Page 92 of The War of Four Winters

Katyr hesitated, conflict evident in every line of his body, then reluctantly redirected his magic to hold back the spells from above. The pain in his eyes was palpable as he turned away from Niro.

I hesitated, wanting to stay and fight alongside him, but Ruith's hand gripped my arm. "This is his fight, not ours."

"The western exit," Katyr called, his hands weaving complex patterns while his eyes kept darting back to Niro. "To the tunnels!"

We fought our way toward the western exit, Ruith and I moving in perfect synchronization despite months of separation. His blade flashed beside mine, each of us anticipating the other's movements as if we'd never been apart. Guards fell back before our advance, some reluctant to engage their former prince, others simply outmatched by our desperate fury.

"This way!" Aryn called from ahead.

The western exit led to a narrow corridor that descended in a steep spiral. Katyr brought up our rear, his taps glowing as he maintained a shield against pursuers. Behind us, the sounds of combat diminished as we descended deeper beneath the Assembly Hall, but Niro's absence weighed on all of us, especially Katyr, whose eyes kept darting back the way we'd come.

"He'll find us," Ruith told him as we reached a heavy iron door at the bottom of the staircase. "Niro always does."

Katyr nodded once, though the worry in his eyes remained. He pressed his palm against the door, blue light spreading from his fingers across the ancient metal. "This leads to the maintenance tunnels beneath D'thallanar. The oldest part of the sewer system."

The door swung open with a protesting groan, revealing a dimly lit passage that stretched into darkness. The smell of damp stone and stagnant water, overlaid with the unmistakable stench of sewage made me grimace. Ruith's face tightened momentarily before he mastered his expression.

"Better than execution," I quipped, drawing a tight smile from him.

"Marginally," he replied, taking my hand for a brief, fierce squeeze. Even through the chaos of our escape, the simple contact sent warmth through me. He was alive. We were together. Everything else was secondary.

We slipped through the doorway, Aryn leading with the practiced stealth of his Shikami training. The passage opened into a broader tunnel where a stone walkway ran alongside a channel of flowing water. Ancient phosphorescent fungi grew along the walls, casting an eerie blue glow that illuminated our path with ghostly light.

"These tunnels run beneath the riverbed, connecting the island to all fourteen districts like spokes in a wheel," Katyr explained as we moved forward.

"We can reach any part of the city from here without surfacing, then," Daraith said.

"Exactly," Aryn confirmed. "Assuming you don't mind the smell."

Ruith's hand brushed mine as we navigated a particularly narrow section. "This brings back memories. The D'thallanar riots. Aryn led us through these same tunnels."

I caught the shadow that passed across his face at the mention of that day. The day Miya died. His fingers tightened briefly around mine, then released.

"We’ll make it out alive," Aryn promised, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He glanced back at his brother with understanding in his ice-blue eyes.

A distant shout echoed down the tunnel behind us, followed by the clatter of armored boots on stone. Tarathiel's guards had found our escape route.

"Quickly," Ruith urged, though we were already moving as fast as the slippery walkway allowed. "Where are we headed, Aryn?"

"Craiggybottom territory," Aryn replied without slowing. "Captain Seagrave's people control the outer maintenance shafts. They'll get us to the forces waiting outside the city."

We pushed forward, the sounds of pursuit growing louder behind us. The tunnel branched repeatedly, forming a labyrinth that might have been impossible to navigate without Aryn's perfect sense of direction. Left, right, another left, down a short flight of stairs worn smooth by centuries of drainage. I quickly lost track of our path through the underground maze.

The walkway narrowed as we followed a smaller channel, forcing us to proceed in single file. Water sloshed at our ankles, soaking our boots and chilling our skin. Above us, metal grates occasionally revealed glimpses of the city streets, letting in shafts of daylight and the distant sounds of commerce continuing, oblivious to the drama unfolding beneath.

"Wait," Aryn hissed suddenly, raising a hand to halt our progress. "Listen."

We froze, straining to hear over the gentle gurgle of flowing water. At first, I caught nothing unusual—then a faint scraping sound ahead of us, metal against stone. Aryn's eyes narrowed as his hand moved to his weapon.

"That's not pursuit," he murmured. "Someone's waiting for us."

The tunnel curved ahead, preventing us from seeing what lay beyond. Aryn moved forward silently, motioning for us to remain still. He pressed himself against the damp wall, inching toward the bend with the practiced caution of an assassin.

A flash of magic suddenly illuminated the tunnel—not Katyr's familiar blue, but a sickly green that sent shadows dancing wildly across the curved walls. Aryn dove back toward us as a bolt of energy struck the spot where he had been standing, leaving a smoking crater in the ancient stone.

"Battle mages," he spat, drawing his blades. "They've cut off our path."

"How did they get ahead of us?" I asked, my own weapon ready.

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