The choice was impossible. Unless it wasn’t. Renza didn't waste another nanosecond. She lunged sideways in a desperate leap, plunging headfirst into the tavern’s stone basin. Stagnant water smelling faintly of fermented cactus mash closed over her skull. She thrashed against the rim, the burn of her soul-brand quelled by the murk while the sizzling wool ceased its hiss. Surfacing with wet strands plastered across her nose, she wiped away gray grime to find the smoking thread doused. Her chest smarted under bruised ribs, but the chest-wrap remained tight beneath her drenched woolens. Vashar stood frozen by the fountain’s edge, his expression a masterpiece of utter bewilderment. His jaw hung slack, his normally precise posture a mess of confusion. Water streamed from Renza’s hair and clothes, pooling at her feet. She looked like a drowned rat, a very cold, very annoyed drowned rat. But the immediate threat was gone. The soul-seal, though still throbbing, had retreated from the edge of detonation. She pushed wet hair from her eyes, a mischievous glint taking hold. “Well, that was refreshing!” she declared, her teeth chattering slightly. “Hot work, fighting invisible lady assassins. Good thing I’m always prepared for a spontaneous dip. You know, for… tactical reasons.” She gestured vaguely at the now soaked cobblestones. Vashar blinked, his gaze fixed on her. The initial horror had faded, replaced by something far more complex. His eyes, usually sharp and judging, swept over her, taking in the way the wet fabric clung to her, outlining a form that was undeniably slender, perhaps even… delicate? He shook his head, a faint flush creeping up his neck. Puzzlement, anger, and startled scrutiny crossed his features in rapid succession, widening his pupils as his chin remained tilted downward. “Are you… intact, Renzo?” he asked, voice dropped to a rough grating tone. “The coat… your mark…” “Oh, this old thing?” Renza waved a dismissive hand. “Just a little overenthusiastic. Happens when you’re as passionate as I am about… *everything*.” She grinned, trying to look unbothered, though she was shaking from the cold. “A quick dip always fixes it. Like a cold bath for an overstimulated aura. Right? Basic Vanguard-ology.” Vashar stared, blowing a sharp hiss through his teeth. “There is no ‘Vanguard-ology’ that dictates plunging into a public fountain, ‘Renzo’! Your brand is unstable. This isn’t a joke!” But even as he scolded, his eyes kept returning to the way her tunic, now completely saturated, clung to her frame, the lines of her chest, the curve of her shoulders. He looked away abruptly, his face tightening, as if wrestling with an unwelcome thought. “Understood, Captain Priss,” Renza said, jaw tight against a tremor. “Lesson learned. No more impromptu plunges. Unless the courtyard hits midsummer noon.” Before Vashar could retort, a messenger sprinted into the tavern, his face pale. “Cadet Vashar! Cadet Renzo! Grandmaster Pahran requests your immediate presence. A new assignment. Deep Catacombs patrol. Effective immediately.” Vashar’s brow knit. “The subterranean galleries? With no advance notice?” “Orders, sir! And… a new directive,” the messenger stammered, glancing nervously at Renza’s dripping form. “No lanterns or torches permitted. Says fire attracts the burrowers. You must navigate blind.” Renza’s smirk slipped away. Pitch-black tunnels beneath the canyon floor, where glass-plated Scorch-fiends dropped their litters? This reeked of a quiet execution disguised as a duty rota. Or another of Pahran’s smiling games. Hours later, the sun dropped past canyon rims, plunging the Ascendancy into the bitter freeze of high wasteland stone. The lower galleries were a maze of calcified sandstone where lime-heavy seepage tapped rhythmically against rubble. Renza moved with one shoulder brushing the raw wall, her clammy collar prickling her nape. The pitch was total, heavy enough to choke on. “This is insane,” Vashar’s voice cut through the black, a low growl of frustration. “No light. It’s a death wish. What kind of ‘feral ones’ are attracted to light but not sound or movement?” “Maybe the beasts are timid,” Renza whispered, her teeth knocking together once before she bit down. “Or saving their strength.” Her soul-seal throbbed with a slow, grinding heat that only sharpened in the sub-level drafts. The flagstones bucked under their boots. A groaning crack rent the overhead vault, dumping grit across their scalps. Renza lurched sideways, gripping Vashar’s forearms to steady herself against iron-hard muscle. “Cave-in!” Vashar yelled, his voice laced with urgency. “Move!” The roar intensified, followed by a thunderous crash. A section of the tunnel