Rivin isn’t thinking clearly as he runs. He just runs. Swerves past crates and debris and anything that stands in the way. He doesn’t know this terrain—not properly—and the map he’d like to think he’s memorised is useless in the grime and the urgency.

  The world moves like a tundra around him. He can’t remember how to breathe. Does that matter? No. Not really. Only how to keep himself upright, keep his eyes fixed to the dark and his heart in his chest and the soles of his feet moving, moving, moving – he's got to keep moving.

  The shadows are green. Green — mossy green like wide eyes flinching in the dark. It’s growing up the walls where the water cascades and the graffiti devours and the code is lost alongside scathed hands and cracking stone and someone leaving, leaving, leaving. Rivin must leave.

  Mouse’s sick gurgling still echoes inside his head, tightening around his brain like a sticky snake wet with tears he won’t shed. One escapes anyway — flying behind him, striking slate-white armour as the knight follows. It sounds like an avalanche. It sounds like Steele learning how to howl at the moon.

  Rivin slips through a crack in cement tubing, almost too big. Sharp stone scuffs his palms, opens up his wrists, tags his pack — he’s forced to leave it behind and caught within the crease as if caught within teeth. Maybe it is important to remember how to breathe, for his lungs are burning. There are flames teasing the skin inside, blackening the tender flesh. He’ll be so delicious when he dies. Already cooked. Already charred — Breathe now, Rivin.

  He’s never been this far down before. The tunnels wind and weave and confuse him. He can feel his muscles fighting each other, but he can only push further. The storm is at Rivin’s heels, but a bite away from clamping his tail, chowing on the dust he kicks up in his terrible, ardent race against time.

  The Knight does not slow, even as blood drips on the floor, even as crimson leaves a path and the air causes it to thicken and crack and darken and forget that it even belonged to a little girl who gasped when she died, who looked so cold so quickly — gods, Mouse.

  Please be okay. Please be alive. Stupid. Stupid. Mouse, don’t be dead. Please, don’t be dead.

  Maybe they’re already headed home.

  She’s already dead, Rivin.

  Maybe this will all be okay in the end.

  Dead, Rivin.

  Maybe—he can still smell the blood and somewhere else and someplace distant, and yet somehow right at the cusp of his ear, he can still hear her gurgling. Choking those last few breaths into the hollow of his skull. He can press her into the folds of his eyelids. Her eyes were already empty by the time she hit the floor—

  Keep moving, Rivin. Keep drawing it away. Don’t stop.

  Maybe it's his mother's voice that rattles through his head, cooing into the madness. A scuffed knee from years ago. A tear she caught on her thumb.

  Don’t stop.

  He’s out of breath. Heart hammering and ribs a wrench within his torso, a few are already broken from his tumble in the tunnels, and Rivin can feel his legs faltering. There’s blood in his eyes too, beading down his forehead from a gash; it’s in his knuckles, following the lines of his palms—

  Keep running, Rivin.

  “You cannot have us.” He hears its voice crackle to life like an emergency alarm system bouncing off the walls, screeching into the hollows of the earth. “We will—will not be cont—rolled.” The sound hurts. It pulls at the twine of everything sane and right with cruel indifference and spears into his skull to anchor there.

  Rivin swears he can hear Mouse’s giggle rippling off the walls, thrown like a frisbee made of echo. It’s drenched in ichor, thick and tarry like the moment she choked on it. He swallows a sob.

  Don’t. Stop.

  “Mer—Mercy flows down, ha ha—” It tries to laugh, but the sound is broken and garbled. Mocking, like a cruel sneer twisted into fat. Rivin swears he can feel its breath on his neck; it has no mouth, and yet it is damp and hot and humid and right on the collar of his ratty coat, and his legs are buckling and shaking and hurting, and his knees are locking at the joints, and he must have run for hours now. Hours. Everything hurts.

