The tunnel smells like iron and centuries of stagnant rot.
The sluice water is freezing. It rushes past my shins, dragging at my legs with icy, unseen fingers. I press one hand against the damp stone wall, the slime slick beneath my palm. Every splash of my sneakers sounds like a gunshot in the narrow space.
"Stay low," Finn whispers from the front. His small shadow moves through the darkness with impossible confidence. "The walls have ears. And some have mouths."
A low, guttural chuffing sound echoes from the dark behind us. It's the same noise I heard before we dropped into this hole. Wet. Rhythmic. It's getting closer.
Dorian is at the back. I can hear the occasional metallic *clink* of his armor hitting the stone. His breathing is heavy, but controlled.
"Dorian," I hiss. "Whatever is behind us. What is it?"
"Scrambler," his voice is a rough grating in the dark. "Blind, but they hear your heartbeat. Move faster, Millie."
I don't need a second invitation. I scramble forward, my lungs burning in the thin, humid air. My backpack feels like a lead weight, the jars of Earth spices clinking together inside. If a jar breaks, I'm done. My covers are as fragile as the glass.
Suddenly, Finn stops.
I slam into his back. Before I can apologize, a pale, spindly limb shoots out from a fissure in the wall. It's covered in wet, white moss and ends in five needle-thin talons.
The claw swipes at Finn. He ducks, his movements a blur of practiced survival. The talons rake the stone, sending sparks flying.
Dorian's sword clears its sheath. The *shring* of the steel is deafening. He pushes past me, his massive frame barely fitting in the tunnel width.
"Back!" Dorian bellows.
He thrusts. The sword bites into the pale limb. A thick, milky fluid sprays the walls, smelling like rancid coconut. A high-pitched screech shatters the silence. The limb retreats into the crack, leaving behind a trail of the white ooze.
"Don't stop!" Dorian commands, grabbing my arm and hauling me forward.
We burst out of the tunnel into a wider cavern. Light trickles down from a drainage grate twenty feet above, cutting the darkness with dusty grey shafts. It's a dead end, except for a rusted iron ladder leading toward the surface.
Dorian stops, leaning his weight against the wall. His face is ghost-pale.
"Dorian?"
He pulls his hand away from his side. His silver armor is slick with that milky white slime. The Scrambler's claws didn't just miss. A jagged tear runs along his leather under-armor, and the flesh beneath is angry, weeping blood.
"I'm fine," he rasps, but his knees buckle.
I'm at his side before he hits the ground. Finn is there too, his nose twitching as he looks at the wound.
"It's stinging-milk," Finn says, his voice small. "The Scrambler's venom. It thins the blood. He won't stop bleeding unless we cauterize it or... or find a mender."
"There's no time for a mender," I say. I look at my backpack. "And no fire for a cautery."
I look around the cavern. Growing in the damp corners, near the drainage runoff, are clusters of translucent, blue-veined mushrooms. They look like blown glass.
"What are those?" I point.
Finn squint. "Glow-Caps. They're bitter. Make your tongue go numb. Nobody eats 'em."
*Food Item 3: Glow-Cap Infusion. Scent: Ammonia and sharp, medicinal mint. Taste (theoretical): Alkaline and cold. Texture: Gelatinous and rubbery.*
"They're not for eating," I mutter. My brain is already categorizing the chemistry. Alkaline means it can neutralize the acidic venom. Numbing properties act as a local anesthetic.
I grab a handful of the mushrooms. My hands are shaking, but my training takes over. *Prep first. Panic later.*
"Finn, give me your canteen. Empty it."
I use the flat of my cleaver to smash the Glow-Caps into a paste on a flat rock. It looks disgusting—a shimmering, neon-blue sludge.
I pull a small, foil-wrapped packet from my pocket. It's bouillon—concentrated Earth-side beef stock. Salty, protein-rich, and loaded with the "primal mana" this world is obsessed with.
"Dorian, look at me."
His eyes are glazed, the pupils blown wide. The venom is working fast.
"Millie," he coughs. "Take the boy. Get out of the city."
"Shut up and hold still."
