“Please. I must learn.”

Gargoyle leveled their silver gaze. They willed their eyes to hold everything they needed to hold, open and legible. To be emphatic was not their disposition. To grovel was not, either. All Gargoyle wanted to be was present and perceived: a statue that had no choice but to remain steady in the shape assigned to it by powers beyond what stone could control.

Crispin stared back for a time. Gargoyle could not name the thoughts behind those red irises. Was it understanding? Pity? The tenderness of a weary teacher?

Gargoyle waited. The exhalations of the Earthen Furnace rolled past overhead, warming his ears.

“You have that hunger in you,” Crispin pronounced. “Good. You’re still new to this, though. Make sure you stay close.”

Gargoyle’s ribs relaxed in one dizzying sweep. Crispin—the Crispin—would teach him. From his once-home high on the mountains, he had never imagined meeting the dungeoneers of legend, and now that legend came to live, striding forth into the yawning gleam of the Furnace without nary a tremble in his legs.

The other courser followed, ears high and alert.

You have that hunger in you.

And Gargoyle supposed they did. The allure of riches and renown did nothing for them, but all they wanted—all they craved, now that they were here—was just to see.