The sizzle intensified, an acrid vapor rising from the dark brine as it spread across the bell tower's floor. The faint smell of sulfur and something metallic filled the air. Kadir stared at the eroding stone, the truth stark and terrifying. This wasn’t just a flood; it was a hungry, consuming force.
Demirci, having recovered some of his composure, cleared his throat. “Well, Safar, perhaps your… alarmist predictions were not entirely unfounded. However, we must prioritize. As the most senior faculty member, I shall oversee the distribution of resources. Especially food.”
Kadir straightened, turning slowly from the corroding floor. “My food, Professor. The provisions Cemil and I gathered. And these are my friends.” He gestured to Ayla, still pale and trembling, and to Cemil, whose hand rested protectively on the hilt of the small axe he’d used to dismantle the bell tower’s timber. A small group of other survivors, mostly junior lecturers and clerks, huddled in the far corner, watching the exchange with wary apprehension.
Demirci scoffed, his gaze sweeping over the gathered staff. “Nonsense. Rank dictates order, even in catastrophe. We have senior scholars here who require sustenance to formulate our next steps. You, as a mere junior cartographer, will defer.” He pointed to a thin, stoop-shouldered woman with wire spectacles, a linguistics professor known for her work on forgotten dialects, and a rotund, balding man from the administrative registry.
Cemil took a step forward, shoulders set square. “Professor, with all due respect, it was *our* work that made this refuge. *Our* sweat sealing the stone. Those provisions are for everyone who put their hands to the task.”
“Silence, groundskeeper,” Demirci snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “Your opinion is not required. Safar, hand over the packs.”
Kadir felt the familiar knot of frustration tighten in his chest. Demirci, even now, prioritized his own twisted hierarchy over common sense, over life itself. Yet, the other survivors were watching, their hunger visible in their eyes. To refuse Demirci outright would be to create immediate conflict within their already precarious sanctuary. He knew the professor would find a way to make any defiance look like selfishness. He had to pick his battles.
“Fine,” Kadir said, his voice level despite the anger simmering beneath. “But no one goes without. We ration equally, and we will share the burden of work.”
Demirci’s lips thinned, but he didn’t argue further, perhaps sensing the growing tension from Cemil. He snatched one of the canvas sacks Kadir offered, rummaging through it and pulling out a small loaf of hardened bread and a sliver of dried fish, offering it with a flourish to the linguistics professor. She accepted it with a murmured thank you, her eyes darting nervously between Demirci and Kadir.
While Demirci was occupied with his self-appointed distribution, Ayla moved closer to Kadir. Her hand reached out, gently taking his left hand. It was then he noticed a deep, angry gash across his palm, a souvenir from wrestling with the heavy oak door. He hadn’t felt it in the rush of adrenaline. She pulled a strip of clean linen from a small pouch at her waist, her touch light as she began to carefully bind the wound. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, her dark hair falling forward, brushing his wrist.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice softer than he intended. He watched her work, the delicate precision of her fingers, the faint scent of old parchment and rain that clung to her. He wanted to tell her everything, to confess the recurring nightmare of the flood, his desperate attempts to avert it, his failure. But the words remained lodged in his throat, too heavy, too strange for this new, terrible reality.
She finished tying the knot, securing the bandage with practiced ease. Her gaze met his, a deep, troubled pool of dark amber. “Kadir… those archives… everything is gone.” Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with a profound sorrow. “Except… I grabbed this.” She gestured with her chin towards a heavy, tarnished brass cylinder she had clutched to her chest. It was perhaps two spans long, intricately etched with the Pargali Institute’s crest. It looked out of place, a relic from a bygone era, amidst the chaos.
“What is it?” Kadir asked, reaching to steady the tube. It felt solid, weighted with heavy metal caps.
Ayla carefully unlatched one end, sliding out a tightly rolled stack of thick, vellum sheets. She handled them with reverence. “These are the master plans of Pargali. Not the current expansions, but the founders’ initial designs. The ones showing the subterranean sluices and cisterns, the channels cut straight into the caldera's bedrock to divert torrents off the peaks. Professor Eren handed them to me for cataloging last week. He called them the hidden veins.”
Kadir touched the parchment edge. The institute's modern surveys halted at the basements of the terrace tiers, omitting the older tunnels. He had traced notes on the basin's lower culverts before, but never true schematics. “The mountain runoff conduits,” he murmured. “A route beneath the lower rim.”
“Exactly,” Ayla said. “Main trunks, overflow basins, the lower discharge ducts carved under the lecture halls. If we can vent the rise or clear a path to the outer ledge, the routes are here.”
Kadir took the rolled vellum, his mind already racing. This was a godsend. A potential path forward, a glimmer of control amidst the overwhelming deluge. He spread a section of the vellum across a crate, well clear of the seeping runoff. The lines, meticulously drawn, revealed a complex network of tunnels and channels, far more intricate than any contemporary design. It was a labyrinth beneath their feet, a system built to tame the very forces now threatening to engulf them. He could almost hear Cemil’s delighted grunts at the prospect of exploring and rebuilding.
But first, they needed to know the true extent of the danger. He glanced at the corrosive water, its surface disturbed by tiny ripples of chemical reaction. The black pool had crept another handspan, charring the pale pavers. He needed to measure its depth, its true destructive power.
“Cemil!” Kadir called out, his voice cutting through the hushed murmurs of the other survivors. “Do we still have that coil of lead fishing line? And the plumb bob?”
Cemil, who had been glowering at Demirci, brightened at the call to action. “Aye, Kadir! Still in the supply sack. What do you need it for?”
“To see how deep the surge outside has risen,” Kadir replied, moving toward the heavy iron grate near the main portal, which opened over the sheer drop below. He needed to verify his worst fears. He tied the heavy lead weight to the end of the sturdy line, his fingers working quickly. “And to understand how quickly it’s eating away at everything.”
He pushed aside the grate with a grunt, revealing a churning vortex of black water. A deafening roar erupted from the opening, the sound of the raging torrent outside. He lowered the plumb line carefully, paying out the rope foot by foot, counting the marks he’d etched into the line earlier. Ten feet, twenty, thirty… the water roared, pulling at the line with surprising force. He felt the plumb bob hit something, a faint bump against the bell tower’s outer wall, before settling into the depths.
He waited a full minute, allowing the lead to rest, to be fully immersed in the toxic flood. Then he hauled the cord back up, hand over hand. The line rose dripping, slick with dark sludge. As the weight broke the surface, the hair on Kadir's forearms prickled. The heavy lead weight, once a perfectly conical shape, was now a jagged, half-eaten stump. The metal was pitted, corroded, and visibly smaller, as if gnawed by some unseen, ravenous beast. It was barely recognizable.
His calculations had been based on theoretical models, on projected material degradation. This… this was far worse. The water wasn’t merely corrosive; it was an active solvent, devouring stone and metal alike at an accelerated, terrifying rate. He looked at the half-devoured lead, then at the vellum in his hand, then at the bell tower’s load-bearing masonry, already hissing where the dark seep pooled.
The initial flood had been violent, destructive. But this… this was insidious. He re-ran the numbers in his head, factoring in the observed rate of decay on the lead, extrapolating it to the limestone and granite of the tower’s base, accounting for the sheer volume of the toxic water. They did not have a month. They did not even have three weeks. He counted the stonework depth against the corrosive spread: fourteen days at most. Exactly fourteen days before the bell tower lost its underpinning and tipped into the churning mire below.