Chapter 17: Sewers (2)

The sewer swallowed them whole, a splash of ankle-deep sludge soaking Arwyn's sneakers as he landed beside Nathaniel. The grate clanged shut above, sealed by his sketched bar (50 poules, 6,050 left), muffling the last echoes of Erasure screeches. 

Darkness pressed in, broken only by the faint yellow glow of his scar under the glove. There was a restless buzz syncing with the Spire's distant thrum. The air stank of rot and ink, a sour bite that clung to his throat. Nathaniel shook sludge off his khakis, Rings glinting faintly as he scanned the tunnel.

"Nice drop," Nathaniel muttered, voice low, bouncing off dripping stone. "Smells like death's armpit down here."

Arwyn laughed, katana still drawn, tip hovering over the black water. "Yeah, well, your threads made it a party up there. Six hundred poules eh? Such a show-off." He smirked, but his eyes darted ahead.

The sewers had curved walls of cracked brick that stretched into shadow, and ink pooled in corners like spilled blood. No screeches, no claws. Just silence, heavy and wrong.

Nathaniel shrugged, stepping forward, boots squelching. "Scraps, kid. Keep that scar dim. We don't need more guests." He flexed his fingers, blue threads flickering once then fading. His Sketch Binding on standby, not flexing yet.

Arwyn took point, sketchbook tucked under his arm, katana ready. The tunnel split fast. Left, right, or straight? 

All three yawned into gloom. "Santina said west," he murmured, glancing at the Spire's hum pulsing faintly leftward. "But this place is a damn maze. Pick one, old man."

"Left," Nathaniel said, nodding toward the hum. "Spire's pull's stronger that way. Cedric's trail might be too."

They trudged left, water sloshing, walls tightening until Arwyn's shoulders brushed stone. The path curved, then… they dead-ended. There was a collapsed arch, rubble choking the way, ink trickling through cracks like veins. "Great," Arwyn growled, kicking a loose brick. It splashed, sending up a whiff of something rancid. "Backtrack?"

Nathaniel frowned, peering at the rubble. "Hold up. No claw marks, no glitch stains. This is old as hell. Erasures didn't do it." He tapped the wall. "Someone's been through here, though. Feel that?"

Arwyn squinted, and faint scratches marred the stone, not ink-born but steel-sharp. "Santina's whipsword?" His scar pulsed, suspicion creeping in. "She beat us down here. Bounty hunting, maybe… She was cleaning out the nest before we stumbled in."

"Smart girl," Nathaniel said, turning back. "Let's try right. If she's ahead, she's leaving breadcrumbs, whether she means to or not."

The right tunnel stretched longer, air growing colder, sludge thicker—unnameable liquid now, oily and slick, lapping at their shins. Another split—two paths this time, both dark, both humming with the Spire's call. 

Arwyn picked left again, random as flipping a coin, and they pushed on. And…

Dead end number two. Rusted bars blocked the way, bent outward like something big had tried to break through, then given up. No Erasures, though. Not a screech, not a glitch. The silence gnawed at him.

"She's wiped them out," Arwyn muttered, sheathing his katana, hands on his hips. "No claw marks, no ink-beasts. Santina's been busy, bounty hunting for sure. Five coins a head, she said."

Nathaniel crouched, peering at the bars. "Well, she's moving. West, like us. Maybe after Cedric, maybe not." He stood, wiping sludge off his hands. "Keep going. Straight this time."

The straight path widened more than Arwyn had expected. The ceiling arched higher, and the Spire's hum grew teeth-rattling loud. There was something pulling him, not Erasures, but deeper and older. 

The sludge thinned here, revealing cracked stone beneath, and something caught his eye. A soggy scrap of paper floating in the muck, wet and drippy, ink smudged but legible. He fished it out with his katana's tip, holding it up to the scar's faint glow.

"Bounty notice," he said, squinting. 

'Wanted: Fugax. 30,000 gold coins. Spire's Lower Vault.' 

"Shit. 30,000?" He flipped it to Nathaniel, who caught it with a grimace.

"'Reward scales with Passion Energy stored,'" Nathaniel read, voice low. "This thing's a tank. Hundreds of thousands of poules, maybe more. No wonder Santina's here. That's no small fry she's chasing."

Arwyn's stomach twisted. "Fugax? Sounds like a boss. And no Sketcher made it. Santina said that psycho wasn't one of us. So what's feeding it Passion Energy down here?"

Nathaniel folded the paper, tucking it into his jacket. "The Sketcher who made it put effort. Probably just quit the thing mid-way or crumpled it. Either way, Santina's ahead, hunting this thing. We're on her heels. Lower floor's close."

They pressed on, tunnel sloping upward now, sludge giving way to damp stone. The Spire's hum shook the walls. A ladder loomed ahead, rusty as a metal that'd been soaked in water for a whole generation, bolted to the wall, leading up through a jagged hole. Faint light spilled down. It was crimson, pulsing, the Spire's glow. Scratches marked the rungs.

Whipsword again, Santina's trail.

"Lower floor," Arwyn said, gripping the ladder. "She's been here. If she's after this guy, we might catch her… Or whatever's left."