  Finally, he spies a clearing opening up like a mirage between dunes — a deeper sewer system teeming with biodiversity. Impossibly bright for someplace so deep down, although he’s learning to expect that of the dark.

  Whisperslugs collect at the apex of the ceiling, feeding on moss, their excrement leaving glowing trails in their wake. Wreckage stacks upward, and water runs from the ceiling in a slow, bright waterfall. Cliffs of patterned tiles and cement slabbing and tin sheeting are folded into strange plaits of jagged inclines that climb the height of the cascade.

  Surrender. You will—will be… spared.” The place where its voice forms creaks as if rerouting. As if spitting off into different hollow throats. You will—N-NOT… BE… SPARED.”

  Rivin leaps, barely stumbling over a meticulously placed twine. He fumbles the landing, crashing into the dirt. The ground is spongy beneath his feet, and the earth seeps wherever he lands.

  Suddenly, the air erupts — the clink of something tearing underfoot — a trap explodes, throwing Rivin into the jagged pools. An enemy wrapped in barbs and thread and time he doesn’t have when the tunnel splashes white and orange and red and pain erupts up his back like a terrible scalding lash.

  The blow collapses a beam at the opening, and Rivin claws at dense, drenched earth to dodge the debris, darting out of the way with legs that are still on fire and blood that’s wetting his tongue and tears that sting his eyes, and he can hear water and dribbling and death looming, and it all sounds like a buzz in his brain.

  Steam plumes in coils off his back — the leather is streaked and torn and crisped around skin blooming and shiny and peppered in shrapnel. His body is screaming, screaming, SCREAMING — no time.

  Rivin pivots, turns, draws his sword with knuckles white, bruised and mottled in blood, and drives it across slate-pale flesh that ascends upon him. Sparks bead from the hilt and the strike combined, but he does not carve past the titanium white armour, the strike only sending spats of spiky pain up the joint of his arm.

  The Knight is bleeding now, in a way that doesn’t make sense. A seamless stream of white that trembles and flickers as it pools onto the ground, flowing behind it as though it were still attached. Its face is dented beneath the visor. It doesn’t waste a moment watching this time. Gauntlet-clad fingers that look like ten scathing knives all wrapped up in marble and gold grip the edge of Rivin’s blade, attempting to wrench the weapon from his grasp.

  Rivin holds on, veers left, and strikes until digits shear off knuckle and flicker through air and land to rest upon the stone. The white blood cascades from the severed digits like the water down the falls but doesn’t ever sever.

  Rivin’s already darting again as the limb changes — melting and being pushed into a scythe. He launches backwards as the knight lunges ahead, the teen scarcely dodging an attack that would have split him down the middle had he been any slower. He ducks low, slices out a humanoid leg — skin and gaping wide with a pucker, only to seam back together again.

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  “You will not—not take us,” it thrums.

  There’s no time. No time. Rivin follows the water. Follows the drip. A glint in the shadow and he’s jumping, leaping, vaulting into the sky to narrowly escape another tripwire — the knight blunders into the brunt of a second shrapnel bomb, and the cavern shudders as beams of light spark the walls.

  This blow forces Rivin into pools of icy water, barely missing the impaling edge of a jagged stalactite cutting through the cold. The knight itself stands surrounded by billows of fat smoke that rise in the splits of light like signals. Rivin knows what they mean. What this thing means. What its purpose appears to be.

  It won’t stop until he’s dead. Dead like Mouse.

  The front of its armour has been blown open — a white chest peppered in debris and bone fragments. Several are lodged into the visor itself, shredding a pale, waxy face with singed edges and rippled flesh.

  Rivin isn’t sure why he wishes it had eyes.

  He desperately climbs to his feet, using his blade to help his buckling knees. Blood pools from the hem of his pants, from the sleeves of his coat, and from the hairs at the crown of his skull. Somehow, in the hand not tightly gripped around the pommel, he’s still holding the rune. Swiftly, he tosses it into the water.

