The blunt iron head of the ram exploded through the heavy oak. Shards of wood flew inward, some whistling past Jadwiga’s ear, others embedding themselves in the far wall with soft thuds. Before she could even flinch, a hand, solid as river stone, clamped around her arm. Duszan didn’t ask, didn’t warn; he simply pulled. Not towards the open window, not towards the door where ruin now bloomed, but backwards, towards the towering, overflowing bookshelf that dominated the room’s deepest corner.
Her feet tangled in the discarded scrolls. A yelp caught in her throat as she stumbled, but Duszan’s grip was unyielding. He moved with a brutal efficiency that left no room for hesitation. One strong shove, and she was propelled headfirst into the dusty space behind the shelf. It wasn’t a wall, but an unexpected void, a narrow, dark opening she hadn’t known existed.
The air was stale, thick with the scent of damp earth and aged paper. She barely registered the cramped confines before Duszan followed, his broad frame filling the gap. With a soft click, the bookshelf swung back into place, sealing them in. The thunderous crash of the ram shattering what remained of the study door, followed by the heavy boots and guttural shouts of the Vigilants, became muffled, distant echoes. Their angry voices, filled with a zealous fervor, vibrated through the very stones of the university.
The gloom pressed in, absolute and heavy. Ribs rattled against Jadwiga’s frantic pulse in the sudden silence. She could feel Duszan’s presence, impossibly close in the tight space, the faint scent of leather and something metallic, like rain on stone. He moved again, his hand finding hers, pulling her forward. The passage sloped downwards, uneven underfoot. She stumbled in the pitch black, her palm scraping against rough-hewn stone.
“Where are we going?” Her voice was a strained whisper, unfamiliar to her own ears. Panic, cold and sharp, finally began to pierce through her intellectual remove. This wasn’t some abstract concept, some historical debate. This was real.
Duszan’s reply was a low rumble, devoid of any discernible emotion. “Underneath. The old conduits. They have been sealed for a generation.”
“The conduits?” Jadwiga frowned, trying to picture the archaic drainage networks she had studied in municipal scrolls. “But… why? My parents said Feliks would help, not… not an escape through the sewers with a stranger.”
“Feliks secured your initial egress. I am the secondary measure.” His words were clipped, each syllable a precise cut. “An oath-bound protectorate.”
Jadwiga halted, nearly causing Duszan to collide with her in the narrow passage. “An oath-bound… what are you talking about? Are you some kind of… mercenary? My parents are gone. No one hired you.”
“An oath predates your birth, Jadwiga Leszczyn,” Duszan stated, his voice unwavering. “An unbending promise, made by my forebears to yours. It binds me to the preservation of your line, to you, the Last Solstice Heir.”
“Last Solstice Heir?” Jadwiga scoffed, the sound hollow in the subterranean chill. Her certainty, her bedrock defense, asserted itself. “Oh, for the love of the Lesser Gods, don’t tell me you believe that superstitious nonsense! ‘The Zenith Queen will rise, and the world will burn.’ It’s a mistranslation, Duszan! A poor rendition of classical Velskan script, conflating ‘Sun-Kissed’ with ‘Midsummer,’ and ‘Lineage’ with ‘Queen.’ It’s a common scribal error, easily debunked by comparing contemporary dialects!” She spoke with the practiced ease of a scholar lecturing a particularly dim student, dismissing the very notion with a wave of her hand, even though he couldn’t see it.
Duszan remained silent for a long moment, the only sound the distant, fading clamor from above. Then, his voice, deeper now, resonated in the cramped space. “The oath does not care for linguistic nuance, scholar. Only for blood and duty. Your parents understood. They prepared.”
“Prepared for what? For you to drag me through the literal underworld because of a poorly translated prophecy?” Jadwiga bit out each syllable with raw disdain. “My goal is to expose the Vigilants as frauds, to return to my research, not to fulfill some archaic destiny born from a typo!”
“Your goal is to survive,” Duszan corrected, his tone chillingly level. “My duty is to ensure it. The prophecy is irrelevant. Your existence is not.”
They continued their descent, the air growing colder, heavier. The tunnels twisted and turned, occasionally opening into slightly wider chambers where the drip of unseen water echoed. Duszan navigated with an unnerving confidence, his hand a constant, guiding pressure on her arm. He moved without wasted effort, his body a silent, effective machine.
Suddenly, he stopped, pressing her back against the rough stone wall. His other hand went to her mouth, a firm, non-negotiable command for silence. The scent of him, clean and sharp, filled her nostrils. She heard it then: the shuffling of boots, the low murmur of voices, closer than any they’d heard before. A patrol, just above them, or perhaps in a parallel conduit.
They held their breath. Duszan’s face was inches from hers in the dense shadow, his grey eyes, usually so impassive, now sharp, searching, listening. She could feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin, the subtle shift of his muscles as he remained utterly still. The rough texture of his sleeve brushed against her cheek. It was a proximity so intense, so unexpected, it stole the air from her lungs. She became acutely aware of the minute details: the slight unevenness of his breath, the faint pulse beating in her own throat, the way the darkness seemed to concentrate around his form. It was a shocking intimacy, born purely of mortal peril, and it made her heart pound with a new, unsettling rhythm that had nothing to do with fear.
The voices faded, moving away. Duszan slowly removed his hand, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second too long. He pulled back, and the sudden coolness of the air where he had been was a stark absence. He gave a slight nod, a silent signal to continue.
Hours later, after what felt like an eternity of cramped passages and cold stone, they emerged into a vast, cavernous space. The air here was fresher, though still damp, carrying the faint, metallic tang of the city above. High above, narrow shafts of moonlight pierced through iron grates, illuminating the colossal arches and crumbling pillars of the city’s forgotten aqueducts. Water, clear and cold, flowed in a wide channel at their feet. This was it, a known escape route, a way to bypass the city walls.
Jadwiga felt a surge of relief, short-lived as a summer storm. Ahead, where the aqueduct narrowed to exit the city’s underground, a flickering amber glow painted the distant walls. Silhouettes, scores of them, moved with grim purpose. The Vigilants. Not a patrol, not a company, but a legion. They had anticipated this. They had sealed the primary exit, their numbers too vast to be circumvented, their presence a solid wall of zealotry.
Duszan stopped, his gaze fixed on the impossible blockade. His shoulders, which had seemed so unyielding, tensed further. The easy confidence in his posture vanished, replaced by a grim, calculating stillness. He took a slow breath, his eyes scanning the impossible odds, then turned to Jadwiga, his expression a mask of grave certainty. “There is another way. You will not like it.”