behind them collapsed, spewing dust and smaller rocks. They were cut off. Trapped. The air grew heavy with the scent of pulverized earth and something else—a faint, acrid smell that made the hairs on Renza’s arms stand on end. “Well, this is just great,” Renza muttered, trying to sound brave, but her voice cracked. “Just when I was starting to enjoy the ambiance.” “Keep quiet,” Vashar murmured. “The updraft has cut off; frost is settling.” He navigated by trailing his knuckles along the bedrock, dragging Renza by the cuff until he backed them both into a shallow hollow between buttresses. Cold stone leached warmth straight through her leggings. “My jaw is rattling loose,” Renza muttered through chattering incisors. Her coarse wool offered zero defense against the draft. Vashar sighed, a gust of warm air against her cheek. “We need to share body heat. It’s standard survival protocol.” His voice was stiff, formal, but his hand was already reaching for her, pulling her closer. Renza tensed, then relaxed into his side. He gave off heat like a banked forge, anchoring her against the freeze. Through his heavy gear she mapped every ridge of his ribs and the rhythmic strike of his pulse. They stood pressed together, two small specks against the vast, cold stone. The warmth spread slowly, a small comfort against the chilling threat of the night. Then, a low scuttling sound, wet and chitinous, echoed from the darkness ahead. A soft clicking, like many tiny claws on stone, grew louder. Renza halted mid-stride. “What was that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Hatchling,” Vashar whispered. “Immature, but hungry. Thin vitreous carapace, razor appendages.” Claws clattered against scree at charging speed. An ear-splitting rasp tore through the gloom. Before she could sidestep, Vashar’s forearm struck her chest, pitching her behind his hips. A tear of twill, a heavy grunt, and the wet crack of split shell cracked through the void, punctuated by Vashar cursing under his tongue. “Vashar!” Renza whispered sharply, grabbing for his waist. “Did it gut you?” “Flesh wound,” he wheezed, breathing hard through flared nostrils. “Clipped the bicep. Skittered away south.” Renza fumbled in her satchel, pulling out her emergency field dressing. “Let me see. We need light.” “No light!” Vashar snapped, even as he leaned against the cold stone, his breathing still labored. “It’ll bring more. We deal with this in the dark.” “Fine. Hold still,” Renza ordered, her voice surprisingly steady. She guided his hand to her, feeling for the wound. Her fingers brushed against bare skin. He must have torn his sleeve completely. Her fingers ripped away the shredded sleeve, laying bare the hot swell of his shoulder. A clean trough bled freely into the seam. She clamped the linen pad down with her thumb, smoothing edges with deliberate strokes. The heat rising from his skin made the cold vault recede into total irrelevance. “You’re… surprisingly adept at this,” Vashar murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through her fingertips. He was leaning into her touch, his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. “Years of patching up scrapes,” Renza murmured, her tone lower than usual. “Out on the dunes you learn field dressing, or the vultures clean your skull.” She knotted the tails, her palms resting against the hard slope of his collarbone. Neither spoke. His ribs expanded unevenly against her knuckles. The draft smelled of copper, cedar soap, and skin. As his posture bent toward hers, her pulse pounded at her temples like a war drum in the hollow gloom. Her eyes tracked the rough outline of his mouth in the gloom, caught in a gravitational lock. Just as their breaths mingled, a searing white-hot light erupted. Vashar cried out, a sharp gasp of pain. His left shoulder, where his soul-brand resided, flared, a brilliant, unstable burst of raw aura. The light, intense and blinding, illuminated the small alcove. It cast long, dancing shadows, revealing every crack in the ancient stone, every speck of dust in the air. Renza recoiled, startled by the sudden inferno of light and Vashar’s raw agony. Then she saw it. Directly behind them, formerly swallowed by the black, stood an immense bronze portal, easily twenty feet tall, chased with arcane glyphs that caught the dying radiance of Vashar’s mark. It was massive, impenetrable, and radiating an ancient power that made her soul-seal throb in recognition. The Inner Vault. And in the shadows of the flickering light, barely visible at the entrance to a side passage, two figures, cloaked and hooded, melted back into the deeper gloom, their eyes fixed on them. Watching.

The Pitch-Black Catacombs