Etched: Escaping the Warrens

  Chapter 1: The Lower Warrens

  The dying autumn sun painted thin copper stripes across the filth-stained floor of Fadum's perch, each beam dissecting decay. A miasma of piss and rot permeated the abandoned tenement, clinging to the walls like old sin while his trembling fingers pressed the relic monocular against his eye.

  Boot-steps echoed against salvaged stone as Fadum watched the streets below. He saw one's polished armor catching dim sunlight, the man's scarred fingers tracing lines on a paper while a second one marked positions on a grimy map. Enforcer squads dominated the ground - the first unit's shields gleaming by the old factory where burns had eaten the stone black, another squad's boots held positions in the merchant hall's steps, and the third unit's blades catching light where Scale-worker's Row opened its throat.

  Fadum wondered if Gordon was down there or worse.

  high above the tannery's north face, a crumbling ledge offered false hope three stories up. A gap barely shoulder-width yawned between it and the brothel's skeletal remains. Below, clotheslines wove their deadly spider's web between second-floor windows, each rope swaying with deceptive invitation.

  "Fuck, pinned like rats," he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair as his leaden limbs cried out for a spark. At the end of Scale-worker Row, by the tannery, a sewer entrance sat bare, its rusted grate grinning like an executioner's promise. He spotted two enforcers banging on the door building next to the tannery, leaving fresh scars in the wood. Twenty paces north, another pair dragged a screaming woman from her home, while men in rags watched, her nails leaving crimson trails in the doorframe.

  The tenement's low ceiling pressed down overhead like a coffin lid, its rotting beams cross-hatched with make-shift repairs. Brick erupted like compound fractures, each wooden patch marking where something worse festered beneath. "Every street, every alley," he whispered.

  Fadum lowered the monocular, his starved muscles screaming while his neck cracked. The room pirouetted for three heartbeats as he turned, reality bleeding at its edges until his vision locked onto Kael's bulk where he perched on an overturned crate, Kael had rolled up his right sleeve past his elbow, exposing an angry red burn that bubbled from his forearm to his inner elbow. The healing salve's sharp herbal notes sliced through the room's rot as he worked the greenish paste into blistered flesh, each touch making the muscles in his jaw dance beneath his red stubble.

  "Quite the investment in mortality we're making here, wouldn't you say Fade?" Kael's attempt at a chuckle crumbled into a hiss as his fingers found a particularly raw spot where the burn had eaten deepest. Clear fluid wept from the wound's center, darkening his rolled sleeve where it collected at the fabric's edge.

  Morri's leather boots scraped against beaten floorboards as she pushed off the wall, her movement sending dust motes dancing through the rusting light. Four sword lengths separated her from Kael's perch. Her fingers found the thin scar at her neck, worrying its raised edge as she paced the narrow space.

  "Where the fuck is that son of a bitch?" The words tore from her throat like rusted nails. "It's been at an hour. He should have been here by now."

  Behind Morri, to the right of the door, mining gear lay in calculated disarray. Fadum caught Kael's gaze fixed on Morri's hands as she worked the satchel's hidden seams. Her fingers moved across reinforced stitching, each time revealing glimpses of purple light.. The glow pulsed with something almost alive, casting strange shadows across the mining gear.

  "Thirty minutes until they're breaking down the door downstairs." Fadum's hand found the leather pouch before the words finished leaving his mouth. He crossed to the window ledge, fingers already untying the worn cord. From his vest pocket, he pulled a folded piece of parchment, its edges soft from repeated use. The dust fell, each grain reflected copper sun like fresh-spilled blood on steel. his shaking hands measuring a line by muscle memory. He bent low, one nostril closing.

  Fadum inhaled sharply, the powder burning through his sinuses like molten metal, a euphoric rush that made his teeth crunch and his veins spark with lightning. The clarity hit him as hard as a hammer - beautiful and brutal. His eyes sharpened to predatory focus, but his fingers trembled slightly as they brushed the pouch. He fought the urge with practiced command.

  A few dying pulses later. Morri's braid whipped around as she turned her head forcefully "That little shit isn't coming." The movement almost revealed her customized harness that pressed familiar steel against her ribs "It's been too long."

  Fadum looked at the sun's position Do what you can, when you can. His Father's words. "The Unbound have a planned ceremony today." He pulled a runner's lock from his vest. "We come out, follow the crowd, and at the peak we make our way through the sewer grate. I have this."

  "Fuck no." Kael said

  "I imagine we might find a few enforcers there," Fadum continued, nostrils still burning from the dust's kiss, "but it's better than staying up here and fighting a dozen of them." He gestured toward the heap of cloth. "Put on the Warren rags”. Fadum's gray eyes, sharp with refined control, locked onto Morri's forest-green ones. The color of greed and envy. Protect her, he heard, “Use the leather straps from that gear to hide some of that light."

