Page 154 of Fallacies

“Good.”

I’m not sure what I hit him with—some combination of Rogue and Sol magic—but what was intended to knock him into oblivion only knocks him back a few steps, freeing me from his grip in the process.

“I’m not reckless,” I tell him, readjusting my curtain-robe. “I’m decisive.”

The Hound rights himself, silently staring back at me. He’s not annoyed or angry—my small display of magic is hardly a threat to him—but he does look surprised. Maybe not at what I said, but at what I did. And perhaps that’s a good thing.

If we are to work together, it will be as equals, even if he is a centuries-old god with a penchant for pain.

Blinking out of his stare, the Hound shoves his hands into his pockets and nods to the tunnels. “Happy exploring,” he says.

“Happy source hunting,” I reply, shutting the bench behind me.

As he suggested, I avoid the first two tunnels on my right, moving the ball of light above me further down the passage. The tunnel is narrow enough that the echo of me passing through isn’t as loud as I thought it might be, and I’m taking that as a win.

The walls are cold and damp, the steps worn, but the stagnant smell tells me that although they’ve been used frequently, they’ve not been visited in a while.

I might not have a supernatural sense of smell, but I’m not a moron.

The soft amber orb pulses, illuminating a pathway to the left. The rest of the tunnel continues ahead, but I decide to explore.

Unsheathing a knife—just in case—I turn the corner into the small chamber. When light pours into the space, I slowly lower my weapon.

It’s someone’s room. A grim and dismal attempt at one, but I can tell whoever stayed here had tried to make it nice. There’s a small mat against the far wall, an old blanket folded neatly across it, and the sheets are stained and grey. The only other thing in the space is a worn wooden chair in the corner with a few small cloths stacked on the seat.

I make a mental note to ask Salem what he thinks of this room. Maybe he got a whiff of who stayed in it. He must have decided it’s safe, or else he would have told me to avoid it.

Returning to the tunnel, I tug on the light, urging it to follow. The orb zips down ahead of me, and I glance back at the small alcove now smothered in darkness, the eeriness of it crawling across my skin.

There’s a clang against stone up ahead, and my attention snaps forward, my guard rising with my knife. I flood my veins with my father’s magic—for no specific reason aside from it feeling like the right choice.

The orb of light has stopped, illuminating a fork in the tunnel about thirty paces in front of me. Both the right and left are pitch dark and silent. I’m not sure which one the sound had come from.

So, I don’t move. I listen.

A few seconds later, there’s a groaning sound, like the settling of a house or the movement of water through an old pipe. I press my palms into the walls on either side of me, feeling for the vibration. The sound strains, stretching until⁠—

Another loud clang reverberates through the tunnel, and the stone beneath my left hand resonates. I glance at the tunnel on the left, exhaling a deep breath before I move forward, keeping my steps quiet as I approach the orb.

I don’t risk sending it ahead, snuffing the light before moving into the smaller tunnel. I’d rather navigate it in the dark than shine a bright beam onto whatever’s making that sound.

This section is narrower, fit for only one person to walk through. Any less room and I’d feel claustrophobic. Keeping one hand on the wall, I make my way down, a stream of faded light coming into view, pouring from a small grate on the right-hand side of the wall.

My steps slow as I near it, a pair of voices growing louder the closer I get.

“Must we do this every time, Grey?” Something slams against the wall. The same sound I’d heard all the way down the tunnel, but it’s even louder than before.

Saturating my skin with magic, I tug on nearby shadows, gathering them around me until I’m covered enough to step in front of the vent without being seen.

At first, I don’t even understand what I’m looking at—the grid in the vent obstructing most of my view. It’s a decently large room, with very little light, and there’s a man whom I quickly place as a member of the Countesses’ inner circle. His black hair is roused, golden, feline eyes sharp and angry. He has something pressed up against the wall, his fists curled in ripped fabric.

“What. Happened. To. The guard?” he hisses into his victim’s face.

Silence.

His lip curls. “I can do this all day, and you know it.”

More silence. Not even a grunt or a groan of pain.