Chapter 7 – The Heart of the Deep

The humans followed their goblin escorts deeper into the city, their boots clacking against smooth, ancient stone. The further they traveled, the more surreal the world around them became. The cavernous ceiling above remained shrouded in a soft magenta glow, but down here, the city pulsed with a more refined energy—elegant, deliberate, alive.

Though the architecture was clearly carved from the rock itself, it was no primitive settlement. The buildings were ornate, with archways and facades etched in stunning detail. Blue glyphs shimmered softly on certain walls—some static, others moving like liquid symbols locked in a loop. Strange mechanisms spun silently in corners, powered by no visible fuel or electricity.

The group pressed on, led by the same robed goblin who had first made contact. Beyond an industrial zone, they entered a marketplace. Stalls lined the stone walkways, adorned with glowing fruits, polished crystals, and unfamiliar tech that hummed softly. The crowd thickened here—goblins frozen mid-transaction, others abandoning their booths entirely just to get a look.

It wasn’t just curiosity. It was disbelief.

“Why do I feel like a walking ghost?” Nick muttered under his breath.

“Because we’re not supposed to be here,” Hydro replied, eyes scanning the crowd.

Soon they approached a towering structure in the heart of the city. Unlike the others, it rose high into the cavern, its facade adorned with more glyphs and large bronze symbols embedded into the walls. A wide set of steps led up to heavy stone doors, which opened without a sound as they approached.

Inside was a grand hall, massive and awe-inspiring. Pillars stretched to the ceiling, wrapped in gold trim. Paintings hung on walls depicting scenes of ancient life - lush green landscapes, massive cities under a bright sun, goblins standing among towering humans. Above, orbs of white light floated gently in the air, casting a soft glow over everything.

They were led to a large table in the center of the room. The goblin in the extravagant robes stepped forward, placing his gnarled hand on the polished surface. The others fanned out behind him, a circle of tense, watchful stares.

The robed goblin spoke—not in the clicking language from earlier, but something slower, smoother… recognizable.

“You do not belong here,” he said, his voice gravelly but steady. “And yet… you are here.”

The group exchanged glances.

Aeval took a small step forward. “We didn’t mean to intrude. We were just—running. We didn’t know any of this existed.”

The goblin leader tilted his head slightly. “Few do. Fewer still survive the discovery.”

Spoon’s voice was quiet. “Are you going to kill us?”

There was a pause. A beat of silence.

Then, the goblin leader cracked what might have been a smile.

“No. But they might.”

The humans turned as one, following his gaze toward one of the massive paintings on the wall—one that hadn’t drawn attention before.

It showed a human—tall, dark-cloaked, wearing a mask that obscured most of their face. Behind them, a machine—a tower pulsing with red light, connected by thick black wires that stretched into the earth. Below the surface, goblins lay trapped in glowing cages of light.

“The Warden,” Aeval said under her breath.

The goblin nodded.

“You know of her.”

Hydro stepped forward. “We work her mines.”

The goblin’s eyes dimmed. “Then you are not just visitors. You are slaves.”

There was another pause—heavier this time.

“And that,” the goblin said, stepping closer, “means we may share an enemy.”

A heavy silence settled over the hall, as if even the floating orbs of light dared not move. The robed goblin studied each of the humans in turn—his gaze sharp, calculating, but no longer hostile.

Hydro broke the silence. “If we share an enemy… does that mean you’ll help us?”

The goblin looked past him to his own kind, who stood in a half-circle behind him. Some nodded, others looked uncertain. Then he turned back. “Help is not given freely. It is earned. But perhaps… perhaps it is time.”

He raised his hand, and the gold-trimmed doors at the far end of the hall swung open.

“Come,” he said. “There is more you must see.”

The robed goblin turned and led them back through the towering stone doors and up a side corridor that wound along the perimeter of the central structure. It then emerged out onto a broad platform of carved stone on the exterior of the tower.

They continued to walk for several minutes. The city fell away behind them.

They eventually stepped into an opening, where the cavern ceiling rose higher than any they’d seen. The glow that had bathed the city dimmed behind them, replaced by a harsh, searing brilliance in the distance. The humans squinted, shielding their eyes. It wasn’t sunlight, but something far brighter, more alien.

As their eyes adjusted, the source became clear.

