"Hold up, Logue." In their years of acquaintance, Logue had proven time and again to be a bit of a dallier. Most often it was Fulke who set the pace, dragging Logue down corridors while the older Courser spent all his air on folksy ramblings. He wasn't chewing any fat today, though. To Fulke, he seemed in a downright hurry.

Fulke could understand why. The Moor was an eerie expanse, so cavernous that one might mistake its distant stone ceiling for a stormy sky. Your eyes got tricked into finding a horizon beyond the dark. The whole place was more like a diorama than a dungeon, an entire battlefield buried like a time capsule. It hardly even looked picked over. One had to wonder if the treasures here were really that numerous, or if the superstitious types like Fulke's guide just avoided it. Fulke cast his glance up a mossy slope after Logue, just in time to watch the other's torchlight vanish over the hilltop.

"Logue!" It was strange to shout without an echo shouting back. Made him miss the labyrinth of home. "Damn you! I told you wait!" Logue and his orange halo did not return. Fulke cussed him but stayed with what he'd discovered in the mud.

The thing was old, whatever it was. Most of the leather had rotted all the way away, but what remained of it was black and gnarled like driftwood. The mummified straps were joined by an engraved bit of tarnished metal, its surface filthy but its shape distinct. It bore more than a passing likeness to the crest of Triomphe's family, a sigil with which he was intimately familiar; he'd polished it enough times, on bridles or chanfrons or scabbards. There was a time he'd even worn it, burned into leather, right over his heart.

Fulke pulled the emblem free from the dirt, flung it on the ground face up flat so he could give it a proper look. He wasn't crazy—there were the crossed rapiers, the filigree, the divided field. It wasn't just similar, it was identical. His eyes scoured the patch of earth from which the emblem had been excavated, desperate for context. He stowed the ancient thing in his pack and turned back toward the mud; whoever had worn this amulet, Fulke wanted to see their face.

Grimacing up the path Logue had disappeared on, he worked his jaw tightly. It was dangerous to be alone in the dungeon, but Fulke decided to kick his torch closer to the site of his discovery and start digging. The Moor might have been spooky, but it was empty too. Logue could run and hide on his own if he liked. Fulke didn't fear the dead.