Chapter 16: Sewers

The four hours were up, and Arwyn felt every second of it—or didn't. He sprawled on the straw mat, katana clutched across his chest like a lifeline. His body felt lighter, like he could breathe much easier now. 

The rest had sharpened his edges, nudging his Passion Energy up a notch, but the Spire's hum had wormed into his skull, tangling his dreams with ink-slick screams and a woman's voice whispering his name.

Arlene's..? 

He jolted awake, eyes bleary, the backroom's mildew stink hitting him like a damp rag. Nathaniel stood by the tarp flap, Rings glinting as he peered into the alley. They were battered but sharper now, the haze of exhaustion burned off.

But–

Bang!

A heavy fist pounded the door, three sharp bangs that rattled the shack's flimsy walls. "Open up, Blue-Haired Boy!" a gruff voice barked. "You're wanted for questioning. Those Rings ain't yours to flaunt!"

Arwyn shot upright, katana scraping the crate as he swung it to his side. "Shit. Was it the kid?"

Nathaniel's grin was tight, eyes flicking to the door. "Snitch, alright. Merchant probably cashed us out too. Runar's all about the marks." He stepped back, hands loose but ready, Rings catching the lantern's weak flicker.

The door splintered inward, three guards barreling through in dream-forged plate—armor etched with faint, shifting runes, heavy as hell but alive with old Sketcher tricks. The lead one, a broad bastard with a scarred lip, pointed a spear at Nathaniel. "Those Rings. Relics from the exodus. Hand 'em over, ghost, or we carve 'em off ya."

Arwyn's scar flared, poules humming as he flipped his sketchbook open. "Ghost? He's more alive than your brain, pal." He scratched out a quick smokescreen—jagged lines, a puff of gray. Slamming his gloved hand down. Fifty poules flared out (6,150 left), and a thick cloud erupted, choking the room in ashy haze. The guards coughed, spear tips swinging blind.

And Nathaniel moved fast, too fast. 

Arwyn caught a flash of something new. Blue threads, thin as spider silk, shot from Nathaniel's outstretched hand, coiling around the lead guard's spear mid-thrust. 

The weapon froze, then jerked sideways, slamming into the wall with a crunch. The guard stumbled, cursing, as the threads dissolved into faint sparks. 

Nathaniel smirked for less than a second, and the rings pulsed once, sharp and blue.

Arwyn blinked through the smoke, sketchbook still clutched. "What the—?"

"Later, kid," Nathaniel snapped, already bolting for the back flap. "Out! Now!"

The other two guards lunged, but the smokescreen held. Arwyn darted after Nathaniel, boots pounding dirt as they slipped into the alley. The merchant's voice wailed behind them fading under the clang of armor and shouts.

"Them were cursed tenants! Ruined me!"

They didn't stop, cutting west through the muck-slick streets, the Spire's crimson glow looming closer. Two streets to the grate and Santina's tip burned in Arwyn's head. It was their shot at the Spire's underbelly.

Arwyn caught his breath as they slowed, the alley tightening around them. "Seriously. What was that back there? You've been holding out on me."

Nathaniel shot him a sidelong grin, flexing his fingers. "Sketch Binding, kid. Ties sketches to my will. Objects, beasts, whatever's got ink in its veins. Been a while since I flexed it." His grin faded, voice dropping. "Used to have like… a trillion poules to throw around, back when I wasn't a babysitter. Something's got 'em locked up now, and I'm scraping by on scraps."

"A trillion!?" Arwyn's jaw dropped, scar buzzing hotter. "And you're just—what, rusty? Who took it?"

"Long story. Older than me, even." Nathaniel's eyes darkened, but he waved it off. "Point is, I'm not at full tilt… yet. That took 200 poules, and I've got maybe 10,000 left in the tank. Enough to keep us alive. Move."

They hit the spot. There was a busted cart, splintered wood tipped over a rusted grate, ink-black water gurgling below. The alley was a shadowed slit, a fishmonger's stall nearby choking the air with brine, barely masking the sewer's rot. 

The Spire's crimson glow bathed it all, hum so loud it rattled Arwyn's teeth. He adjusted his gloves, katana steady at his hip.

A screech split the air. Glitching, wet, wrong. Three Erasures clawed up from the grate: a warped hound snapping ink-dripping jaws, a lone clawed arm skittering like a spider, and a shifting mass of blades whirring in a glitchy dance. Arwyn's scar flared, drawing them like a beacon.

Arwyn's sneakers skidded on the slick stone, katana ripping free from its sheath with a hiss. The Erasures lunged—ink-slick and screaming, a mess of glitched hunger. The hound came first, jaws snapping, drooling black that hissed where it hit the ground. His scar burned under the glove as adrenaline kicked in.

