Four Years Ago – Part IV
The under-veins reeked of wet stone and iron, a damp, suffocating scent that clung to Hatim's lungs like a curse. Water dripped somewhere deep, echoing faintly through the tunnels—a slow, relentless rhythm beneath the city's heartbeat.
Hatim's boots slipped on slick rock as he and Lyra dragged Granny Maldri through the winding passages. Ash clung to her skin like a second shadow, but beneath it, the sickly violet shimmer crawled through her veins—irregular, unsteady. Unbinding. The word twisted in Hatim's gut like a parasite gnawing at hope.
Lyra's braid whipped against her back as she kicked aside a tangle of wyrmgrass. "Faster," she hissed, but they both knew the Rootpaths weren't meant for speed. They were a graveyard of whispers, walls etched with glyphs left by healers and grave-runners who'd carried their own dying through these arteries.
Maldri's breath hitched—a wet, rattling sound. The lamp at her belt guttered, its faint glow barely pushing back the darkness. Shadows danced across the carvings—warnings in dead tongues, pleas to gods long silent.
Then the Bone-Reed arch loomed. The curtain of charms clattered like teeth as they burst through.
The hearth was cold.
Hatim lowered Maldri onto the moss-lined cot. Her fingers twitched, lips moving soundlessly. Lyra was already at the shelves, scattering jars, voice fraying. "Moonpetal—thornspike—where's the Goldbane?!"
Hatim pressed a hand to Maldri's forehead. Her skin was clammy, eyes glassy. The violet shimmer had spread to her temples.
"It's not sickness," he said.
Lyra froze.
The silence thickened, heavier than the dark outside.
Unbinding didn't kill. It unmade. Stripped Akar from bone like bark from a living tree. No poultice could mend it. No chant soothe it. Only one thing might—whispered in the Sinks like a fairy tale.
"She told me," Hatim said, voice tight, "pure Akar. From the Crowns."
Lyra turned, a bitter laugh tearing free—sharp as broken glass. "You think they'll spare a drop for her? We're gutter-born, Hatim. The Crowns would sooner burn the Sinks than look at us."
Maldri coughed. Blackened sap trickled from her lips.
Hatim stood.
The cleaver hung above the dead hearth. Shrine-metal, forged in volcanic breath, edge honed by Maldri's own hands. Glyphs coiled down its length—meant for healing, hardened by war.
His fingers closed around the hilt. The weight was familiar. Right.
"Then I'll make them see me."
Lyra's breath hitched. "The forbidden woods? You'll die before reaching the guild outposts."
"Nobles hunt there sometimes," he said, jaw tight. "If I bring back something rare—a Frostfang pelt, a Veinbloom—maybe one will notice. Maybe they'll ask why a Sink-rat knows how to track."
Her face paled. "You're not a hunter. You're a healer."
Hatim looked down at Maldri. Her chest barely rose.
"She taught me to mend broken things," he whispered. "Not to watch them shatter."
The strap across his chest creaked as he turned toward the door.
Lyra's voice chased him, thin as a breaking thread.
"When you come back… don't be a ghost."
Hatim paused.
"I won't."
The under-vein fog swallowed him whole. Behind, the Sinks sealed shut like a jaw snapping closed.