The darkness in the Deep-Veins was absolute. It wasn't just an absence of light; it was a physical weight, thick with the smell of wet earth and ancient, stagnant air.
Kiron hit a sloping wall of shale and tumbled downward, the black-wood sword clattering beside him. He came to a stop in a pool of freezing, knee-deep water. His shoulder screamed in protest, and his lungs felt like they were filled with silt.
Above him, the mountain shuddered. THOOM. It wasn't an earthquake. It was a footstep. High above on the Shadow-Shelf, the Tainted God was walking. Each step sent a vibration through the bedrock that rattled Kiron's teeth and threatened to bring the entire ceiling down on his head.
"Taz? Nyra?" Kiron whispered, his voice sounding small and hollow.
"Over here," a strained voice replied.
A small, blue chemical light flickered to life. Nyra was standing ten feet away, her cloak torn and her face smudged with black dust. She was supporting Taz, who was clutching his arm, his eyes wide with a glazed, shock-filled stare.
He's reaching his limit, Nyra thought, glancing at Taz's trembling frame. If we don't get out of this humidity, the Cloud-Cough will take him before the Ghouls do. And Kiron... She looked at the boy standing in the water. He looks different. The fear is there, but something else is starting to harden in his eyes.
"Where's Vahn?" Kiron asked, looking up at the hole they had fallen through.
"He stayed up there," Nyra said grimly. "He said someone had to 'dampen the noise' so the God wouldn't track our descent. He's going to draw their attention."
Kiron felt a cold knot in his stomach. He's sacrificing himself. Just like the elders in Koda. Why does everyone have to die just so I can take another breath?
THOOM. Another step. A shower of pebbles rained down from the ceiling.
"We have to move," Nyra said, clicking her blue light onto her belt. "These tunnels were built by the First Miners. They lead to the 'Under-Vent,' a series of exhaust pipes that dump air into the Shush. If we reach them, we can slide down to the sand-dunes."
"And then what?" Taz wheezed. "There's nothing in the Shush but ghosts and monsters."
"There's freedom," Kiron said, reaching down into the water to find the hilt of the black-wood sword.
As his fingers brushed the wood, a sudden, sharp image flashed in his mind—not a nightmare, but a memory of the sword itself. He saw a forest of trees that didn't grow upward, but downward into a sunless sea. He felt the crushing pressure of miles of water.
The sword isn't just heavy, Kiron realized. It's lonely. It wants to go back to the deep.
He hauled the weapon up. It felt marginally lighter now, as if the sword recognized the darkness of the tunnels.
They began to trek through the Narrow-Vein, a passage so tight they had to shuffle sideways. The silence between the God's footsteps was worse than the noise. In the quiet, Kiron could hear the wet slither of things moving in the side-cracks—small, multi-legged Ghouls that lived in the dark, waiting for the "Murk" of a God to signal a feast.
Suddenly, Nyra stopped. She held up a hand.
Ahead of them, the tunnel opened into a wide cavern. But the path was blocked. A mass of white, pulsating silk covered the exit, and in the center of the web sat something that looked like a man, but with limbs that were far too long and joints that bent backward.
It was a Stalker-Ghoul, a specialized hunter that didn't use strength, but sound. Its head was covered in hundreds of tiny, vibrating hairs.
Don't breathe, Kiron told himself, his hand tightening on the sword. If I even gasp, it'll hear my lungs expand.
The Stalker-Ghoul turned its head. It had no eyes, only a wide, lipless mouth that was constantly twitching. It began to crawl down from its web, its movements silent as a shadow.
Nyra slowly reached for her belt, but her crossbow was gone—lost in the fall. She only had a small hunting knife.
I have to do it, Kiron thought. I can't let Nyra risk herself again. The 'Dam' is holding. I can feel the power, quiet and cold. Just a drop. I only need a drop.
He stepped forward, his boots making no sound in the damp silt. He raised the black-wood sword, the weight of it pulling at his scarred palms. He didn't focus on the monster. He focused on the memory of the falling cliff in Koda—the feeling of absolute, weightless descent.
He didn't swing. He let the sword fall.