"Fuck me," he muttered, slashing low. The blade caught the hound's flank, shearing through ink-flesh—wet, wrong, like cutting tar. It yelped, a sound that warped into static, then lunged again, claws raking the cart's splintered wood.

Nathaniel darted left, blue threads snapping from his fingers. They coiled around the clawed arm skittering toward him, yanking it mid-air. 

It thrashed, a spider-thing with no body, just intent. "Stay sharp, kid!" he barked, slamming the arm into the grate. Metal clanged, ink splattered, and the thing twitched once before dissolving into ash.

The blade-mass whirred closer, a buzzing swarm of jagged edges—knives, swords, scissors, all mashed into a nightmare. 

Arwyn flipped his sketchbook open, pencil scratching fast: a spiked net, heavy, barbed. He slammed his gloved hand down—100 poules burned out (6,100 left), and the net burst into being, dropping hard. 

It pinned the mess, blades screeching as they fought the tangle, ink spraying like blood.

"Nice one," Nathaniel grinned, ducking the hound's next snap. His threads lashed out again, wrapping its muzzle, yanking it back. "But they're not done."

Arwyn's chest heaved, scar pulsing hot. The net held, but the blade-thing was shredding through, barbs snapping one by one. The hound tore free of Nathaniel's threads, static howl rattling his skull. And the grate—shit, it rattled too, more claws scraping up from the dark.

"More?" Arwyn growled, katana flashing as he hacked the hound's leg. It buckled, ink gushing, but didn't stop. "How many bastards did this psycho Sketcher leave?"

"Too many," Nathaniel shot back, threads snagging the hound's neck now, twisting tight. It thrashed, then burst into a spray of black, soaking his khakis. He cursed, shaking it off. "Sewer's a nest, so the Spire's bleeding them out. Your scar's a damn dinner bell."

"Well, I guess it's time for more–"

"No," Nathaniel interjected, serious this time. "You have too little Passion Energy, kid."

Arwyn froze, katana mid-swing, as Nathaniel stepped forward, Rings flaring blue—a cold, electric pulse that lit the alley like a storm. 

The air tightened, Passion Energy crackling around him, and his grin was gone, replaced by a focus Arwyn hadn't seen before. 

"Watch this," he said, low voice, hands snapping out.

Blue threads erupted—not just a few, but a dozen, thin and razor-sharp, weaving through the air like living veins. 

They lashed the hound first, coiling its legs, neck, jaws—each thread tightening with a faint hum, pinning it mid-lunge. 

It glitched, a static scream choking off as Nathaniel twisted his wrist. The threads pulled, and the hound shredded apart—ink exploding outward, then–

It collapsed into a sizzling puddle, ash rising like smoke.

Then the blade-mass broke free of Arwyn's net, whirring toward them, a storm of edges.

But Nathaniel didn't flinch. 

His threads snapped again. Faster, tighter, spearing through the mass like needles through cloth. They hooked every blade, every jagged shard, suspending it mid-air. 

He clenched his fist, and the threads contracted, crushing the mess into a ball of warped steel and ink. It hit the ground with a wet crunch, twitching once before dissolving.

The grate rattled harder, and two more Erasures clawed up, a glitching bird-thing with razor wings and a hulking arm with too many fingers. Nathaniel's eyes narrowed, threads already moving. 

They wove a net of their own—not Arwyn's clumsy spikes, but a lattice of blue light, precise and deadly. It dropped over both, tightening like a noose. 

The bird's wings snapped, the arm's fingers curled inward. Then both of them burst in a spray of ink and ash, the threads cutting through like wire through clay.

Arwyn's jaw hung slack, katana limp in his hand. "Holy… shit. That's Sketch Binding?"

Nathaniel shook out his hands, threads fading as he exhaled. Sharp, controlled. "Yeah. Took 600 poules. I got 9,400 left. Back in the day, I'd have wiped a city's worth of these without blinking, and in a second." He shot Arwyn a dry look. "Don't gawk, kid. Your net's cute, but we've got a sewer to crack."

Arwyn snapped his mouth shut, scar still buzzing, poules steady at 6,100. The grate lay quiet now, ink pooling around its edges. He sheathed his katana, sketchbook tucked under his arm, and muttered, "Trillion my ass. You're still a monster."

Nathaniel chuckled, kicking the grate open with a screech of rust. "Scraps, kid. Just scraps. Let's move before the next wave smells you." He dropped into the sewer, splashing into the sludge below, and Arwyn followed, the Spire's hum swallowing them whole.

As the two walked deeper, at the side rested a dagger. Arwyn noticed and didn't think anything of it at first, but when it came to him, he glanced for another check.

It was the one twin to Santina's whipsword.

"She must've come here first, kid. Let's move." Nathaniel was as careless as ever. He strolled on, while Arwyn pocketed the knife, now wet with liquid you couldn't even describe.