  Hopes.

  The creature slows and then stops completely, neck craning to follow its path. The boy backs away, panting hard.

  Human again, it says, “You will not take us.” It turns to look at him again, shoulders still faced downward. “And we—we—we… will… not. Forget.”

  The knight is on him again in a heartbeat, ravenous and screeching even while covered in shards. Even while running over the pool of its own undulating blood like surf.

  Rivin grunts, shuffles left, scrambles back and then twists, shielding himself with the flat side of his blade as it hammers down a vicious and terrible blow that sheds debris from the ceiling above them — dust spilling like a sooty shower of scattered rainfall.

  “We will not forget.” It swings like a guillotine dropping its blade. Its fingers are claws and needles and blades, and it scratches and claws and digs at the air between. Rivin does not falter, only grits his teeth until he swears the pearl will shatter and the blood will gush and the bones in his wrists will snap, and maybe he’s screaming, maybe he’s saying something — he can’t hear, can’t see through the froth in his eyes, through the fog of dead friends and blood and shrapnel.

  He pushes back with all of the rage and bite and training of a boy that’s been fighting the world forever.

  I won’t forget, either.

  The sound of them colliding is horrendous. Blue sparks zigzag through the air, biting flesh and visor alike. Steel grates against forearm turned blade — push — push — push — a sharp pain sings up his side, and Rivin wrenches out a scream that sets fire to his throat as needles rain down upon his ribcage. Another swipe opens up his cheek.

  Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t die.

  He ducks under a claw and drags the sword up under the ribs. It’s like slicing smoke when Rivin explodes, knocking the knight back with a roar. His sword bites into pale flesh and through titanium and across a bicep that ripples and sutures back together poorly, warping and growing in mounds that look tumorous and swollen.

  The knight screams in a way Rivin can taste. Acid. Burn.

  It’s all a blur. Everything is… A blur.

  It responds with wild arms disguised as twin blades. Rivin dodges, swoops low, and grunts as their edges make contact with his side and then across his torso, opening fabric and skin combined — feels the blood, the burn, and the bite — and doesn’t stop. Won’t stop. Has to get home.

  Their struggle finally breaks, and Rivin slashes and opens up its neck. Despite this, the knight is truly merciless in its speed. Rivin barely catches its next attack, and through gritted teeth and agony and sheer will, the teen holds on, the heels of his feet skidding across the wet floor before he dives out of the way, sending the knight crashing into the cave, the dust and rain surging overhead.

  The creature vaults backwards, leaves the imprint of itself in the rock behind, and climbs the thin air like a staircase as it lands in a crouch in front of him once more. Gods — he can’t keep up. His heart is in uproar.

  Rivin feels the stone greet his back again as he braces against the next attack — the wind is stolen from him and forced out through blood and teeth.

  He’s going to die. He’s sure of it. This is it. This is it. He hopes the others make it out. He hopes he bought them time.

  He drives his sword upwards with violent desperation, and somehow in the fray and the savagery and the blood that follows, it pierces through the visor and into the creature's gaping throat. Shrapnel caught from the earlier bomb spills out of the open wound. The knight seizes and then pushes harder into biting steel. “You can’t—” it tries to say, “—have us…”

  Rivin reaches blindly behind him—gasping, knowing only that he has to act fast, fast, FASTER—scrambles for the short sword strapped to his back and then snaps his arms across with a sheen of gliding blades that sing as they cross paths.

  There’s a sick wet sound when he cuts fully through its neck. For a long moment, there is only a sudden quiet. Breath caught between teeth. Water flowing over ruin.

  But then the head falls heavy, and the body collapses to its knees. Keels over.

  Thunk. Thunk.

  Whatever lives beneath the armour and plate melts. Collapses like suspended fluid forced into form and suddenly freed. It joins the water cascading from the perch as gauntlets sink into pools alongside what’s left of the chest plate and chainmail. The visor rattles down the rock.

  Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

  Rivin releases a shuddering breath; he clutches his side, and blood colours his filthy fingers. He staggers, steadying himself against the wet surface of the makeshift waterfall, but topples into the rippled puddles now thick with red and silver. When he looks around, his vision is swimming in and out of focus.

  I’ve got to get back to them.

  Nothing looks familiar. The world is spinning, and Rivin is bleeding out his side, out his front, and out his back. He thinks he might be moving again. Droplets wetting his hair.

  “Fuck,” he gasps, touching his chest — his palm returns freshly bloodied. He’s hunching over by the time the adrenaline stops disguising the pain and leaves him alone to be cold in it instead.

  Everything hurts. He’s bleeding out. Empty. Empty. He’s going to be empty.

  He tries to go backwards, but he doesn’t know where that is. There’s a wall behind him, right? It’s wet. It’s hard. He tries forward — crashes off the ledge and into deeper pools.

  Black hair sticks to his sweaty forehead, hanging low over sickly grey eyes, but the water feels viscous, thick with glittering light — like a gel. It softens him when he falls. Barely.

  Crawl. Crawl. Maybe get up—he tries, and he’s walking again.

  The edges of his vision are growing ashy, burning away like tape left in the reel for too long. He spots another trap, then several more, and staggers around them without any grace, trying to keep his blood inside. He left it all in the pools. With the knight. With the head and the body and the visor.

  The tunnel descends, swallowing Rivin up — creatures scuttle from between his feet, and strange objects are hung suspended in air. Flashing like warnings or invitations or pleas or prayers. The floors feel soft and damp and mossy, and there are cracks and tunnels leading everywhere and anywhere but home.

  Home. I need to get home.

  His strength is leaving him. There isn’t much left.

  Who's going to protect them? He thinks, straining against the shadows. Who's going to keep them safe? Perhaps it’s better this way.

  He might think of the sun — might wonder about the warmth. Might forget anything else bar that small dream. He wishes he had a better imagination. Wishes it was more than stone and cold and iciness and the smell of blood. He wishes he felt like anything else but a failure. Weak. My fault.

  This time he will be alone — not even a corpse to keep him company.

  His face is pressed against the ground now. Rivin doesn’t remember when he fell. When dirt rushed to greet his chattering teeth. He blinks once, twice. Spies something squirming and unfolding with colour, growing like mould up the sides of his eyes. He thinks he reaches for it. His fingers touch nothing.

  Don’t fall asleep, Rivin.

  Or… perhaps, rest.

  The black only blooms to the sound of bare feet sloshing around his skull — kicking up the pansies rotting in his brain.

  Tut. Tut. Tut. Tut.

  The fire flares behind his eyes. He can’t keep them open. Something cold touches his cheeks. Then his forehead. Fingers. Palms. Calluses. Rivin only grunts. Groans pitifully. Chokes on the blood rising to his throat. Something tilts his chin. Cool fingers. Darkness swoons like clouds. He can hear chimes. Wishes. Coins being flipped. Music that only plays when the wind blows.

  Where is the wind? No. No… No time. Darkness. Only darkness.

  He can’t hold it off. There’s nothing else.

  “Hold on, dead boy,” a hazy silhouette scolds him — actually scolds him.

  I’m dying, he thinks. As if to defend. Maybe he mumbles it into the ether. Whispers it between the gore on his tongue.

  That someone snickers in response, “Exactly.”

  Rivin doesn’t understand why he should bother arguing with this thing that is surely death — surely illusion, surely his mind on the bend. His last big dream.

  “Don’t stop—” fingers thread through his bloody knuckles. Squeeze. “Hey—Hey, stay awake!”

  Just a moment. Just one moment of rest. I never sleep.

  “Ugh—right here on the doorstep, really?!”

  Just a minute. Just one second. And then I’ll go home.

  Darkness. Finally. Then—

  I’ll go… home.