Chapter 20: Deep Down

Nathaniel crossed his arms. The rings were dim, and his grin faint. "Nice offer, mayor. Real shiny but… I'm good." His voice stayed dry, calm, even with spears still hovering close.

Othello's smile twitched, but he pressed on, stepping closer. "Come on! Think it over, man. Power like yours is just wasted on the road. If you accept, I'll give you a tower. Made of gold, and you'll have men to lead. Erasures? Sketchers? You'd fix it all, and I'm giving you a lifetime's worth." His eyes gleamed, greedy as the kid's.

"Well, no thanks man," Nathaniel said, shrugging. "I got my own path. Don't need yours."

Santina watched as her amber eyes flicked between them. Othello's nice mask was slipping. His jaw was tight, and his fingers tapped the desk. "Hey Carreon," he said, turning to her, voice still smooth but sharper. "Tell him. Convince him. He'd listen to a fighter like you. Both of you would profit."

She laughed, short and harsh. "Profit? I'm here for my coins, not your bullshit. If he says no, he means no!" Lita's ghost flickered, gold for peace, not this trap, and her cut throbbed, a dull sting.

Othello's smile dropped, eyes narrowing. "Then fine. Let's make it sweeter." He snapped his fingers, and the guards stepped up, one dumping a sack on the desk. Coins clinked, gold, heavy, glinting red. "A hundred and fifty thousand right now, blue-hair. Guard my city, keep it safe, and I'll provide you more each month."

Nathaniel glanced at the sack, then back, but his grin was gone. "That's… a pretty pile." The coins flashed a light, and he chuckled as if he intended it to have some suspense. "Still no. I'm out, mayor." His voice stayed steady, and the rings glinted faint, calm as ever.

Othello's face flushed, soft cheeks going red. "You're a fool," he spat, slamming a fist on the desk, coins rattling. "Both of you! The Spire's breaking, Erasures everywhere, and you spit on me?" He waved a hand, sharp. "Guards, lock them up deep in the dungeons, now. Don't let them escape."

Santina tensed, hand twitching for her dagger, confiscated too, damn it, but Nathaniel stayed loose, leaning off the wall like it was nothing. Guards grabbed her arms, rough, hauling her to the door. 

She smirked, bitter. "Nice talk, mayor. Real classy."

Nathaniel strolled behind, hands still free, guards wary of his Rings, voice dry. "Deep dungeons? Sounds cozy." No anger, no panic, just that calm cutting through the clatter.

They shoved them down to the deeper floors of the building. The stairs spiraled tight, and the air was turning cold and damp. Othello's 'fancy' faded. The stone roughened, and wet, ink pooled in corners. 

Lita's laugh was gone, but Santina's chest stayed hot. Three years, and now this pit? Guards opened a cell, iron—no, steel bars thick, floor slick, and they tossed them in. The door clanged shut with a boom.

She paced, boots splashing, amber eyes glinting in the dark. "Calm's cute, Blue-Hair, but I don't know anymore." Her voice bit, sharp, low, but Nathaniel sat against the wall, Rings dim, grin faint.

"You still don't believe in Arwyn?" he asked, voice steady. "Have faith in him. He'll be here soon." His calm held, trust in Arwyn like stone.

Santina snorted, leaning on the bars. "He'd better be fast. I want my coins, not this hole."

"I don't think you'll be getting your coins anymore, girl." Nathaniel brought out a book from his pocket. The guards confiscated their bags, but didn't even bother looking through Nathaniel's denim. It was probably due to them being unfamiliar with his pants having pockets.

Tales of the Succubus.

The cover had a picture of a succubus, particularly more voluptuous than normal women there. His face had a sweet, almost bittersweet smile, as water from the ceiling dripped on the cover.

"You're really going to sit there reading smut while we rot?" Santina snapped, her voice sharp against the silence.

"This ain't smut," he said, voice echoing off wet stone. "You know, the people called her the First Temptation."

Santina kicked a rat carcass aside, armor clanking. "Looks like bad poetry with tits."

"It's prettier than your bounty posters." Nathaniel's grin faded as he flipped to a page where the succubus' wings bled into thorny vines. "You know, they say she didn't start as a demon. Was one of us once. An Animist Sketcher who poured too much passion into her muse, then she made a deal with an actual devil."

A distant drip-drip punctuated the silence. Somewhere above, iron gates shrieked.

"Are you telling ghost stories now?" Santina pressed against the bars, scanning the empty corridor. Her confiscated whipsword's absence hung between them like a phantom limb.

The book hissed.

Nathaniel jerked back as the succubus' inked claws twitched, scarlet droplets beading where the illustration's fingernails pierced parchment. "Huh. It's still hungry after too many millenia," he muttered, snapping the grimoire shut. "Maybe that's why Othello's guards didn't take it from my pocket."

Santina froze. "You brought a cursed book into our cell?"