Nathaniel nodded. "Or we walk into her mess. Stay sharp, kid. Your scar's screaming for a reason."

Arwyn climbed, katana bumping his thigh, diary thumping in his pack. The sewer's silence broke above. A distant clang, steel on stone, from the Spire's guts. 

Santina, or something bigger?

The rungs creaked under his grip, rust flaking off where Santina's whipsword had scratched her path. Nathaniel followed, and both of their footsteps clacked against the marble floor.

He hauled himself over the edge, though this time, his sneakers scraped damp stone as he landed in the Spire's lower vault. The air shifted. Less rot, more metal, a tang of burnt ink hanging thick. 

The chamber sprawled wide, with cracked pillars that loomed like broken teeth. The buzz was deafening here, rattling his bones, until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Nathaniel dropped beside him, silent, scanning the shadows.

Then Arwyn saw it—her. 

Santina stood thirty feet ahead, whipsword coiled at her hip, one boot planted on a hulking corpse that sprawled across the floor. Fugax, no doubt—the Erasure, but its ink-armored hide cracked open like a shattered eggshell. 

The thing was massive, twice her size, a mess of jagged limbs and a gaping maw frozen mid-roar, leaking black sludge that hissed faintly as it dissolved into ashes.

Her new dagger, the twin he'd sketched, jutted from its chest, sunk to the hilt, a clean kill. She didn't turn, just wiped ink off her cheek with a gloved hand, her high ponytail swaying as she shifted her weight.

"Well, glowstick," she called, voice flat but edged, not looking back. "Late again. Thought you'd drowned down there."

Of course she'd notice Arwyn's presence. Even in the calmest of days, he could never conceal his aura… just yet.

Arwyn smirked, stepping forward, katana still sheathed but loose in its scabbard. "Yeah, well, your breadcrumbs suck. Dead ends everywhere. You're too fast for us slowpokes."

Nathaniel stayed back, eyeing the corpse. "Thirty thousand coins' worth of ugly. Nice one."

Santina finally turned. Her amber eyes glinted in the crimson light, sharp and tired, bags under them, and a smudge of blood on her jaw she hadn't bothered to clean. "Nice? Took two hours and half of my damn patience. Bastard soaked up my Passion Energy. Three hundred thousand poules, at least, before I cracked it." 

She kicked the corpse, a dull thud echoing. "Worth it though. Spire's bounty office'll pay out tomorrow."

Arwyn's eyes flicked to the dagger. "My sketch held up, then. You're welcome."

She smirked, faint but real, pulling the blade free with a wet squelch. "Better than most Runar junk. I still don't owe you anything, glowstick." She wiped it on her thigh, tucking it back into her belt, but her stance stayed coiled. She was less cocky now, more guarded. Her armor was scratched, one pauldron dented deep, and a thin cut ran along her forearm, blood dried dark.

Nathaniel crouched near Fugax, tracing a claw mark with his finger. "No Sketcher made this... Something else fed it, pumped it full of juice." Nathaniel stood, looking around the large interior. It looked like a cathedral, limestone walls and arches, wood for the scaffolding, and stone from the earlier fight. "Where's the psycho anyway?"

Santina's smirk faded, jaw tightening. "Psycho's long gone a week back, like Cedric. Left this mess for me to mop up." 

She then spat into the ink pool, a bitter sound. "Runar's been drowning in Erasures since. Lost a sister to one three years ago. They clawed her apart in front of me. Couldn't even bury her, just ash and ink."

Then Santina laughed, brushing it off. "Now I hunt 'em. Keeps the streets clean, keeps me sane."

Arwyn blinked, his snark stalling. They let out a moment of silence, before Arwyn replied softly.

"Condolences." He shifted, sketchbook heavy under his arm.

"Nah, it's alright," she said, too quick, eyes flicking away. "Just business. Thirty thousand buys a lot of quiet." But her voice cracked, just a hair, and she turned back to the corpse, nudging it with her boot like she could kick the lie away too. "You're chasing Cedric, right? West's that way, past the Veil, they told me. Don't expect me to tag along."

Nathaniel stood, Rings glinting as he crossed his arms. "Not asking. But you're neck-deep in this Spire mess. What's feeding these things?"

Santina shrugged, but it was stiff, forced. "Dunno. Spire's been humming louder every day. That bounty paper's old. Fugax was loose down here for a while." She glanced at Arwyn, amber eyes narrowing. "That scar's loud. Louder than what I normally hear."

"Mine?" Arwyn's hand twitched to his glove as he reacted to her, then the Spire. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She stepped closer, whipsword swaying, voice dropping low. "I felt it back there. Your Passion Energy's wild, untamed, like mine used to be. Trained it out of me, fighting these guys. You? You're a walking spark in a powder keg, and the Spire likes that. It feeds on it." 

She paused, then smirked again, softer. "Don't blow us all up, huh?"

Nathaniel chuckled, breaking the tension. "He's trying."

Arwyn's eyes flicked to the corpse, then Santina. "You sure you're out, Santina?"

She turned away, heading for a side tunnel. "Got my coins, my kill. Spire's your problem now, glowstick. Don't die, cause I'd miss the free daggers." Her laugh was dry, but it lingered, a crack in the armor she wore tighter than her gear.