{Rod. Wake up.}

  I woke with a sharp inhale, choking on the stench of sewage. Darkness pressed against me like a suffocating shroud, its weight clawing at my chest. The air was heavy—thick with decay and rot—and every breath dragged the taste of filth across my tongue.

  I squinted into the gloom, the faint outline of a murky corridor emerging from the black. Where am I? My pulse quickened, and my thoughts scattered like ash on the wind. Memories rose to the surface, fragmented and cruel.

  I had died. An unbearable pain surged through me, and then gone.

  I died? Then, where was I? Heaven? Hell? Aurentum forbid its Penance

  The name echoed in my mind, dredged up from whispered warnings and half-forgotten tales. A trial, they said. A sentence worse than death. Aerlyn’s slums were rife with stories—most dismissed it as a myth, the kind of thing the Church used to keep the desperate in line. But the truth had teeth, and now they’d sunk into me.

  The past 3 days had been exhausting. My Father, dead. My best friend, dragged away from school. My gut twisted as the images flashed through my mind—too fast to grab hold of, too raw to forget. There’d been no trial, no chance to defend myself. Just chains and accusations. Then the void. And now this.

  {Rod. Wake up.}

  The voice from the abyss repeated, sharp and commanding, cutting through the haze. It wasn’t my mother’s voice. She’d whispered to me in the softer tones of bedtime stories and warm evenings by the fire. No, this voice was different—stripped of warmth, laced with urgency. A lifeline or a curse?

  I pushed the panic down, grinding my teeth until my jaw ached. Survival first, questions later. The stories about Penance were clear enough: you didn’t endure it; you escaped it. Or died again, and again, and again.

  Gritting my teeth, I forced myself upright. My feet sank into something wet and foul, and a shiver ran up my spine as the sludge clung to my boots. The stifling air burned my throat, each breath like inhaling hot ash. Somewhere in the blackness, a scroll materialized before me, its glow casting pale shadows on the crumbling walls.

  {Would you like to undergo the Rite of Penance?}

  A glowing yes appeared on the scroll, And somehow, I knew what had happened.

  The words hung there, carved into my mind even after the scroll dissolved into the dark. My stomach knotted, and I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms. “I didn’t choose this,” I rasped. My voice sounded foreign in the oppressive silence, hoarse and cracked.

  The slime-covered walls oozed with decay, and rivulets of stagnant water traced sickly green patterns along the floor. Every step I took stirred the foul sludge, its chill seeping through my boots. I had to move, though. The stories all agreed on one thing: staying still in the Rite was as good as a death sentence.

  Mother once called the Rite a boogeyman—a tool for the Church to scare sinners into submission. But if it was a legend, how did I end up here? Why was Father’s death tied to it? And why me?

  I swallowed hard, bile burning the back of my throat. No answers were coming. Not here. Not now. The only truth that mattered was survival. And if the Church wanted me to atone, they’d have to watch me claw my way out of this cursed place first.

  A scraping noise echoed behind me. My pulse jumped, a sharp spike of fear that sent me stumbling forward, sludge clinging to my legs like it meant to drag me down. Questions swirled, clamoring for attention. What if I found a dead end? What if something found me first?

  Ahead, a faint glow bled through the darkness, pale and flickering at the end of a narrow hallway. Light. It could mean escape—or something worse. I didn’t care. I sloshed through the knee-deep filth, gagging as the stench clawed its way into my lungs. The corroded metal door came into view, its surface pitted with rust. I grabbed the handle, grime slicking my fingers.

  It didn’t budge.

  “No, no, no.” The words spilled out, frantic, as I threw my weight against the door. Nothing. My chest heaved, each breath ragged and sour. My vision blurred, dizziness creeping in as the dark pressed closer. Memories hovered on the edge of my mind, sharp and unrelenting.

  Think. This wasn’t just a sewer. This was Penance. It wouldn’t be easy. It wasn’t meant to be. The Church thrived on fear, on agony. This was justice, they’d say. Punishment for sin.

  The scroll’s words flared again in my mind, carving through the chaos in my mind:

  {This is your final chance. Would you like to undergo the Rite of Penance? Yes/No.}

  And I’d said yes. It hadn’t been a mistake.

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  A squeal broke through the silence. Something brushed against my leg, and I jerked back, bile rising in my throat. A rat. Its eyes glinted in the torchlight, twin embers sparking in the dark. It bared its teeth, the sound a sharp, wet hiss.

  “Back off,” I muttered, voice low and shaky. My only weapon was the will keeping me upright—and that was already running thin. My eyes darted around, desperate. There—a torch, its flame faint but alive, wedged in a rusted sconce. I lunged, fingers closing around the handle, yanking it free.

  The rat lunged first.

  I swung the torch wide, clumsy and frantic. It dodged, squealing, and darted closer, its teeth snapping at my face. Panic surged through me as I stumbled sideways, heart hammering in my chest. With a cry, I brought the torch down hard. The creature shrieked as the flame hit, its body twisting before it vanished into the muck.

