The maw of the Arch-Notary was a tomb carved from living ink and crushing water.
Ren Vale plunged past the razor-edged shears of the star-iron beak into choking darkness. The water here was not liquid. It was ancient kraken bile, dense as lamp oil, bitter as rusted copper. Then it charged with dormant binding curses that stung Ren’s skin like needles.
The suction was terrifying. Millions of gallons of deep-sea salt water were drawn down into the stomach fire by contracting sphincters. The current dragged at Ren’s boots, threatening to rip him into the fire where bone would be dissolved into ink.
Ren reached out with his left hand. He drove his Carved Mammoth Bone Awl directly into a pale joint padding ridge lining the throat wall.
THUNK.
The silver-tipped awl bit deep. Fire jolted through his arm, aggravating the hairline fractures in his brittle collarbone. But the anchor held. Ren swung against the wall, boots finding purchase against a gold-silver metal-heavy rib.
His brass breathing collar hissed against his throat, fighting to keep chilled salt water flowing into his throat pipe. Ren spat out a mouthful of bitter mucus that smelled of squid pens and sulfur.
“Ren! Can you hear me?”
