Jorik’s voice, usually so carefully bland, was tight with a sharpness Osenya hadn't heard before. “Beneath us. Not the vents. The *foundations*.”
He snatched up the compass, its brass case warm against his palm, and moved to the floorboards. The wood here felt different, older, rougher than the factory-issue planks. He pressed his ear to it, then looked up at Osenya. “Do you hear it?”
Osenya knelt, feeling the faint, almost imperceptible tremor beneath her hand, a low thrum that was less sound and more sensation. It felt like the city itself was grinding its teeth.
“The plans… they show a service tunnel, meant for pipe maintenance, but it extends far deeper than it should,” Jorik explained, tracing a line on the blueprint. “Right into what they label 'Sub-level Gamma'. No one is allowed down there.”
“So, we go.” Osenya’s voice was flat, already envisioning the grime and rats. The idea of forbidden places, of digging for secrets, appealed to the parts of her that had spent years evading wardens, finding hidden passages in the city’s underbelly.
Jorik nodded, a flicker of something close to excitement in his eyes. He pulled up a loose floorboard near the wall, revealing a dark, cramped shaft leading down. The air that wafted up was damp and metallic, smelling of rust and ancient stone. He struck a sulfur match against his boot heel, kindling a stub of stolen tallow whose wick sputtered in the thick air.
“Wait,” Osenya said, pulling a length of twine from her pocket. She tied one end to the nametag of Elias Koldar and the other to her wrist. “In case we need a reminder.”
Jorik offered her a small, tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He went first, his lanky frame disappearing into the gloom. Osenya followed, her boots finding uncertain purchase on slick, crumbling steps. The shaft was narrower than she expected, pressing in on her, and the descent felt endless. Each step deepened the thrumming, until the air vibrated with it, a constant, low growl.
They emerged into a vast, cavernous space. The meager wick barely pushed back the gloom. Ancient, cyclopean stones formed the walls, covered in intricate, swirling glyphs that seemed to writhe in the flickering light. These were not the crude markings of Tarnoch, but something far older, alien.
“The foundation of Blackloom,” Jorik murmured, his voice hushed, reverent. His mask of dullness had completely fallen away. He moved to the nearest wall, his fingers tracing the glyphs. “This… this is a dialect of Old Solvran. Lost for centuries. The High Academies declared it unreadable.”
“What does it say, then, clever man?” Osenya asked, the air thick with dust and the smell of wet earth. Her gaze swept the expanse. The compass in Jorik's hand was not merely spinning now; it was vibrating, the needle a frantic blur.
Jorik’s brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s… a warning. A cycle. ‘The hunger below must be sated, lest the sky turn dry.’ And… ‘The tribute of flesh for the yield of brass.’” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “The ‘yield of brass’… that’s what powers the eternal coal-rain machines. The entire city runs on it.”
Osenya felt a cold, sharp dread settle in her stomach. “Tribute of flesh?”
“The Winter Tithe,” Jorik murmured, rubbing the soot from his knuckles. “It’s not just a rumour. It’s literal. They’re feeding people to this… this *thing* to keep the city running.”
He pointed deeper into the cavern. The floor sloped steeply downwards, disappearing into an inky blackness. A faint, sickening smell emanated from the abyss, like old iron and decay. The thrumming grew louder here, a hungry growl.
Osenya edged closer, trying to pierce the gloom. The air grew colder, heavy with a pervasive, metallic tang. A sharp crack echoed from the depths, followed by a low shearing rasp that made her teeth ache. She leaned further, trying to discern the source, when the edge of the stone under her boot crumbled. Loose grit skittered into the void.
Her boot slipped. She threw out an arm, catching only empty air. Before she could truly fall, a strong hand clamped around her waist, yanking her back with brutal force. Jorik. He pulled her flush against him, his other arm wrapping around her shoulders, holding her steady as she stumbled back from the precipice.
Her cheek pressed against his rough factory tunic, the scent of coal dust and something uniquely *him* filling her senses. His exhalations came hot against her ear, rough and uneven. For a moment, she was utterly still, held captive by the sudden, terrifying proximity. The cold dread from the chasm warred with a surprising warmth blossoming in her chest.
“Careful,” Jorik rasped, his grip tight, almost bruising. His eyes, when she finally looked up, were dark and intense, a primal fear mingled with something else she couldn't name. He held her an instant longer than necessary before releasing her, though his hand lingered on her sleeve.
Osenya swallowed, her throat dry. She nodded, unable to speak, acutely aware of the lingering imprint of his touch. She turned her gaze back to the chasm, trying to regain her composure. The friction below intensified into a wet, tearing noise.
From the pit, an outline began to coalesce. Not flesh, not metal, but an amorphous mass that drank in the scant tallow flare. It pulsed with an inner, sickly green luminescence. Two pinpricks of that light appeared, like malevolent eyes, fixing on them.
“Jorik…” Osenya whispered, her hand instinctively going to the small, dull knife she kept hidden in her boot.
Before Jorik could respond, a terrified gasp echoed from behind them. They spun around. Nadina Rost stood rigid in the narrow passage, clutching an oil lamp in both hands. She had been following them.
Nadina’s gaze darted between the shape and Osenya, then back to the dark mass. It began to slide toward them, gaining speed across the broken floor.
“Run, Nadina!” Osenya barked. Her rival stood paralyzed, lips parted without a sound, as the mass closed the distance.
Osenya shoved Jorik toward the passage, then lunged at Nadina, hauling her by the collar. Nadina pulled heavy, limp with panic. A freezing fringe of darkness whipped past Osenya's collarbone, raising blisters of frost that stung like lye.
She dragged Nadina back toward the opening. Jorik shouted from the crawlspace, his features bleached yellow by his flare. Osenya hurled the other woman through the gap. The entity hissed, a sound like gravel turning in a mill, retreating slightly from the open wick.
“Go!” Osenya shouted, raising her blade. The mass hesitated, then surged outward, spilling toward her boots.
Then, from an upper landing, an acetylene glare cut across the chamber. Iron-shod boots struck the flagstones in a measured cadence.
“What in the blazes is going on down here?!” an overseer's voice roared over the thrum, his broad frame outlined against an arc-lamp. The black mass shrank instantly from the harsh white beam, slumping into the chasm.
Nadina, still half-sprawled against the masonry, pulled herself up. She looked from the blinding carbide lamp to the edge of the pit, then to Osenya's bared knife. Her eyes darted, calculating, desperate.
She leveled an unsteady finger straight at Osenya and Jorik. “They tried to throw me down! They forced me down here to make me the tithe!”