  "What if one of those fanatics is etched?" A thin scar traced from Morri's temple into her hairline, barely visible beneath coal-black strands.

  "We have to take that chance." His stomach turned "Leave the gear”.

  "Kael's stains had corroded from bright crimson to dark rust when the drums in the distance started their rhythm. Fadum pierced through the boarded window, the rotting planks vibrated with each beat. The enforcers' behavior shifted, their tactical violence dissolving into something more primal and unsure as they gathered, looking to the man in charge. The drums drew closer: a bang, then silence, then another bang. Like a calling.

  The trio descended the stairs, each wearing simple, nondescript clothing that nonetheless failed to fully conceal Kael's imposing frame visible even through the oversized fabric. They moved with learned stealth, Morri's grace matched by Fadum's stillness, while Kael fought to stay as silent. Though the purple light from between the seams had dimmed, the threat of another pulse kept them tense and alert. When Kael stretched his injured arm, the filthy rags covering his burn shifted, drawing a grimace across his scarred jaw. As they reached the door, Morri's eyes fixed on his barely concealed wince. "That burn's a liability."

  "No, it's a familiar pain." Kael turned his palms upward, long fingers spreading wide, flame scars created raised islands of twisted tissue across his skin.

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  "Stay focused." Fadum's whisper. His hand traced the door's hinges, fingers testing for squeak spots. "Once I open this door we walk out heads down. The enforcers shouldn’t bother us as long as we follow the drums and stay close to the robes." The words came sharp and certain. "If they ask for papers, show them the travel permits. Keep that satchel tucked, and be ready to follow my lead.”

  Fadum opened the door with his partners measuring two paces behind. A building weathered stone rose three stories and twenty paces to Fadum's left, its windows still bearing the iron bars. An old woman stood beneath the entrance arch, her dark dress neat despite Warren grime, as she gestured to a ledger held by the head enforcer. Even at this distance, Fadum recognized her rigid posture, spine straight, while her fingers held the copper key ring at her waist. Dirty children not of her making stood beside her. Fadum found his hand moving to the pendant at his chest, beneath the rag that had long since forgotten its original color.

  Then the shaking started, The enforcer's gauntleted hand shot out to grip the doorframe. The woman gripped her keys, as the children grasped whatever they could hold. Behind Fadum, Morri dropped into a crouch, behind her Kael's boots shifted, one hand catching a support beam. The movement looked instinctive, but Fadum caught how the position gave him clear lines of sight. Fadum arms hung loose at his sides, fingers deliberately uncurled, he refused the ground's invitation to stumble.

  The drumming swelled like a fever dream, each impact reverberating through the shaking ground until Fadum couldn't tell where the tremors ended and the percussion began. Fadum gave way and pressed his shoulder against the crooked door frame of the tenement's entrance. From here, he could see down the length of Scale-worker's Row where it emptied into the crossroads. Twenty paces ahead, an enforcer's sword hilt clattered against his breastplate in a sharp metallic rhythm as he struggled to keep his footing. The sound carried clearly -tink-tink-tink - a counterpoint to the drums.

  Three bound prisoners lay sprawled before the tannery's iron-bound doors. The oldest one, a man whose gray-streaked beard was matted with blood, pitched forward as another tremor hit. His manacles rang out a high, sharp note as they caught the dimming light, chain links scraping across the weathered cobblestones. The sound struck something primitive in Fadum's memory.

  "Sweet fucking mercy," Morri breathed, her crouch tightening as another wave rippled through the street. Her fingers pressed flat against the concealed satchel. The purple light pulsed once, strong enough that Fadum caught its reflection in a puddle of stagnant water, thankfully lost in the chaos of the moment.

  The stillness hit with the force of judgment, but the drums, the drums carried on. Fadum's hand now holding the door frame, muscle memory still braced for tremors that had vanished like morning mist. He watched a hooded figure emerge from Scale-worker's Row where the street kinked around the old tannery. The stranger's robe was the color of dried mud, worn smooth at the knees and elbows.

  The drum's impact hit like a death knell, each bang marking the distance between survival and capture. Fadum watched the three enforcers part around the robed figure, their earlier brutality forgotten in what looked like indifference. Or was it fear?

  "Let's move," Fadum said, the words grinding dryness in his throat. His heart knocked against his ribs as they joined the flow of Warren dwellers drawn to the ceremony's promise. Each step brought them closer to the enforcers who still held their prisoners in chains, close enough now that Fadum could smell the leather oil on their armor, the tang of old blood on their gauntlets.

  More robed figures emerged from Scale-worker's Row like stains spreading through cloth, each hood pulled low to hide whatever faces lurked beneath. In their center, four figures carried a wooden platform that took up half the street; it had been stripped of ornamentation, bare wood worn smooth.