I smear the mushroom paste directly onto the wound. He lets out a strangled gasp, his back arching off the ground. The blue moss sizzles against his skin. The bleeding doesn't stop, but the wound turns a dark, bruised violet.
I take the bouillon cube, crumble it into the small amount of water remaining in Finn's canteen, and shake it violently. It's a concentrated salt-bomb.
"Drink this," I command, pressing the canteen to his lips.
He chokes on the first sip. The beef stock is pungent, the smell of roasted onions and salt cutting through the rot of the tunnel. As he swallows, the reaction happens.
The air around Dorian's wound shimmers. The salt from the Earth-stock interacts with the magical blue mushrooms.
White vapor hisses from his side. The bleeding stops instantly. The skin begins to knit together, the jagged tear shrinking until it's just a thin, silver line.
Dorian's breath hitches. He gasps, his chest heaving. The color floods back into his face.
He stares at me, then at the canteen. "What... what was that?"
"Lunch," I say, pulling the canteen away. I'm trembling now, the adrenaline fading into a hollow, cold dread.
"You used common fungi and... and a pebble of powder," Dorian says, sitting up. He touches his side. No blood. Just smooth skin. "That's not healing magic. That's alchemy."
"I told you," I say, packing my bag with frantic speed. "I'm a chef. Salt, acid, heat. It works the same everywhere."
Finn looks at me with pure awe. He dips a finger into the leftover mushroom sludge on the rock and touches it to his tongue.
"Whoa," the kid says, his eyes wide. "It tastes like the stars waking up. It tastes... powerful, Boss."
"We're leaving," I say, standing up. "Now. Before the Inquisitors find us or that Scrambler comes back for round two."
Dorian stands, testing his weight. He's faster now. Steadier. The beef stock mana is acting like a high-octane stimulant. He looks at me, his gaze lingering on the cleaver in my hand.
"Ravenna will hunt us to the ends of Valdris for this," he says quietly.
"Then let her hunt," I say, grabbing the bottom rung of the ladder. "But she's going to find out I'm not easy to digest."
We climb out of the drainage grate into the lower slums of Thorne's Watch. It's a maze of shanties made of rotted timber and canvas. Rain is starting to fall—a grey, depressing drizzle that smells of soot.
"We need to vanish," Dorian says, throwing a dark, tattered cloak over his armor. "We head for the South Port. My family has a safe house there. If we can reach it, we can figure out a plan."
"We can't just run," I say, looking at the hungry faces peeking from the shadows of the shanties. These people look like the dishwashers I used to work with—hollow, exhausted, and forgotten.
"We don't have a choice," Dorian says.
"Wait." Finn grabs my sleeve. He points toward an abandoned street stall. It's just a wooden counter with a thatched roof, mostly collapsed. "The City Guard won't look in the 'Dregs.' Everyone here is too busy dying of the Blight."
I look at the stall. Then I look at my bag.
"Dorian," I say, my voice firm. "We need money to get to the South Port, right?"
"We have none," he admits. "My coins were left at the garrison."
"I have salt," I say. I point at the stall. "Finn, can you find some dry wood?"
"Boss?" Finn grins, showing missing teeth. "I can find anything."
"Millie, this is madness," Dorian hisses, grabbing my arm. "The Inquisitors are looking for you!"
"The Inquisitors are looking for a 'miracle worker' from the West," I say, shaking his hand off. "They aren't looking for a common street cook selling soup to the dying."
I walk to the stall. I kick a piece of rotted timber out of the way and pull out my cleaver. I start cleaning the counter with the corner of my apron.
"We aren't running, Dorian. We're going into business."
I look at the hungry crowd gathering in the shadows, lured by the sound of voices. Their eyes are dark. Desperate.
"What are you cooking?" Dorian asks, sounding defeated but curious.
I pull a bundle of local "root-grass" and a bag of Earth-side dried chilies from my pack.
"Something they'll never forget," I say. "The first taste is free. After that... they pay with information."
I strike my lighter. The first sparks dance in the damp air.
As the first plume of fragrant chili smoke rises from the stall, a group of scarred men with Merchant Guild marks emerges from a nearby tavern. They aren't looking for soup. They're looking for a new territory to claim.*