents of buried magic.

The connection to Tiamat opens without sleep or dream. Her red reflection gains impossible depth, and all five heads turn toward Bottu from across realities.

The catacomb route darkens while the other paths fade, leaving a black thread beneath the green projection. Bottu knows its destination: the Ebony Catacombs, and beyond them, the Onyx Scale.

The Emerald Eye dims abruptly. Bottu keeps the answer, but the true sight leaves a cold green afterimage across his vision, and Tiamat’s awareness lingers at its edge.

On the road southeast, Bottu leaves the marked trail and studies the ridges, old campsites, and sightlines around his route. He searches for signs of deliberate observation rather than danger alone.

The search costs him an hour. Dusk gathers over the broken hills before he notices a lone figure on a distant shelf: a lean adult woman in a gray traveling cloak, her face hidden behind a bronze half-mask, her dark braid showing beneath the cloak and a weathered leather satchel at her hip.

She is not traveling toward the Ebony Catacombs. She watches Bottu’s route through a spyglass, then crouches beside a cairn where fresh charcoal marks copy the direction of his relic trail.

When Bottu shifts his position, the masked watcher sees the movement and withdraws behind the ridge. Her retreat confirms the pattern: she has followed his progress from the Verdant Wound and recorded each direction, though her allegiance remains unknown.

By the time Bottu resumes the road, darkness has erased the watcher’s trail and the catacomb route is harder to read. He carries the answer, but not the watcher’s name or purpose, into the gathering night.

Bottu cups one claw and draws fire from the Ruby Heart’s warmth. A small flame blooms above his palm, casting amber light across the dark ridges without revealing him from far away.

He follows the masked watcher’s last route through the broken hills, reading bent grass, disturbed ash, and fresh charcoal dust where her boots crossed the slope. The trail leads beneath a narrow shelf.

Bottu climbs toward the shelf with the fire held low. Loose shale slips under his bare feet, and he catches himself against the slope, scraping one palm raw before continuing.

The flame reveals a shallow hollow beneath the rock. The masked watcher is there, crouched beside her satchel with the spyglass lowered, her bronze half-mask turned directly toward Bottu.

Bottu has tracked her down. She does not flee, but her hand closes around the satchel strap, and the firelight catches fresh charcoal marks copied from his relic route.

The masked watcher studies Bottu through the bronze half-mask. Then she releases the satchel strap, sets the spyglass aside, and rises within the shallow hollow.

She unfastens the bronze half-mask, revealing a lean adult woman with a weathered face, sharp gray eyes, and a dark braid tucked beneath her gray cloak. Her satchel remains closed.

Maren holds Bottu’s gaze in the firelight. The charcoal marks lie openly between them now, and her admission leaves her purpose narrowed but not harmless.

The words leave Bottu quietly, yet they hold against the hollow’s darkness. Maren’s sharp gaze remains fixed on him, and the charcoal marks lie forgotten between them.

Maren turns the charcoal-marked scrap toward herself and closes her satchel without hiding it. Her guarded posture eases, replaced by a measured willingness to speak plainly.

She steps aside from the hollow’s entrance, granting Bottu the space rather than demanding trust. Beyond her, night settles over the road toward the buried dead city.