Souls Below - Rebellion

Chapter Thirteen.

The group of guards had finally moved on by the time I reached the edge of the alley, my eyes scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement. My stomach twisted with a mix of fear and anticipation. I had never met an Upper before—not properly. Those unfortunate enough to be cast down here rarely lasted more than a few weeks. Starvation, sickness, or crossing the wrong person usually finished them off. The ones who survived longer either vanished or found their way into the Lower City's so-called “Wealthy” club—a select few who lived just a bit better than the rest, leeching off what scraps of luxury still trickled down. The Governing Sector.

Even here, buried beneath the filth and ruin, Uppers found a way to clutch onto comfort.

But this one was different. This might be my only chance to get answers—to understand what the hell was happening to my city. Maybe even to find a way to stop it from rotting entirely.

As I neared the crumbling building where I’d hidden him, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. The shattered windows loomed like hollow eyes, staring through me, echoing the emptiness that had begun to seep into the very bones of the city.

I pushed open the door. It creaked sharply, the rusted hinges protesting like they hadn’t moved in years. The silence inside pressed against my ears.

Careful not to disturb too much debris, I stepped over the remains of broken tables and collapsed ceiling panels, the floor beneath me uneven with age and neglect. Overhead, gaps in the ceiling exposed glimpses of the next floor, where the building had begun to devour itself.

I reached the hallway leading to the room where I’d left him—and froze.

The space was empty.

Panic surged up my throat. I rushed forward, scanning the room. A smear of blood stained the ground where he’d been. My heart pounded as I rounded the overturned desk, breath catching when I finally saw him slumped against the far wall, half-hidden in shadow.

He was still.

For a moment, my body locked in place. Then his chest moved—rapid, shallow breaths—and those startling blue eyes flicked to mine. Wide. Fearful. I raised both hands slowly, trying not to startle him. He flinched anyway, nostrils flaring when I shifted too fast.

The pristine clothes he’d worn on the day I found him were almost unrecognizable—torn at the knees, dirt ground deep into the fabric. His face was bruised, blood crusted around the corner of his mouth. Dust caked his skin, making it hard to tell how dark it really was. If I hadn’t seen him at his best, I might not have recognized him at all.

He looked… ruined.

And still, his grip was tight around the jagged leg of a broken table.

I crouched, careful to keep my movements slow, non-threatening. His eyes tracked me, and for a second, I thought he might strike. Then something flickered across his face—recognition.

“…You… ” he rasped, voice rough and breathless. It sounded like even speaking was an effort. “You were… at the market.” I lowered my hands, slipping the bag from my shoulders as I did.

"I think you took my advice on getting dirty a little too seriously," I joked, trying to cut through the tension. He blinked, the words sinking in slowly. Then a dry laugh escaped him—short-lived, ending in a sharp whimper as he clutched his side and squeezed his eyes shut. One eye peeked open at me.

"I assume that... makeshift bandage was your doing?" I followed his glance to his side. He must mean the medic wrap.

"The medic wrap was all I had time to put together," I replied. Then, after a pause: "What’s a... bandage?" His brow furrowed as he looked down again. "I tried trading a few of my stubs for more medic supplies," I added, "but most stallholders are low on stock. Ever since the medic shipments were cut in half... " He grunted, shifting in an attempt to sit up straighter.

"I feel like we're speaking two completely different languages," he muttered between breaths. It was my turn to frown.

"What’s... languages?" That got him laughing again—followed immediately by another wince of pain. "What’s so funny?" I asked. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his ripped hoodie, sighing long and slow, his eyes curious now.

"Why are you different?" I looked away. My secret— which I tied to my weirdly over stimulated curiosity—wasn’t something I planned on sharing, especially not with an Upper. Instead, I unzipped my pack and pulled out the beaten up bottle of water. He flinched at the sight, but I held it out without meeting his eyes.

"Jerard says it’s because I was hit on the head," I answered instead with a quiet chuckle, trying to downplay the truth. I followed it with some food from my pack, watching as his eyes lit up, his tongue absently licking his cracked lips. "This should last at least four or five days." Shock flickered across his face, like the idea was impossible.

