He moved through the dark by touch alone.

  His fingers reached into a pocket and brushed against thick paper, a matchbox. He drew one out and struck it against the side. It burst into flames with a sputtering of sparks, and the black retreated.

  He glanced at the half-empty box.

  Eight matches. Should’ve stolen his lighter too, he thought.

  Quickly, he scanned the place he was in, a corridor of lichen-covered brick with archways darting off in every direction. A thin layer of wastewater flowed around his boots. He’d never been down here before, maybe no one had, not for centuries, not even Akim. He pulled his coat tighter as the cold crept from the stones.

  The match flickered, then died, leaving him in nothing but darkness. Far away, tapping and scurrying echoed off the walls. Rats, he hoped so.

  Then came a metallic groan, distorting as it bounced through the maze.

  Akim?

  Metal bent in the distance, followed by an inhuman howl of unsated hunger.

  Not Akim…

  It must have followed him. He trudged faster through the water, each footstep too loud for his liking.

  It was gaining on him, splashing water and heavy steps growing closer. He’d moved through the labyrinth by touch alone, fingers brushing against damp rock and sweat stinging his eyes.

  He turned a corner.

  Light.

  He froze, swaying to keep his balance. The corridor ended in an abrupt drop and he stared down an abyss swallowing the stream by his feet.

  A rusted ladder hovered in the air, its bottom, broken and gone while low orange light sifted through a grate at the top.

  Lamplight, from the street just above.

  I can’t die here, I have someone to find.

  With a hiss, he lit another match, revealing the chamber. The Abyss was perfectly circular, a dozen trickling falls from corridors like his own.

  He turned towards the dark with gritted teeth, thumping footsteps and whispers coming closer. It had him cornered.

  The match died, leaving only the rhythmic groan of footsteps. There could be no hesitation, the longer he waited, the fewer options he had.

  Fighting against fear he ran towards it, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He slid to a stop on the wet stone and threw the coat aside. A roar erupted from the dark, vibrating his bones. It had seen him.

  He twisted back towards the ladder, the low light shining against the corroded metal. He burst into a sprint, boot splashing in the shallow water.

  The abyss approached at a rapid pace.

  At the last moment, he jumped, pushing off the slippery edge. He sailed over the abyss, stale air rushing past his face. Stretching his arm, he reached for the bottom of the ladder.

  He caught it, fingers coiling around the lowest bar. Bolts squeaked under his weight as he dangled from one hand, the footsteps growing closer.

  Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he pulled himself upwards, climbing with burning muscles up the trembling steps.

  He reached for the light above, the hum of the gaslamp audible through the grate. Another push, another pulse of effort and he’d be free.

  With a tremble and a snap, the metal gave.

  Why me?

  The ladder tore free of its fittings with a screech. He fell.

  Time stretched thin as he plummeted away from the light into nothingness.

  Cold.

  A sharp pain from his left arm and something tugging at his ear.

  With a groan he pushed himself out of the water, the ache of his body sharpened by lucidity. Something moved by his ear, scurrying back into the dark.

  Then the smell hit him, thick and pungent, rot and waste. He gagged, then vomited fluids he couldn’t remember swallowing.

  With trembling fingers he pulled his hands free from something soft beneath the water and reached into a pocket. The matchbox was half-soaked and crushed flat.

  Still he pulled out a stick and dragged it against the side.

  Nothing.

  Come on, please Saint.

  He tried again, still nothing. He breathed out, suffocating the urge to scream, steadied his grip and struck hard.

  It flared to life, light bursting against his retina and revealing the surroundings. He stood on a mound of half-submerged refuse, rags, grime and something else.

  Corpses, dozens of them, bloated and pale.

  They moved. No that wasn't quite right, something was crawling over them.

  Rats, too many to count, fleeing from the light.

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  The shock made him stumble backwards, slipping on the wet mound. His stomach churned, but there was nothing left in it to give.

  He spat a curse and looked upwards, the circular chamber rising above, a pale dot of light far out of reach and the water running down the sides like thin sheets. He’d been lucky to have survived the fall.

