Beneath Broken Skies

The rain had lessened, but the city still wept.

Aren sat across from Abil in the ruined diner, the broken katana resting beside him. Blood had dried in a dark crust along his ribs where the assassin's blade had grazed him. Abil was shivering, her damp clothes clinging to her slight frame, but her eyes burned with something Aren hadn’t seen in a long time—determination.

“They’ll find us if we stay here,” she said, voice low, urgent.

Her fingers tapped nervously against the battered tabletop.

“The Architects... they don’t let anyone slip away.”

Aren leaned back, the booth’s cracked leather sighing under his weight.

“I’m counting on it," he murmured. His voice was rough, like a blade dulled by too many battles.

"If they want me, they’ll have to bleed for it."

Abil’s gaze sharpened. “You don't get it. They’re not just hunters, Aren. They're builders of cages — cages so perfect you don't even realize you're trapped until it's too late.”

A gust of cold wind pushed through the broken windows, making the neon sign outside sputter and flash weakly, as if gasping for breath.

Aren turned his head slightly, staring out into the mist.

Buildings loomed like the bones of long-dead giants, the storm laying them bare and broken.

“How do you know so much?” he asked, not unkindly.

Abil looked down at her hands, studying the scars that crossed her palms like rivers.

“Because I was one of them,” she whispered.

Aren stiffened. His fingers brushed the hilt of the katana, instinctively ready.

“I was taken when I was thirteen,” Abil continued.

“They trained me. Broke me. Made me useful. I escaped when they thought I was dead.”

The words hung heavy between them, soaked with memories too raw to speak aloud.

For a long moment, Aren said nothing.

The rain beat a soft rhythm against the roof, like a heartbeat slowing to a stop.

Finally, he slid the katana off the table and stood.

“We move,” he said. “Now.”

Abil nodded, relief flickering across her features. She rose too, wincing slightly from an unseen injury.

They slipped into the mist together, two shadows stitched by survival and something new — fragile trust.

The city’s underbelly greeted them with open, rotting arms.

They moved through alleys choked with debris, past skeletal cars, past hollow-eyed figures huddled beneath makeshift shelters. No one dared meet their eyes. Fear ruled these streets.

Aren’s side burned with every step, but he didn’t slow.

Abil led the way, weaving through the ruins with the ease of someone who had lived too long in the cracks between worlds.

“We need to find the Mouth,” she said, ducking under a collapsed awning.

“The what?”

She paused, looking back at him.

“It’s an entrance. Hidden. Leads into the foundation of the city. To where the Architects built their real kingdom.”

Aren grunted, the word leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

As they pushed deeper into the ruins, the rain grew colder, heavier, almost as if trying to push them back.

But Aren welcomed the sting. Pain was honest. Pain meant he was still alive.

Finally, Abil stopped before a ruined parking garage, half-collapsed and swallowed by vines.

“This is it,” she said, her voice barely a breath.

Aren scanned the structure. It looked ready to crumble at the slightest touch.

“We're not gonna survive if that comes down,” he muttered.

Abil offered a grim smile. “Survival was never guaranteed.”

They slipped inside.

The darkness swallowed them instantly.

Only the dim green glow of Abil’s stolen flashlight guided their way, cutting thin paths through the gloom.

Down broken ramps, past flooded levels littered with rusted-out cars, deeper and deeper until the air grew damp and metallic.

Then they saw it — a cracked wall, half-hidden behind a crumbling pillar, and in its center, a rusted iron hatch.

The Mouth.

Abil knelt, running her fingers along the edges.

“They won’t expect anyone to come up from the underbelly," she said.

"They think fear keeps everyone below."

Aren crouched beside her, feeling the cold radiate from the hatch like a living thing.

Together, they heaved it open.

The stench that poured out was thick and choking — a mix of mold, rust, and something fouler, something alive.

Aren wrinkled his nose but said nothing.

They climbed down, one after the other, into the blackness.

The tunnels were a world of their own.

Narrow corridors stretched endlessly in every direction, carved into the stone and reinforced with ancient metal. Pipes dripped foul water. Rats skittered in the shadows.

And everywhere, etched into the walls in faint, trembling lines, were symbols — strange spirals and jagged shapes that seemed to pulse when you looked at them too long.

Abil kept her hand against the wall, guiding them by touch.

“They use these,” she whispered, “to mark territory. To warn intruders.”

Aren’s jaw tightened. He had seen such symbols once before — in his nightmares.

They moved silently, every step echoing like a drumbeat through the endless dark.

After what felt like hours, the tunnel opened into a vast underground chamber.

Aren froze.

Above them, suspended by iron scaffolding, were cages — hundreds of them, maybe thousands.

Each cage held a figure, unmoving.

Some were alive.

Some... weren’t.

Abil’s face was pale in the dim light.

“This is what they’re building,” she said hoarsely.