Curze knew it was a trap, but they had taken Teresa.
That was enough.
He stood at the entrance to the mine, in an abandoned excavation zone five hundred metres underground.
The air smelled of methane, rust, and moisture, mingled with an inhuman presence that was far too pure.
Seven, perhaps eight.
They were waiting below.
For Nostramo?
The thought struck Curze as faintly ironic, but the people of Nostramo were innocent. The nobles being beasts did not make the oppressed guilty.
Whether for the oppressed or for his mother.
Curze had to go.
Curze closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to feel his way through the river of time for clues.
Usually, the future appeared to him like shards of a broken mirror: which mistress a noble would spend tonight with, which alley a gang leader would pass through three days from now.
But now there were only blurred whirlpools and grating noise.
The way the Aeldari threads of Fate intertwined with those of humanity was elusive.
He could see the scene of Teresa being taken replaying, but could not make out what would happen next.
Still thinking, he entered the descending passage. The rusted stairs barely made a sound beneath his feet.
Three minutes and four hundred and twenty steps later, he reached the platform.
The scene was more ceremonial than he had expected.
Seven Aeldari warriors stood in a ring on the abandoned central platform.
They wore no battle armour, but some kind of close-fitting garments that looked thin and light, yet were clearly extraordinary, shimmering like mother-of-pearl in the gloom.
Each held a weapon, not a gun but an exquisite sword, blade, or spear. They looked more like works of art, but the dangerous sheen flowing along their edges said everything.
Teresa sat on a metal