The rain hammered against the roof like a thousand impatient fingers, drowning out the silence in the shack. My breath fogged in the cold air as I huddled with Talia and Tobias around the lone oil lamp, its flame flickering weakly in the draft.
Elias slept fitfully in the corner, his face half-buried in a threadbare blanket. The air smelled of wet wool and mildew, and every creak of the rotting walls made my shoulders tense. They're listening, I thought. Always listening.
Talia leaned forward, her freckled face sharp in the flickering light. "You said you found something."
I hesitated, my fingers tracing the rough edge of the floorboard where I'd hidden the diary. The others didn't know about the tunnel yet—the real secret.
I'd spent hours mapping it in my head, rehearsing the words. But now, with their eyes boring into me, doubt gnawed at my resolve. What if it's a trap? What if they don't believe me?
"There's a way out," I said finally, the words spilling out before I could second-guess them. "A tunnel. Leads to the sewers. I followed it—it goes under the the edges of the camp. All the way to the city."
Tobias snorted, his usual smirk strained at the edges. "Oh, brilliant. We'll just waltz through shit-water and pop up in some noble's privy. They'll love that."
"It's not a joke," I snapped, sharper than I'd intended. I uncurled my fist, revealing a rusted iron key I'd pried from the tunnel wall. "There's a grate. Locked, but this opens it. We could be gone before the watchers even notice."
Talia's green eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"
"Because he's here." I jerked my chin toward Elias, who stirred in his sleep. "And because I found this." I slid the diary from beneath the floorboard, its leather cover slick with grime.
Tobias recoiled. "You dragged us here for a moldy book?"
"It was buried in the tunnel," I said, ignoring him. "Someone hid it, Someone that might know more than us. I can't read the damn thing, but—"
"Let me see." Talia snatched the diary, her calloused fingers brushing the strange, angular script. For a moment, her breath hitched. Then, softly: "I can read it."
Tobias blinked. "Since when do gutter rats read?"
The lamp's flame trembled as Talia's grip tightened on the diary. Shadows pooled in the hollows of her cheeks, making her look older, harder. "My parents were servants. To House Veyra. They… taught me." Her voice frayed, as if the words were tearing free against her will.
I leaned closer. "House Veyra? The ones who sometimes promenade through the slum with their knights in these ridiculous armors?"
"Bastards," Talia spat, the venom in her tone sharp enough to cut. "My parents scrubbed their floors, cooked their meals, bowed to their children. And when they overheard secrets—shipment schedules, tax evasion—they sold them to rival houses. Not for greed. For me. To buy me boots that fit. Books."
Her thumb traced the diary's embossed cover, her knuckles white. "The Veyras found out. Had them hanged in the courtyard. Made me watch."
The shack seemed to shrink, the rain fading to a distant murmur. Tobias stared at his hands, uncharacteristically silent. My throat tightened—not just at the horror of it, but at the raw, unfiltered rage in Talia's eyes. It mirrored my own, the same fire that had kept me alive in the slums.
"They didn't even bury them," Talia whispered. "Just tossed their bodies into the river. I ran that night. Lived in the Slums, until The Risen offered me something to eat."
She slammed the diary shut, the sound like a gunshot. "So yeah. I can read, and when we get out of this shithole, I'll burn their whole damn house to the ground."
My pulse quickened. Revenge. It hung in the air, a promise as dangerous as it was inevitable. But Talia was trembling now, her bravado cracking to reveal the girl beneath—the one who still flinched at loud noises, who hid the gash in her heart behind snarky comments.
Tobias cleared his throat, awkwardly patting her shoulder. "Well. When you do, save me a front-row seat. I'll bring the snacks."
Talia swatted his hand away, but a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. "Shut up, Tobias."
I gripped the edge of the table, the wood biting into my palms. "We need to decipher that diary. If it's about the Risen, or the watchers, or… or anything—it could help us escape."
"Or get us killed," Tobias muttered.