"This is five days' worth of food?" I looked down at the bundle again.

"Is it not?" He ran a hand down his face and let out a groan.

"I’ve been down here six days and I’m still surprised." I didn’t move until he took the food. "I didn’t know it was this bad," he admitted. I sat back, questions screaming through my head, but I knew I had to be careful. Still, one spilled out before I could stop it.

"Do you really have houses you can get lost in?" His head snapped up, eyes locking with mine. "Like a maze?" I clarified, confused by the look he gave me. His mouth twitched, barely holding back a smile.

"Of all the questions I’ve had shouted at me... that’s the one you ask?"

"What?" I asked, genuinely confused. He shook his head with a laugh, waving the question off, then leaned back against the wall, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. His gaze drifted over my face, something sparking in those piercing blue eyes.

"What’s your name?" I hesitated, unsure if I should give it. He must’ve noticed.

"Why?" I asked cautiously.

"You... remind me of someone I used to know," he admitted after a moment. "I’m Calian." I waited for something to click—some flicker of recognition, a memory to rise from a dream—but nothing came.

"I’m... Amira," I finally offered. He huffed a small breath.

"Given by God," he murmured. I gave him a strange look. "In Latin," he explained, noticing my confusion. "It means ‘given by God.’ Interesting, considering most people I’ve met here don’t even know who God is. Praising the Makers themselves instead."

"Jerard said it was fitting," I answered softly, "since it was a miracle when he found—" I cut myself off, realizing too late I’d almost told him about the incident from four years ago. His brow rose, catching my hesitation, but he didn’t push.

"Why did you help me that day?" he asked, referring to ration day—when I told him to run. I shrugged.

"Jerard says my curiosity will get me into a situation I can’t escape."

"Like the saying, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’" I blinked at him.

"What the f— . You talk like Jerard. Weird sayings, strange explanations," I grumbled, frustrated and more confused than before I walked in.

"Sounds like Jerard knew of the old times," Calian stated. I didn’t respond, but my raised eyebrow said enough. He shifted again with a wince, and my heart leapt into my throat. I didn’t realize I had leaned forward until I pulled back. Despite everything, I felt a pang of sympathy. The Lower City was brutal, even for those born into it. He was completely unprepared—and yet, somehow, still alive.

"Why are you h—" A sharp, high-pitched whistle rang through the air, cutting off my question. My heart jumped. "s**t!" I cursed, grabbing the blanket and remaining supplies. I shoved them toward him.

"It gets cold at night in this sector. This’ll help you stay warm." I began moving debris closer to him, grunting as I righted the overturned desk. "Make a nest if you can—it’ll help keep in the heat. The supplies include pain-numb tablets, medic wraps, and sick-free water to flush the wound if it turns."

I squatted in front of him for a final check, eyes flicking to his side. I hoped he’d make it through the night. I still had so many questions.

"I think I can manage another night alone."

"Maybe. But give it another few days before you’ll be dealing with the sick." His eyes dropped to the wound.

"The sick... " he echoed. "You mean sepsis?" I stared at him blankly. "Is there a hospital nearby I could go to?" I kept staring. He sighed, clearly irritated. "When you’re really hurt—bad enough to die," he pointed to his wound, "where do you go?"

"The Medic Ward," I stated flatly.

Is that what they called them above? Hospitals? I thought. 'What a weird name.'

"But you wouldn’t get help." I added. "They’d report you the second they saw you." He slumped back against the wall, defeated. Guilt tugged at me—I’d told him to run. If he hadn’t, maybe the guards would’ve just dragged him back above.

"I might be able to get more supplies," I offered. "But not until tomorrow." I glanced down at him, that strange twist in my stomach returning—the one I got yesterday around Krane. "Will you wait here?" Calian shifted upright with a grimace, breathing through the pain.

"Not like I have many other options." I stared, tempted to throw a retort back. But he wasn’t Krane. I didn’t know him. And I couldn’t trust him—not fully. He was still an Upper.

"I’ll come back as soon as I can," I mumbled, pulling my backpack on and heading out at a jog.

Jerard was going to be pissed.