Three hooded figures lurked in the alleys, mud and grime caked into every seam of their clothes.

  "How do we get out?" Zeyk whispered, eyes darting between the shadows. "The whole city's on the lookout for us."

  "The sewers will be left unguarded," Nahl said, turning to them with a grin that was far too pleased for comfort.

  "No. No no no," Kian and Zeyk said in unison.

  “Their is no way….”

  _______________________________________________________________________

  This is disgusting!” Kian shouted.

  “Hush. Just because there’s nobody visible doesn’t mean nobody can hear us,” Nahl whispered sharply.

  Rivers of sludge oozed around their feet.

  Chunks of rotting meat floated by.

  Rats skittered along the ledges.

  And many other unholy things moved beneath the surface.

  “This is worse than pigs,” Zeyk muttered.

  They trudged on.

  And on.

  Each moment worse than the last.

  And then

  Kian’s eyes caught the faintest glimmer of light ahead, barely visible through the thick, suffocating air of the sewer.

  “There’s the exit,” he said, his voice tinged with hope. But as they drew closer, the smell of stagnant water hit them harder, thick and suffocating.

  A wide river of sludge stretched before them, its surface a greasy, bubbling mess. The light was just beyond it, but to reach it, they’d have to cross the waist-deep mire.

  Kian winced as he peered down at the muck. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Zeyk grimaced, glancing at Nahl. “Are we seriously supposed to wade through that?”

  Nahl stepped forward, eyeing the thick sludge with a raised brow. “You want to stay in the sewers longer? Or you want out?” She nudged them both with her foot, then grinned. “It’s just sludge, it won’t bite.”

  Kian shot her a look. “That’s what they said about the pigs.”

  Zeyk grinned. “And look how that turned out.”

  Kian sighed, his voice low. “This feels wrong….”

  Almost there…

  One more step...

  AAAAHHHH—

  Splash!

  Kian flailed, the thick sludge surging up around him as he lost his footing, falling forward into the muck with an exaggerated yelp. The disgusting, warm goo rushed into his mouth, his nose, everywhere. He sputtered and coughed, trying to scramble back up, but it was like being trapped in an unholy soup.

  Zeyk burst out laughing. “Smooth move, Kian. Really smooth.”

  Kian shot a glare at him, dripping with sludge. “I hate you.”

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Eventually, our adventurers escaped.

  But to where—they had no clue.

  Where were they to go?

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  Where were they now?

  All these questions needed answering.

  But first...

  They needed a ride.

  ____________________________________________________________________________Beneath the bones of a forgotten cathedral, deep underground, a pyre blazed.

  Not with fire, but with something colder—paler—a spectral light that burned blue-white, flickering without heat.

  The High Priest stepped forward and dropped a charred token into the heart of the flame—a piece of cloth scorched at the edge, stained with sludge and sewer filth.

  He raised his arms.

  “Vikarma, Arbiter of Balance. We call to you. The Child walks freely. We attempted the strike.”

  The pyre flared.

  From within, smoke twisted into a vaguely humanoid figure—tall, slender, cloaked in eyes that blinked sideways. No face. Just motion. Just presence.

  The flames hissed with a voice that rattled bone.

  “And what happened?”

  The cultist trembled, but continued, forcing the words out. “He did not strike. He did not choose. We forced his hand—and he used Emotion’s power. Fear, not violence. His Karma… remains balanced.”

  A long silence.

  Then:

  “You were supposed to make him fall.”

  Another cultist tried to step forward, to speak—tried.

  But with a flicker, Vikarma’s presence unraveled them. One moment they stood. The next, they were mist and memory, pulled screaming into nothingness.

  A second follower turned to flee—foolish. They too vanished, eyes wide in disbelief as they were unlived.

  Vikarma pulsed with fury, the light of the pyre dimming under the weight of his voice.

  “He is protected. They surround him. Emotion. The Aspects. He is not mine to break—yet.”

  “But, my Lord,” the High Priest whispered, kneeling, head bowed so low it touched the stone, “what should we—”

  “Forget the Child.”

  The flames surged.

  “The Balance is already tipping. That is where our work lies.”

  “Bring me dissonance. Burn the order. Crack the lines. Make the scales shatter.”

  “My strength is the imbalance.”

  “I will claim the Child when he stands on ruin.”

  Then Vikarma vanished, leaving the pyre cold.

  Only the ash remained.

  And two fewer faithful.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  The sun was high overhead when they finally crawled out of the undergrowth beyond Vaelmont’s outskirts, caked in mud, bruised, and smelling like they’d lost a fight to a swamp—which, in fairness, they had.

  Kian collapsed on a grassy patch, arms flung wide, breathing like he’d just been reborn.

  “We made it,” he muttered. “We actually made it.”

  Zeyk flopped down beside him. “Freedom smells like donkey piss and regret.”

  Nahl stood nearby, brushing muck off her tunic like a war general after a minor inconvenience. “Alright. We’ll need transport. Something fast, something reliable—”

  “We are not hijacking anything,” Kian interrupted, sitting up. “I am not starting this leg of our journey with more imbalance. My Karma is to important to risk..”

  Nahl smirked. “Who said anything about you hijacking anything?”

  She turned and strolled off, casual as anything, whistling like she was going shopping.

  —

  Several hours later

  Zeyk and Kian sat beneath the shade of a crooked tree by the roadside, watching flies circle each other in what felt like mocking spirals.

  “Maybe she got caught,” Kian said, eyes half-lidded. “Or eaten. Honestly, either would track.”

  Zeyk yawned. “Nah. She’s probably bartering with demons or charming farmers. She’ll turn up.”

  Clop-clop.

  They looked up.

  There she was.

  Hair wild, sleeves ripped, twigs in places twigs had no business being, and behind her—trailing like a testament to chaos itself—was a rickety wooden cart missing a wheel spoke, and a donkey that looked like it had seen the rise and fall of empires.

  “Behold,” Nahl declared, panting, “our noble steed.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Zeyk blinked. Then smirked.

  “You didn’t need our help, huh?”

  Nahl narrowed her eyes and, without missing a beat, muttered, “Shut up.”

  The donkey brayed in agreement.