Riche led the way up the wooden staircase. Several steps were cracked or half-detached, sagging under their weight. They climbed carefully, testing each plank before committing, avoiding the worst gaps to prevent a fall.
At the top, they found a narrow hallway with five doors lined in a straight row. The air reeked of old eggs and stale rum, thick enough to cling to the back of the throat. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, its glass shattered. It still burned, casting a sickly yellow light that barely pushed back the gloom.
Halise waved a hand in front of her nose, her expression twisting in disgust. "This place is vile. I can't believe the Exousia is treating us like this."
Mihel said nothing.
'This has to be a test,' he thought. 'There's no way this is permanent. Maybe they'll move us tomorrow. Staying here is a joke.'
Riche warily pushed open the first door and glanced back at the girls. "You two can take the other room. Let's settle in for now and see what happens."
Midia and Halise exchanged a look, then nodded and stepped into the opposite room.
Mihel's room was no better than the corridor outside.
The wallpaper hung in torn strips, exposing patches of bare wall beneath. Dark, suspicious stains marred the left side, their shapes irregular and unsettling. On the right sat a narrow cot, its frame creaking as it wobbled on its bent legs. Two loose wooden boards lay discarded on the floor beside it.
A dull red stain marked the sheets. Mihel chose not to wonder where it came from.
He scanned the walls, searching for a cord or switch. The lamps hung loosely, tilted at odd angles, lifeless.
Vinelyn coughed harshly and moved toward a door on the left. He opened it, peered inside, then immediately recoiled. The washroom held a cracked mirror and a yellowed toilet, its wooden structure barely holding together.
He shut the door quickly and turned back to Riche with a weak, sheepish smile.
"Well…" he said, clearing his throat. "This place is horrible."
Mihel sat on the edge of the cot and slipped off his pack, carefully placing his weapons beneath the bed where they would be out of sight yet within reach. Riche moved to the opposite side and did the same, his movements slower, heavier.
"I wonder how long we'll have to live in this hole," he muttered.
Before anyone could reply, a grinding noise rose from below.
It sounded like some massive machine being forced awake after years of neglect, metal scraping against metal in a slow, painful rhythm. The three of them froze, exchanging uneasy glances as the sound dragged on. Then, without warning, it stopped.
It fell back into the uneasy silence again.
'This place is weird,' Mihel thought as he stood and walked towards the door, his hand drifting closer to the handle. 'Was Vidoria aware of this?'
Two heavy knocks slammed against the wood.
They all flinched.
Mihel turned to Riche and Vinelyn, asking their opinions, "Should I open it?" He mouthed silently.
They nodded.
He eased the door open.
A short, unnaturally thin man stood in the hallway. His face was dotted with warts, and a long scar ran from his forehead, straight through his right eye, and down to his throat. When he smiled, smoke-stained teeth showed between thin lips.
"Yeah, young masters?" he said, voice slick with mock courtesy. "Shall food be served here? Hehe…"
Mihel coughed, an image of the supposed kitchen forming suddenly in his mind. "No, thank you," he said quickly. "We can manage."
The man's grin stretched wider. "Very well. Enjoy your stay, young masters."
He shuffled away, his footsteps fading as he descended the stairs.
Mihel shut the door and sat back down on the cot. The room felt smaller now, the silence heavier.
Vinelyn broke it. "When you said we'd manage… did you mean the emergency rations we stole from the Engine? We don't have anything else."
Mihel exhaled slowly. "Borrowed," he corrected. "And yes. We'll live on those until we confront Mister Kidt tomorrow."
Vinelyn nodded and lowered himself to the floor, knees bent, hands cupped close to his chest. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'll be praying now. Try not to make much noise."
Then he began to chant.
The language was unfamiliar to Mihel, its words and intonations flowing in a rhythm that felt ancient and pure. Riche and Mihel watched in silence as Vinelyn bowed, pressing his forehead to the floor. He remained there, chanting without pause, before straightening. He repeated the motion seven times. When he finished, he tapped his forehead seven times with his fingers.
Only then did he open his eyes.
Seeing the way Mihel and Riche were staring, he broke into a smile. "What? You're glaring at me," he laughed.
Riche blinked, snapping out of it. "What language was that? Not Avraic, right?"
"No," Vinelyn said. "It's the language spoken by the True Magic. We call it Magyea. Every believer learns it young. All our prayers and rituals use it."
Riche nodded as he reached into his pack and began unpacking the food. Seeing that, Mihel and Vinelyn followed suit.
They peeled open the silver wrappings. Inside were dry wafers, five to a pack, and another bundle of salted meat strips. They divided a portion, stuffing the rest back into their packs, and began chewing in silence.
After a few bites, Mihel groaned. "You think the food here is better than this? Our situation is truly pathetic."
Vinelyn chuckled. "I'm not taking that risk of eating from here. I'll ask the girls if they're done eating. If they are, we can head out and explore a bit."
Mihel nodded.
Vinelyn stepped into the hallway and knocked on the neighbouring door. When he returned, he leaned casually against the doorway. "They're done. Let's get out of here."
Mihel stood, his legs cramping after sitting too long as blood rushed back into them. He tightened his ragged cloak and followed the others out. Midia and Halise emerged from their room as well, and together they descended the stairs.
The fat man was still behind the counter, pipe in hand, scribbling something on a sheet of paper. When he noticed them, he flinched and hurriedly covered it.
"Leaving?" he asked. "Should we tidy up your rooms?"
Mihel hesitated. 'Will it make any difference?'
Still, he nodded. "Yes. That would be good. The sheets in our room are… stained."
The man's lips stretched into a thin smile. "Yes. Of course."
The group pushed through the half-broken wooden door and spilled out into the street. Sunlight washed over them, warm and immediate, and their spirits lifted almost at once. Without a word, they reached the same decision, they would spend most of their time outside, rather than that revolting and rotting hole they had for a lodging.
***
In Wahum, in front of the Westrow house, Meria trudged home with weary steps. She had spent the entire day within the Cathedral of Athanasia, where Father Mirysis had kept both her and Nathene under his care, working patiently to soothe the fractures left behind by their shared ordeal.
Meria had recovered. Nathene had not.
His body lived, breathed, showed all signs of life, yet his mind drifted somewhere unreachable. Father Mirysis had promised he would exhaust every method known to him. Still, when he asked for Nathene's Slate, saying it was required for a final attempt to restore what had shattered, Meria's heart twisted. Leaving her husband behind felt like betrayal. But she obeyed, trusting the Father's words, and returned home to retrieve it.
As she stepped inside, her eyes caught on something wrong at once. The door to her room stood ajar.
'Did Mihel come back before leaving?' she wondered, unease creeping in as she moved closer. 'He would have taken his sword… but why this room?'
She peeked inside.
The box lay open on her bed. Beside it, the note she had written rested unfolded.
Meria froze.
'Oh… Dear Lady… did he read it?' Her breath hitched. 'Did it sound as though we weren't supportive?'
She covered her mouth as she approached, hands trembling, and lifted the box.
It was empty.
The bracelet she had made was gone.
Meria squeezed her eyes shut, steadying herself, then quietly stepped out of the room. Whatever Mihel had read and understood from the note, there was no time to dwell on it now. She still had a duty to fulfil.
She moved to the cooking area, where a plain storage unit sat against the wall. At a glance it looked ordinary, but Meria gripped its side and pushed. Small wheels whispered across the floor, revealing a concealed opening beneath.
A hidden bunker yawned open below. That was where their Slates were kept.