You’re mine.
We’re safe.
Rhaema folds the door back over without a word, enclosing them in darkness.
The air shifts as the door closes, as if the surface world has exhaled them from its lungs.
Humidity clings to Elyssara like a second skin—thick and oppressive.
Kael doesn’t let go, leading her down until their boots find slick, solid ground. The flicker of distant candlelight offers minimal visibility. Only enough to make out walls, direction,something.
“Where are we?” Elyssara whispers, dropping into a predator’s crouch on instinct.
“A discreet bathhouse for the rebel network to conduct… secret dealings,” Kael answers, his voice thick with implication.
Rhaema works with rebels?
As if sensing her thoughts, Kael adds, “Not everyone supports the district system, the boundary. Rhaema has built a network of people who want to see change—that includes some nobles, Insiders, Outsiders. She’s persuasive… maybe even some royals.”
Elyssara’s mind swims. “A rebellion?”
He tugs on her hand, pulling her toward the guttering light. “Less a rebellion, and more… disruption. Interference.”
They pass through narrow walls carved from rock and earth, damp with moisture. The unmistakable sound of water tricklingfrom height and landing hard on rock finds its way to her. Heavy drips rent the air.
“Sounds like Rhaema doesn’t like to be told what to do,” Elyssara observes, half-distracted by the grit crunching underfoot.
“Doesn’t sound familiar at all,” he quips sarcastically.
She scoffs good naturedly, but her mind is elsewhere—fighting the undeniable feeling of being trapped underground. Her chest tightens. Fear tries its best to claw at her mind. But Kael senses her unease, tugging her forward, pulling her close.
Elyssara follows through the steam, like wading through mist.
“Only a little further,” he promises.
And before Elyssara has the chance to respond, light blooms. A chamber opens like a secret carved from the bones of the earth. The air is even warmer here, thick with steam and the clean mineral scent of wet stone. Candlelight glows from shallow divots carved into the rock, their flames trembling in the humidity, casting molten gold across the walls. The chamber itself is hewn entirely from gray, veined stone, its surface worn smooth by centuries of water and touch.
And at its center—a cascade.
Like a waterfall given shape where it was never meant to exist.
“It’s called a stonefall,” Kael says softly. “A gravity-fed water system where the water is trained through stone for filtration. Those on the Inside can access them for washing.”
A stonefall.
A personal stonefall for washing.
Elyssara’s mind swims.
People in the slums of Virellin washed in public wells—once a week at most. Even nobles and royals only had baths. But stonefalls?
She walks toward it, letting her hand drift out to touch the water falling through rocks.
It hits her hand in a firm spray.
She sucks in a gasp.
“It’s warm,” she breathes.