  My breathing came fast, ragged. I clutched the torch like a lifeline, its flickering glow casting twisted shadows on the walls. Faint shapes emerged, etched into the stone: murals, their scenes half-devoured by time. Figures in robes knelt before a blinding throne, faces obscured by smears of mold and grime. A ritual. A prayer. Or something worse?

  My head throbbed, the pain pulling me under as more memories surfaced.

  My father, hunched in prayer, his face lined with worry.

  My best friend, wrists bound in chains, dragged screaming by the city guard.

  The Church’s emblem, its sunburst cruel and unyielding, stamped on every wall of Aerlyn.

  The Rite of Penance. It had always been a ghost story, a whispered warning in the dark. But ghost stories didn’t leave scars. And they didn’t smell like death.

  Another metallic clang echoed through the corridor, sharper this time. I whirled, torch raised, my back slamming against the corroded door. My breaths came quick and shallow, each one dragging the rancid air deeper into my lungs. Whatever made that sound, it was closer now.

  Move. Flee. Survive.

  I forced my legs into motion, the torchlight painting streaks of gold on the slick, grimy walls. The floor sloped downward, and with each step, the sludge clung thicker, splashing cold filth onto my already-soaked pants. My pulse thundered in my ears, louder with every distant clang, every unseen scuttle.

  “Survive,” I muttered, the word catching in my throat. It wasn’t just about me. If I lived, I could clear my name. Maybe even find a way to save my friend—if he was still alive.

  The corridor widened into a larger chamber. I froze, torchlight flickering over three passageways ahead. A battered sign hung crookedly from the ceiling, the letters long eroded by time and damp. Water dripped steadily from above, a sluggish rhythm that echoed too loudly in the silence.

  Three paths. One way surely had to be a way out.

  I tested the first passage, stepping cautiously to peer inside. It stretched downward into darkness, no doors, no markers, just a tunnel descending deeper into whatever hell this was. My stomach churned at the thought of going farther underground.

  The second route was worse—completely blocked by a wall of rubble. The remains of an iron gate jutted out, twisted and broken, half-consumed by the debris.

  That left the third corridor.

  A faint light flickered within its depths, barely perceptible through the murk. It could be another locked door, another dead end. Or worse. My fingers tightened around the torch as I pressed on, its feeble glow pushing the shadows back just enough to see.

  Slime streaked the walls, glistening like oil in the torchlight. Beneath the muck, faint carvings emerged—circles within circles, jagged lines radiating outward. They reminded me of the Church’s sunburst emblem, but twisted, almost feral. Older. More primal.

  I swallowed hard. This was the Rite. It had to be. A labyrinth hidden beneath Aerlyn, built to test the sinful and the damned.

  The stories said survivors of the Rite would emerge purified, forgiven by the Church’s mercy. But those were just stories. I’d never heard of anyone making it out alive.

  The torch trembled in my hand. My mind returned to the glowing scroll, its message seared into my memory:

  Yes, I’ll undergo the Rite of Penance.

  “I’m in danger.” I chuckled, my voice high and nervous, teetering on the edge of a breakdown. I leaned against the door, clutching the torch like a shield. I needed to escape, to survive. My head throbbed, and my thoughts scattered, but the fire in my hands grounded me.

  Focus.

  I inched closer to the wall, watching in disgust as sewage oozed from the cracks and floated upward. Impossible. The fluid slid toward the ceiling. A faded mural caught my eye beneath the filth, the drawings too smeared to make sense. Then I heard it—a sound, splashing through the muck.

  My breath hitched. My grip on the torch tightened. Something was out there, moving through the sludge.

  A rat—maybe the one I had thrown—waded through the filth, its eyes locked on me. It reared up, shrieking, baring its sharp, yellowed teeth. I stumbled back, pressing myself against the door. The torch flared in front of me, my only defense.

  Attack, you idiot!

  The rat lunged. I swung the torch down, but the rat dodgedat the last second. Its fur smoldered as embers landed on its back, and it screeched in pain. It circled, ready to strike again.

  Move. I threw myself to the side as it sprang at my face. My back slammed into the doorframe, but I barely registered the pain.

  The rat hesitated, and I seized the moment. I swung the torch again, narrowly missing its head. My frustration boiled over. “Almost had you.”

  The rat snarled, and this time, it leaped. I raised the torch, but it used the torch body as a springboard, launching itself at my face. Instinct took over. I headbutted the rat, knocking it off balance. I grabbed it, slamming it down into the sewage, holding it under with all my strength. Its body convulsed, choking on the filth. I pressed harder, my heart racing. Finally, it stopped moving.

  I was alive. And until I found the true exit from this cursed place—until I proved that Penance could be beaten—I wouldn’t stop fighting.

  I stood, panting, victorious.