Page 66 of Alien Prince's Fated Mate

Istared at the drainage channel that gaped before us in the pre-dawn darkness. Acidic fumes from the tanneries burned my nose and throat. At least the herbed face wraps would help with that.

“Guards change in three minutes.” Mila knelt at the tunnel mouth, comparing the stone walls against Denna’s sketched plans. Her fingers traced each line with practiced care.

I adjusted my rough-spun shirt, the patched fabric scratching my flesh. Each of us wore our disguises - the uneven wear and stains marking us as proper rag men. The disguise felt wrong on Tharon's broad frame, his shoulders straining against fabric meant for smaller men.

“Remember,” Mila whispered. “Eyes down. Shoulders slumped. You are nothing.”

My heart thudded against my ribs as I checked my hidden pockets one last time. Emergency tokens. Route markers. Signal flags. The metal taste grew stronger as we neared the walls, coating my tongue with memories I’d rather forget.

Tharon caught my hand, his touch grounding me in the present. I squeezed back, grateful for his strength even wrapped in a rag man’s rags.

“Now.” Mila’s command barely carried over the wind.

I dropped to hands and knees, following Tharon into the tunnel. Cold water seeped through my clothes where they touched the pipe floor. Every tiny sound echoed - breathing, fabric rustling, water dripping. We moved in the silence we’d practiced for days.

Boots scraped overhead. We froze. One heartbeat. Two. Three. The urge to reach for Tharon fought against the need for absolute stillness.

The patrol passed. We breathed again.

The main waste tunnel opened ahead, ceiling high enough to stand. Centuries of use had worn smooth patches in the ancient stone. Voices echoed from around the bend - our first real test.

“Remember.” Mila demonstrated the proper shuffle - shoulders curved, eyes down, each step careful but natural. “Temple guards demand complete submission. Ring guards accept quiet acknowledgment. Private guards ignore us completely.”

I copied her movements, letting my body remember the patterns we’d practiced. Head bowed. Spine curved. Nothing worth noticing.

The voices grew closer. Two sets of boots rounded the corner - private guards from their casual stride. They passed without a glance, exactly as Mila predicted.

We followed the passages between tanneries, using shortcuts known only to those born here. So much had changed since the archives’ clinical descriptions - new guard posts, sealed doorways, fresh Temple markings on the walls. The city evolved to contain its people.

The smell hit in layers - chemical lime pits, rotting flesh from raw hides, acrid tanning solutions. Different from my memories, but no less overwhelming. Workers called to each other over the creak of drying racks and constant drip of solutions.

A supervisor’s gaze lingered too long on Tharon’s height. My chest squeezed until Mila stumbled theatrically, drawing the man’s attention away.

Through gaps between buildings, the Temple spires rose against the lightening sky. My hands curled into fists at the sight.

But Eight Ring moved to its own rhythm - defined by vat timing and hide processing rather than Temple bells. A tiny freedom in the seeming chaos.

The Grell tannery stood three stories tall, weathered wood dark with age and chemicals. The loading dock extended over the Bitter Ways access point - clever design hiding the tunnel entrance from casual view.

Five massive vats dominated the yard beyond the seam, their stench burning my throat despite the herbed wrappings. An intricate dance played out around them - workers moving with practiced efficiency, checking levels, adjusting temperatures.

“Lime soak,” Mila breathed against my ear, barely audible over the constant drip and splash. “For stripping the hides. Next is the tanning solution - best place to hide if needed. Last three are finishing baths.”

Two young men caught my attention - identical in build and movement, working in perfect synchronization without exchanging a word. They hefted heavy hides between vats as if they weighed nothing, years of labor evident in the play of muscle beneath worn shirts.

“The twins,” Mila murmured. “Pol and Ren. They’ve grown.”

A woman's sharp gaze swept the yard from a wide second-floor balcony, missing nothing while her hands never stopped moving. Checking hides. Adjusting solutions. From her resemblance to Mila, this had to be her mother, Serra, efficient in her tanner's work.

My breath caught. Everything depended on what happened in the next few moments. All our planning, all our hopes - balanced on a knife’s edge.

Serra’s eyes passed over our group once, dismissive as expected. Then again, slower. Something in Mila’s walk must have caught her attention - a mother knows her child’s movements, even disguised.

Not a flicker showed on Serra’s face. Her hands kept moving, checking another hide with practiced motions.

“You lot.” Her voice dripped with perfect contempt for lowly rag men. “New delivery for processing. Around back, through the red door.”

We shuffled forward, keeping our heads down. The private washing area beyond the red door smelled of soap rather than chemicals. Serra followed us inside, her steps unhurried but purposeful.

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