"Maybe." Nathaniel tapped the cover where the leather pulsed like a sluggish heartbeat. "Can't be sure, but I'm certain she's still out there, with different volumes of these types of books. I know she's got more stories than just this stuff."

"Bullshit." Santina's gauntlet clanged against the bars. "The Sketchers killed that thing clean before I was even born."

"Did they?" Nathaniel's rings glinted as he tossed her the pocketbook. "Check the binding."

The pages fell open to the book's final entry. It wasn't ink, but it was dried blood flaking from vellum. Santina's breath hitched at the sketch beneath.

"First rule of demon deals," Nathaniel said softly, hands supporting his head. "She always takes payment before the job."

The torch sputtered. Somewhere in the dark, a woman laughed, maybe in her mind, but she couldn't assume.

—

Back in the sewers, Arwyn crouched at the corner of a dead-end tunnel. Guards roamed the halls, their Dream-forged armor clanging with every step. The sound echoed off the damp stone. 

He counted seven pairs of boots from the rhythm. Three sweeping left, four veering right. Too many to fight head-on.

"How am I going to get out of this?" he whispered to himself. The corner swallowed light, pitch-black except when a guard's torch swung close, casting fleeting glows across the slime-slick walls. His sketchbook rested in one hand, pencil gripped tight in the other. Daverno's Codex pressed against his thigh, and the Delacroix Diary weighed heavily in his jacket's inner pocket. His katana? He didn't even bother using it.

In any case, maybe, just maybe the Diary held something useful.

His knuckles whitened around the pencil as a torch licked the wall ahead, throwing sharp guard-shadows into view. 

Seven sets confirmed. 

He flipped the Diary open, its brittle pages rasping under his fingers. A dog-eared entry caught his eye: 

"Shinichi's Gambit: When light betrays, borrow the dark."

He snorted softly. "What's that supposed to mean?" The Codex pulsed faintly in his lap, urging him on. He cracked it open, ink-mottled pages revealing a spiral symbol under Passion Compression. The note read: "Condense energy output by 60%, works with small objects within the size of 5 centimeters. Gradually increases with more practice and endurance."

"Compression," Arwyn muttered, glancing up as the guards' chatter grew louder. "Let's try it."

A loud clang rang out, like armor hitting stone. They were close, from the torchlight staying put.

His pencil moved swiftly, not sketching a net or shield this time. 'Smaller. Focus.' He drew seven pebbles, and The Codex's spiral burned in his mind as he carved a jagged rune onto the page of his sketchbook. Air tightened around him.

A sharp crack split the silence. The sketch flared violet instead of his usual gold, and it buzzed. Arwyn slammed his palm down.

Ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting!

The stones shot off, ricocheting off walls in a shrill staccato as he intended the stones to do. Guards swore, their armor clattering as they spun toward the noise.

"Echo trap!" one barked. "West corridor! Move!"

Arwyn bolted, holding the katana so it wouldn't make a single sound. The Codex clutched to his chest, meanwhile the diary dug into his ribs. He ducked into a side tunnel, boots skidding in the muck. The open Diary page glared up at him, with the same Shinichi's Gambit.

He sketched again, fast. A concave lens with warped edges. Borrow the dark, as it said. The Codex's spiral glowed faintly as he compressed his Passion Energy, channeling it tight and sharp.

"Maybe it meant this," Arwyn said with a quiet chuckle.

A guard's torch rounded the corner, flame dancing.

Arwyn slapped the sketch against the air. Light bent around him, warping like oil on water. The guard swept the torch inches from his face, its glow twisting around the invisible lens. Arwyn held his breath.

"Clear!" the guard called, turning away.

Arwyn exhaled, shaky. The lens flickered, Passion Energy draining faster than he'd hoped. The compression needed work, probably because it'd only work on objects less than 5 centimeters, and he'd need to master more techniques to compress more with bigger objects.

He palmed the Diary, its leather slick with sewer damp. Mirage Steps. Flipping pages, he found a smudged diagram of overlapping footprints. "When pursued, multiply your shadow."

"Huh?" He scratched his head, but not to the point where it'd make a loud sound, then an idea popped in his head. "Multiply this," he hissed, sketching three crude circles. They were speaker cones, jagged and quick. He added another compression rune, slamming his palm down.

The sewer roared with phantom footfalls. Boot sounds clacked, as if it were sprinting east, west, north, except for south. Guards shouted, splitting off in confusion. 

"Over there!"

"No, here!"

Arwyn ran again, same hand holding the katana, and the lens cloaked him in bruised light. Above, a drainage grate glimmered faintly, with sunlight promising freedom. The Codex thumped against his chest, a second heartbeat.

A soft laugh drifted from the dark ahead. Low, lilting, and definitely not Arlene's. His scar flared hotter, and he stumbled, catching himself on the wall. Something shifted in the shadows. Curved, tall, then gone in a blink. "Not now," he growled, shaking it off. 

Nathaniel and Santina needed him.