The underground drainage junction beneath the Chancery Ward smelled of stale river mud, wet lime, and the cold, metal breath of the storm chimney pipes.
Built during the reign of the First Dynasty, the massive eight-sided brick vault had served for three hundred years as the main storm distributor for the Upper Terraces. Water rushed waist-deep through the central under-road drain, frothing around iron-grilled water gate gates that led deeper into the underground foundations of the city. High above, curved brick arches cried streams of rusty water drops that spattered into the filthy runoff like heavy rain.
Ren Vale leaned heavily against the slimy brickwork of the junction chamber, his breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Every muscle in his body felt battered, his boots soaked with icy runoff, his right arm throbbing with a sickening, persistent heat. The mental bleed from eight divergent minds was pressing against the inside of his skull like an iron band. He could taste the sulfur of Scribe Ren’s burning acid and feel the phantom ache of the Emperor’s old war wounds.
Beside him, Mira stood with her back against the brick wall, her charcoal wool shawl soaked with filthy runoff. Her left hand held Ren’s arm tight. Meanwhile, her right arm—faceted smoky quartz—glowed with a faint, rainbow-bright violet soft glow that provided the only light in the pitch-black tunnel.