"We're already dying here," Talia said, tucking the diary into her coat. "Slowly. Might as well pick the how."
Outside, the rain intensified, masking the crunch of gravel nearby. I froze. Had that been a footstep? I met Talia's gaze—she'd heard it too. Tobias edged toward the wall, peering through a crack in the rotten wood.
"Watchers?" I mouthed.
Tobias shook his head, but his face had gone pale. "Dunno. Could've been the wind."
Elias mumbled in his sleep, tossing onto his side. The blanket slipped, revealing the amulet around his neck—Father Gideon's "gift." It glinted faintly, like a serpent's eye.
As my gaze locked onto my little brother, a silent vow formed in my chest—one more promise, one more desperate hope. I will drag you out of here, even if it costs me my life. The words burned in my mind like a brand, an oath sealed in blood and fear.
Then it came again. A sound. Louder this time. A set of footsteps echoed through the narrow walls, each measured step a hammer striking against my ribs.
My heartbeat stuttered, then raced. Had they finally come? Was this the moment they would claim our lives, snuffing us out like candles left too long in the wind? After Soren's disappearance, it felt inevitable—like a story already written, a tragedy playing out in slow, merciless detail.
The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of damp stone and something else—something metallic, like rust or old blood. My breath came in shallow gulps. Around me, the others stiffened, their bodies tense as coiled wire.
Tobias caught my gaze, his dark eyes pleading, searching for something—anything—I could offer. A plan. A way out. Hope. But I had none to give.
So we waited. The three of us, caught in the grip of silence, our breaths shallow, our bodies frozen in place. Maybe we were just paranoid. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on us. I wanted to believe that. I needed to believe that. But the footsteps told a different story.
They circled the shack, slow and deliberate, crunching against the brittle earth like bones snapping underfoot. Each step sent a shiver down my spine, a cruel reminder that we were nothing more than trapped animals, waiting for the butcher's hand. Then—at the threshold—the sound stopped.
The rotten door groaned as it shifted, the hinges shrieking as if in warning. The figure on the other side lingered, unmoving. Waiting. I felt it then, the dread, creeping up my spine like icy fingers curling around my throat. My fists clenched instinctively, a futile act of defiance. I wanted to fight, wanted to stand my ground—but what was I against whoever lurked beyond that door? A malnourished body. Shaking hands. A pulse that hammered so loud I was sure they could hear it.
Seconds stretched, warping into something unbearable. Time lost meaning. And then—movement. The footsteps resumed, fading into the distance, dissolving into the night.
We exhaled at the same time, tension unraveling in the space between us. I turned, meeting Tobias's wide-eyed stare, his face a mask of nervous relief. He let out a sharp breath, then muttered under his breath, voice still shaking:
"Yeah, uh—that had me shitting bricks. This place is fucking creepy."
"Agreed," Talia whispered, the word slipping from her lips like a breath she had been holding too long. Relief, or something close to it, softened her features for a moment—but it didn't last. I turned to her, watching as tremors ran through her frame.
Whether they came from the lingering dread that still clung to the air or from the weight of the past she had unearthed moments ago, I couldn't tell. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Some wounds never stop bleeding, no matter how much time has passed.
"We're safe," I murmured into the silence, though the words felt fragile, uncertain. They turned to me, waiting, expectant. In their eyes, I saw something that sent a different kind of chill through me—trust.
They looked at me as if I had the answers, as if I were their leader, their savior, the one who would drag them from this forsaken place. It was a dangerous thing, faith. It could build men into legends. It could break them just as easily.
But I wouldn't betray them. Not now. Not ever.
"Talia," I said, forcing my voice to steady, "can you read the diary for us? It might reveal something—anything—that could help us escape." I glanced at her, trying to mask the quiet desperation in my eyes, trying to make her believe that I believed it.
She hesitated for only a moment, then let out a slow breath. "Sure," she murmured, fingers trembling as she opened the withered book. The pages crackled, dry and brittle, whispering secrets only the dead had heard before.