The tunnels were damp, winding arteries carved beneath the city long before Cael had been born. Once, they had served smugglers and outlaws. Now, they were veins of survival, carrying stolen grain and whispers of rebellion through the dark.
Cael stumbled along the uneven ground, Rowan’s arm still braced under his shoulder. His body screamed with every step—his chest ached where the captain’s blade had struck, and blood still seeped sluggishly from the wound at his side.
Behind him, the rebels trudged in weary silence, sacks of grain slung over their backs. The spoils of the night’s battle weighed heavy, but heavier still was the memory of those who had fallen to buy it.
The air reeked of damp stone and sweat. The flicker of lanterns cast long, swaying shadows across the walls.
Finally,
