“The junction, then.” I take the bundle of supplies. “Two hours.”
Tomek doesn’t offer his hand. Neither do I. In the Crimson Vale, such gestures feel hollow.
“Two hours,” he agrees. Then he’s gone, melting into the rocks as if he was never there.
The entranceto the drainage tunnels is a gaping wound in the earth.
A rusted grate covers it, but time and neglect have warped the metal, leaving gaps wide enough to squeeze through. The stench hits us before we’re within ten feet—copper and rot and something worse. The accumulated waste of centuries of blood magic, concentrated in tunnels that were never meant to be walked by the living.
Kharvek pulls the grate aside. Darkness yawns below.
“I’ll go first.” He’s already moving toward the opening.
“I know these tunnels.” I’ve studied maps of them for years, memorized every turn and junction. “Let me lead.”
He pauses. I watch the war play across his features—the instinct to protect battling with respect for my expertise. His jaw works.
“Fine.” He steps back. “But I’m right behind you.”
I squeeze his hand. Then I descend into the dark.
The Sanctum’sunderlevels are horror made architectural.
The tunnels are narrow—barely wide enough for Kharvek to fit, his shoulders scraping the walls with every step. The floor is slick with substances I refuse to examine closely. Rivers of darkness run along the channel’s center, viscous and foul-smelling, occasionally lit by the faint crimson glow of blood-wards embedded in the stone.
And the bones.
They’re everywhere. Pressed into the walls, forming patterns that might be decorative or might be structural.
I’ve studied these tunnels theoretically. Read descriptions. Examined maps that noted “organic architectural elements” in clinical shorthand. Nothing prepared me for the reality.
“They built this.” Kharvek’s voice echoes strangely in the narrow space. Disturbed in a way I’ve rarely heard from him. “Infrastructure out of the people they killed.”
“The clan wastes nothing.” I force one foot in front of the other. If I stop, I might not start again. “Blood for magic. Flesh for rituals. Bones for?—”
A skull grins at me from the wall. Small. A child’s skull.
I stop. Can’t help it. My hand flies to my mouth.
Kharvek is there immediately. His arms wrap around me from behind, pull me against his chest. His chin rests on top of my head.
“Breathe.”
I can’t. The skull is staring at me. A child. A baby. Mortared into a drainage tunnel as another brick.
“Imara.” His voice is rough. “Breathe.”
I force air into my lungs. Out. In again. His heartbeat pounds against my back—steady, strong, alive.
“I knew,” I whisper. “I knew what they did here. I’ve known my whole life. But seeing it?—”
“It’s different.” His arms tighten. “I know.”
His warmth seeps into me, pushing back the cold that threatens to overwhelm. His lips press against my hair.
“When this is over”—his jaw tightens—“we burn all of it. The Sanctum. The tunnels. Every bone they ever desecrated. We burn it all and we never come back.”
“Promise?”