  He caught Morri's tell in his peripheral vision, that slight hitch in her breathing, the way her right hand twitched toward her hidden blade before forcing itself still. Most wouldn't have noticed, but he'd learned her signs years ago.

  Fadum and his partners merged with the crowd's desperate shuffle, each step a calculation in mediocrity. Fadum kept his shoulders bowed beneath borrowed rags, chest hollow with held breath as they passed the first enforcer.

  The Consortium insignia flared stained-bright against the enforcer's chest, but when his head turned, Fadum's blood ran cold. Yellow eyes, stark against red beard, locked onto his for a heartbeat that stretched like eternity. Fadum's fingers itched for the powder, even as his mind screamed stillness.

  "Rise, filth!" The enforcer's snarled, gauntleted fingers wrapping around the old prisoner's collar. A second enforcer emerged from the crowd's edge, hauling a second prisoner upright. The chains sang against stone.

  The wooden platform descended, each robed figure releasing their burden in unison, placing it where scale-worker row split its path around the tannery. Through the crowd's restless press, Fadum caught the flash of crimson, two figures whose garments bore deeper purpose than their mud-cloaked brethren. Sunlight licked across a metal rod in the larger one's grip, its surface marred by symbols that made Fadum's eyes slip sideways. When they began their chant, the sound pierced bone, neither song nor scream but something that dwelt in the spaces between. Their voices twined together, climbing scales until the final drumbeat shattered the air, leaving only the weight of silence.

  A figure ascended the platform in robes the color of desert and desperation, the fabric's hem gathering Warren filth as it scraped wooden planks that consumed half the crossroad's throat. "We are the willing," his voice carried weight. The crimson-robed figures' response thundered with resonance, forcing the words deeper into bone and memory: "We are the willing."

  Fadum guided their path through the pressing crowd, each step a calculation between speed and subtlety. The sewer grate beckoned with increasing urgency, its rusted teeth promising salvation. Around them, the Warren's desperate masses pressed closer, their eyes fever-bright with something between devotion and terror. Behind them, boot-steps marked the head enforcer's approach – thirty paces back, his sword hand already betraying intent.

  "They shall witness our unwavering devotion, our willing sacrifice." The words fell like stones into still water. The crowd's anticipation rose, a wave of curious desperation that seemed to please the crimson-robed figures. The brown-robed man shed his garment, revealing flesh that had known both blade and brand.

  The Consortium's advance rippled through the crowd, their armored forms carving channels through flesh as they followed their commander toward the platform. The robed figures moved with eerie synchronization, forming a wall of bodies that seemed more barrier than human. A few on the Edges pulled weapons, others candle light.

  The sun low now. At the grate, behind the crowd, Kael's muscles bunched beneath borrowed rags, jaw clenched against pain as he worked the rusted metal. Fadum caught the purple pulse from Morri's satchel, a heartbeat of light that painted their desperation across stone and shadow. His throat tightened as he spotted the enforcer at the crowd's edge, 8 paces away. youth poorly hidden behind a forest of black beard. The man's gaze moved between them with terrible recognition - Morri's fingers dancing closer to her blade, Kael's straining form, Fadum's own carefully constructed mask of indifference. He began to move closer.

  "The Unbound will inherit the world to come, forged in the fires of our devotion and the blood of our sacrifices." The gathered robe voices crashed against sky and stone, a single deafening chorus that took Fadum’s and everyone's attention. Through the bodies Fadum saw upon the rod “Don’t look” Morri whispered, a shard erupted into crimson brilliance, each pulse painting Warren shadows in shades of spilled blood. Power radiated from its fractured edges in waves that spoke to the dust singing in Fadum's veins, promising a high that would burn everything he was into ash and remake him anew.

  Fadum's consciousness fractured against the shard's crimson radiance, his practiced defenses dissolving beneath its raw magnetism. The crowd stood petrified - merchants, beggars, enforcers, and cutthroats rendered equals in their transfixion, each face illuminated by that pulsing promise. The grate's protest of metal against stone registered as distant thunder, secondary to the shard's hypnotic pulse, just as Kael's fresh blood seeping through makeshift bandages blurred at the edges of awareness.

  Morri's blade wrote its final argument across the young enforcer's throat, her movements a study in efficient violence as she controlled his descent into silence. The Crowd too mesmerized by the scene to notice the gathered blood in shades of darkness. Fadum's feet betrayed him, each step drawing him closer to that blood-bright catalyst until Morri's grip on his collar shattered the spell, her fingers speaking urgent survival into his flesh.

  Behind them a scream of agony erupted. A flash of bright crimson light painted the sewer shadows.

  The ladder welcomed Fadum, his companions already beneath the Warren's subterranean anatomy, Fadum closed the grate sealing them in with a terminal clang, now cloaked in darkness.