A sphere—impossibly large—floated above a massive basin of black rock. It radiated power in all directions, casting beams of white light across the walls of a vast underground world. The orb’s surface was alive with motion, arcane patterns shifting and folding in on themselves like thoughts forming and unforming. The air buzzed with a deep, harmonic resonance, the sound of something thinking in a language none of them could understand.

They walked.

The path wound away from the main city, past towers and the last of the ancient buildings that stood on the edge of this ledge. A great stone bridge spanned out ahead, suspended over a bottomless pit that surrounded the basin. And beyond the orb—far beyond—they could see other cities, other glows, clinging to the edges of the cavern’s massive interior like distant stars.

It wasn’t just one goblin city. There were many.

“This is only one branch of our people,” the goblin leader said, his voice now heavy with something between reverence and caution. “There are others. Clans scattered like roots in the deep. Each city was born around this.”

He pointed a long, gnarled finger toward the orb.

“The Vorruk’al. The Heart of the Deep. It sits at the center of all we are.”

Spoon stood at the edge of the bridge, stunned. “How is it… floating like that?”

“It has always floated. It has always been.”

The goblin continued, voice low but clear.

“It is a vessel of knowledge—accumulated thought from a time before goblins, before men. It remembers things long dead. It speaks, sometimes… not with words, but through visions. Feelings. A knowing that settles in your bones.”

Aeval stared at the distant cities. “And this… this is what the Warden wants?”

The goblin leader nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the orb.

“She wants everything,” he said. “The magenta crystal veins beneath our cities—raw, living arcane power. It renews itself endlessly, drawn from the deep places of the world. To her, it’s the perfect fuel. An infinite source of energy to feed her machines, her weapons, her war.”

He gestured to the floating sphere. “But the Vorruk’al… this is something else. It is not power—it is understanding. A living vault of memory. The accumulated knowledge of civilizations long vanished. She does not seek to use it. She seeks to consume it. To break it open and wear its secrets like armor.”

He turned then, facing the humans. His voice softened—not with weakness, but with gravity.

“Long ago, our kind shared the surface with yours. Not beneath them—not forgotten. We were architects. Keepers of arcane knowledge. There was a time when humans and goblins built wonders together.”

His expression darkened, the magenta light casting sharp shadows across his face.

“But power tempts. Not all humans sought harmony. A bloodline emerged—those obsessed with domination, with extracting what should never be controlled. Their pursuit led to war. And from that bloodline came the Warden.”

Nick folded his arms. “She’s not that old, is she?”

The goblin nodded slowly. “No. She is not the first. Just the latest. She carries the ambition of those who came before—refined, sharpened. Her ancestors failed to breach this place. She intends to succeed.”

A younger goblin stepped forward, barely reaching Spoon’s shoulder. “She found us decades ago. Sent machines to probe the outer caverns. We collapsed the tunnels, thinking that would be the end of it.”

“It wasn’t,” the robed leader added grimly. “She changed tactics. Enslaved your kind. Dug deeper. Not just for ore—but for this.”

He gestured again toward the orb, which pulsed faintly in response.

Aeval stepped forward, her brow furrowed. “If she wants it so badly, why hasn’t she taken it?”

The goblin gave a faint, knowing smile. “Because she cannot. The Vorruk’al does not yield to brute force. It responds to resonance—will, memory, connection. She tries to forge shortcuts. To bypass what must be understood.”

Spoon eyed the orb, his voice barely above the hum in the air. “And you think it might respond to us?”

The goblin leader studied them for a long moment. Then, he nodded. “You reached this place. That alone is unprecedented. The city let you pass. The Vorruk’al… has begun to stir.”

From the far side of the bridge, a voice rose—aged, but unwavering.

“It remembers.”

An elder goblin stepped into view, leaning heavily on a staff carved from obsidian, etched with softly glowing glyphs. Her robes shimmered with threadbare elegance, and though her eyes were clouded with age, they were filled with unmistakable purpose.

“The orb remembers the fracture. The betrayal. And now—it remembers you.”

She stepped closer, her gaze sharp as it passed over each of the humans.

“You are not the Warden. You are not her blood. But you are touched by her wake. Broken by her chains. That makes you something rare.”

She turned toward the orb. Its glow shifted—brighter now, faster. Symbols churned across its surface like rising thoughts.

“You may yet be the key.”