# Chapter 156: The Escape Route
The clang of the iron grate was a death knell. It echoed in the sudden, suffocating darkness of the sewer, a sound that seemed to physically strike Nyra, stealing the air from her lungs. She stumbled, her hand flying out to brace against the slick, curving wall of the tunnel. The stone was cold and slimy beneath her palm, its surface coated with a century of grime. The air hit her then—a thick, nauseating cocktail of decay, stagnant water, and human waste that made her gag. It was the smell of failure, the stench of a world without Soren.
"Move!" Torvin's voice was a raw rasp, his hand clamping down on her shoulder with surprising strength. He shoved her forward, his face a grim mask in the faint, phosphorescent glow of moss clinging to the damp bricks. "Don't you dare look back. That was his order. His sacrifice. Don't you waste it."
His words were a bucket of ice water, shocking her out of the spiral of grief. He was right. Soren had thrown away his freedom, his life, for this. For them. To stand here weeping would be the ultimate betrayal. Nyra straightened, pushing the pain down into a deep, dark vault inside her. She was Nyra Sableki of the Sable League, a strategist, a survivor. And now, she was the leader of the Unchained. The weight of that title settled on her, heavier than any stone.
She turned, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. The survivors of the Rusty Flagon were a pathetic procession. There were barely a dozen of them. Finn, the young squire, was weeping silently, his face streaked with clean lines through the soot. Boro, the hulking shield, had a deep gash in his arm that he was trying to tie off with a strip of his own tunic. Lyra, once a fierce rival, now leaned against him, her face pale and drawn. They were a broken flock, and she was their only shepherd.
"This way," Nyra commanded, her voice steadier than she felt. She pulled a small, waterproofed pouch from her belt and shook out a thin, rolled-up piece of parchment. It was a map Torvin had drawn weeks ago, a paranoid contingency plan Soren had insisted they all memorize. "Torvin, you take the rear. Make sure no one falls behind. Boro, you're on point. Watch for weak spots in the walkway."
The command in her tone cut through their shock. They moved, a shuffling, wounded chain of humanity following her deeper into the bowels of Veridia. The sounds of the tavern, the battle, the collapse, faded quickly, replaced by the incessant drip of water and the squelch of their boots in the muck. The tunnel was a narrow artery, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. The air grew colder, the darkness more absolute. Every few dozen yards, a grating overhead let in a sliver of moonlight or the distant orange glow of a streetlamp, a fleeting glimpse of a world they were no longer part of.
Nyra forced herself to focus on the map, on the turns, on the distances. Left at the third junction. Follow the main flow for two hundred paces. Her mind, a finely tuned instrument of tactics and analysis, tried to shut out the image of Soren standing alone, facing Isolde and her guard. But it kept replaying—the final look in his eyes, not of fear, but of trust. He trusted her to do this. To save them. The thought was both a comfort and an agony.
They walked for what felt like an hour. The physical exertion was a welcome distraction, a way to burn off the frantic energy coiling in her muscles. The wounded began to falter. Finn tripped, his cry swallowed by the oppressive dampness. Nyra was there in an instant, pulling him up.
"I can't," he whispered, his voice cracking. "My leg... I think it's broken."
"Then we'll carry you," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She looked to the others. "We rest for five minutes. That's it. Drink your water. Bind your wounds tighter. Then we move."
She found a relatively dry patch of ledge and sank down, her back against the wall. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, leaving a hollow, trembling ache in its place. Torvin dropped down beside her, his breathing heavy.
"He's a damn fool," the former Inquisitor muttered, though there was no heat in his words, only a profound weariness. "The most heroic, stubborn damn fool I've ever met."
"He bought us a chance," Nyra replied, staring into the darkness. "That's all we can ask for."
"A chance at what?" Torvin gestured around them at the filth and despair. "We're fugitives. The Synod will have the whole city locked down by sunrise. We have no safe house, no allies, no resources. We're rats in a sewer."
"We have each other," Nyra said, the words feeling fragile but true. "And we have this." She tapped the map. "Soren didn't just plan an escape. He planned a future. We just have to be strong enough to reach it."
She saw a flicker of something in Torvin's eyes—surprise, then grudging respect. He had seen her as Soren's second, the clever one, the strategist. He was just now seeing her as a leader. The realization settled her, hardening her resolve. She was not Soren. She could not shatter walls with her bare hands or inspire with quiet, stoic strength. But she could think. She could plan. And she could lead these people out of the dark.
The five minutes were up. She rose, her joints protesting. "On your feet. We're not far now."
The final stretch of the tunnel was different. The air grew less foul, replaced by the clean, briny scent of the river. The sound of their footsteps changed, the squelch of mud giving way to the hollow echo of stone over a larger space. The tunnel widened, opening into a massive, cavernous space. Here, the brickwork gave way to natural, hewn rock, and the ceiling was lost in the gloom high above. This was the old under-city, a place forgotten by Veridia long before the Bloom.
A single, bare bulb dangled from a frayed wire in the center of the cavern, casting a weak, yellow light that made the shadows dance. Below them, the water of the Riverchain lapped gently against stone piers. And there, tied to a rusted iron cleat, was a vessel.
It was a Synod patrol skiff, sleek and black, designed for silent, swift movement on the water. It was a predator's craft, stolen and repurposed. Its engine was off, but a low, almost subliminal hum vibrated through the air, the sound of its arcane power core on standby. It was their way out. Their chariot to freedom.
The group stared, a collective gasp of disbelief and hope. It was real. Soren's insane, paranoid plan was real.
Lyra limped forward, her eyes wide. "How...?"
"Kestrel Vane," Nyra said, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "Soren paid him a fortune to procure it and have it waiting. He thought of everything."
She led them down a slippery stone ramp to the dock. The skiff was small, barely large enough for all of them, but it would have to do. "Everyone in. Quietly. Torvin, you know how to pilot these things?"
"I've been on a few," he grunted, clambering aboard and moving to the controls. "I can get us moving."
Nyra helped the wounded aboard, her movements efficient and practiced. She was the last one. As she put her foot on the deck, she paused, turning to look back into the darkness of the tunnel they had just left. It was a mouth of blackness, a tomb that had swallowed the man she loved. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path through the grime on her cheek. She wiped it away angrily.
"Go," she said, her voice low and intense.
Torvin didn't need to be told twice. He flicked a series of switches on the console. The hum grew louder, and the skiff lifted slightly from the water, its anti-gravity emitters glowing with a soft blue light. He guided it away from the dock with a gentle push of the throttle, the craft moving with a silent, eerie grace.
They glided out from under the cavern and into the main channel of the Riverchain. The city of Veridia rose above them, a glittering fortress of light and stone. Alarms were blaring now, a distant, mournful wail. Searchlights from the city walls crisscrossed the dark water, scanning for any sign of them. But they were low to the water, a black shadow against a blacker river, invisible.
Nyra stood at the stern, watching the city shrink behind them. She had done what he asked. She had saved them. Now, the real work began. She would gather allies. She would use her family's resources, her League training, everything she had. She would make the Synod pay. And she would get him back.
The skiff sped on into the night, a tiny speck of defiance fleeing a city that had become their enemy, carrying the last embers of a rebellion that was about to ignite.