Bozkar surveyed the two routes, the red light pulsing above the digital panel casting long, distorted shadows. “The Cinder Passage is a guaranteed cremation,” he spat, the sarcasm grinding out harsh and dry. “Even for us. The vents, Fendur. They’re our only shot.” Fendur nodded, his face still pale. “Agreed. High risk of bio-contamination, but less immediate… obliteration.” He tapped a sequence on his slate, and a small, circular hatch slid open on the wall, revealing a dark, tight tunnel. The air that spilled out was thick with a metallic tang and the faint, sweet scent of decay. “Vorus Vent. Looks like a service tunnel for the Grinder Level’s waste disposal system. Might lead us deeper.” “Perfect,” Bozkar sneered, forcing himself forward, his augmented arm scraping against the grimy metal. “A sewer system for a sewer rat. How fitting.” He didn’t wait for Fendur, plunging into the inky blackness. The passage immediately narrowed, forcing him to crawl on hands and knees, the polished chrome of his arm reflecting nothing but the dim glow of Fendur’s wrist-mounted lamp behind him. The vent was a snarl of twisted conduits and dripping pipes, the air sour with iron filings, dust, and rotting grease. Every few meters, a sharp, ragged tear in the metal indicated a past breach, probably by something far larger than them. He imagined Neyza, trapped in this same, reeking darkness, her elegance stripped away, her fierce intelligence struggling against the primal horror of it all. Three years. Three years he’d worn a polite smile like a freshly polished shiv, selling antique relics to the city’s elite while meticulously weaving the web around the Arch-Magistrate’s daughter. Three years of studying her habits, her preferences, her vulnerabilities. He’d learned to mimic concern, to offer genuine-sounding praise, to subtly guide her towards the precipice. And somewhere along that meticulously crafted path, the pretense had cracked. The fake smiles had started to feel… less fake. The casual touches had ignited something unfamiliar, something that resonated deeper than the inherited curse of vengeance. He had built her gilded cage, and then, inexplicably, found himself craving the warmth of the bird within. The realization had chewed slowly through his marrow. That he, Bozkar, the man whose entire existence was predicated on a generational grudge, could fall for the very symbol of his hatred. It was a joke, a cosmic punchline delivered by a cruel god. Now, that same attachment pulled him through this festering darkness, leaving him sick with pure self-loathing. “Hold,” Fendur’s voice rasped, cutting through the morbid introspection. “I’m picking up… something.” Bozkar stopped, pressing his ear against the cold metal. A faint, rhythmic clanking echoed from deeper within the shaft, accompanied by a low, guttural growl that sounded less like a mutant and more like… something mechanical. And furious. He pushed forward, ignoring Fendur’s soft protests, a frantic desperation driving him. The tunnel widened slightly, opening into a larger, horizontal section. The clanking grew louder, clearer. Something had been dragged through here. Something large and heavy. A glint of scarlet caught his eye under Fendur’s lamp beam. He scrambled forward, breath whistling between his teeth. It was a scrap of fabric, rich silk, torn and grimy, but undeniably hers. The vibrant crimson of her Zenith Gala dress, now soiled with streaks of oil and a crust of dried blood. Further on, tangled in a mesh of discarded wiring, was a hairpin, intricately crafted, its jade inlay chipped, smeared with a fresh, viscous red. Neyza. Here. And not by choice. The Grinder Level. His mind screamed the name, a notorious segment of Tartarus where industrial-grade compactors processed biological waste and… inconvenient inmates. A place where bodies were reduced to a pulp, where identity was pulverized into fertilizer. “She’s in the Grinder Level,” he snarled, his voice raw, ignoring the pain in his knees. “They dragged her down here.” “Bozkar, wait,” Fendur said, his tone strangely strained. Bozkar heard a faint, almost inaudible click, a sound too deliberate to be accidental. It was the soft thrum of a localized alarm, subtly tripped, designed to alert only specific targets. He spun, glaring at Fendur, whose eyes were fixed on his slate, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. Before Bozkar could demand an explanation, the clanking intensified, echoing from both directions now. A chorus of snarls erupted, closer this time, accompanied by the whirring of hydraulic servos. Bright, predatory red eyes ignited in the darkness ahead and behind them. A pack of Tartarus’s infamous ‘Chasm Hounds’ – mechanical constructs, repurposed for inmate suppression, now crazed and infected, their chrome jaws dripping with ichor. Fendur had just led them into an ambush. “Fendur!” Bozkar roared, drawing his arcano-pistol, the familiar weight a small comfort. But there were too many. Three from the front, two from the rear, their metallic forms glinting ominously. One of the hounds, a hulking mass of scarred chrome and exposed wires, lunged, its articulated legs propelling it with terrifying speed. Its jagged, serrated jaws snapped open, aiming straight for Bozkar’s throat. A blinding flash of cyanic energy erupted in the confined space, followed by the concussive crack of an arcano-charged bullet. The hound, mid-air, froze, then detonated in a shower of sparks and mangled metal, its head shattering into a thousand pieces. Bozkar blinked, the phantom image of the blast searing his retinas. He looked up, beyond the smoking remains of the hound, and into the gloom. Standing there, battered but unbowed, her face streaked with grime and fury, a stolen enforcer rifle held steady in her hands, was Neyza.

The Descent