  Down here were no corridors, only tight, yawning tunnels into the rock. He glanced at his arm pulsing with hurt, the wrist was swollen and stood at an odd angle. A wound circled down his forearm, turning his pale skin red.

  The match was dying between his trembling fingers and he held it close, falling to his knees to protect it.

  “Please Flame,” he whispered. “I want nothing else. I’ll endure anything, anything at all.”

  The flame shrank, fighting to stay alive.

  “I beg you. Just… bless me.”

  The match fizzled to nothing, plunging him into darkness again, instead a tightness nestled deep in his chest, worse than the cold.

  “Saint.” He whispered upwards, “Saint, I’ll change my ways, I won't steal again. I’ll be pious. Akim deserved it but I’ll hurt none else.”

  Nothing.

  Buried beneath the city, no divinity answered, only the sound of scurrying claws. Perhaps they simply saw no promise in him.

  He gritted his teeth, was he truly as worthless as these waterlogged corpses?

  Damn it all.

  He’d have to save himself.

  He inhaled deeply, placed the matchbox between his teeth and waded into the water, pushing away things floating around him.

  He’d seen the mouths of pipes earlier, outlets for runoff or industrial waste.

  The water deepened to his sternum, then his hands found the rim of the sewer-pipe. He kicked off the water with a splash, pushing himself up into the dry metal space.

  It was narrow, his elbows pressing against either side.

  He lit a precious match. The tunnel angled upwards, steep, but climbable.

  Before it burned out, he ripped strips of his shirt, tearing the fabric to shreds and tying a crude bandage around his left arm.

  He refused to think further, insulating his thoughts to only a single thing.

  Move forward.

  And then he vanished into the depth of the sewers.

  There was no sense of time.

  No dawn or dusk, no true up or down. Only the press of metal against his skin in a labyrinth of hollow metal tubes.

  When the tubes grew too tight and he began to doubt that he was alive, he lit a match. They fizzled to life for a moment, revealing the pipe up to the next corner, but each burst of light felt shorter than the last.

  At first, he would talk to himself, prayers and curses echoing off the curved walls. With time, he grew quiet, his voice replaced by ragged breaths.

  The pipes twisted ever upwards, gathering in the occasional stone chamber where similar metal tubes dripped corrosive sludge down sewer grates, each a necrotic wound in Nov Yanosk’s gut. Some had doors of metal, he tried each one, all of them locked. Rusted shut and unmoving despite his kicks.

  He crawled, always crawling.

  Telling himself the next bend would be the last, the next upwards turn.

  The one after that.

  He clung to that lie with both hands and bloodied elbows, until the final match fizzled out between his fingers.

  Then, the dark swallowed him.

  His thirst mixed with fear and regret so sharp he had to hold himself to not scratch and rip at his skin. His jaw clenched to hold in a scream, but it came anyway, spreading down the network of tubes, reverberating through the metal pipes like a note inside a tortured instrument.

  Still, he crawled.

  He didn’t know how long it had been, days, maybe. The pain from his arm had settled, dulled to a prickly numbness. But parts of the bandage had turned wet and sticky.

  The times he dozed off, his dreams were vivid and feverish, a man with fiery eyes, smiling with sharp canines. Himself, hiding under the bed as his mother reached for him. The blue sky over Nov Yanosk’s Spires. Akim grinning ear to ear at his first stolen spoils. Refreshing visions in the choking dark.

  The hunger was manageable, just a mellow ache, but the thirst. The thirst was a monster.

  Desperation had forced him to try the pipe sewage once, it was bitter and sharp. His throat had spasmed, and his stomach had given it back almost instantly. He didn’t try again. He just kept moving, praying to the Saint for no rainfall lest the drains drown him.

  The sensation of an edge against his fingers snapped him out of a dreamlike state.

  An opening.

  Crawling face-first into it, he reached out, metal beneath his belly. His good hand stroked across the wall, trailing downwards to a damp horizontal floor.

  He slid out, tumbling into the chamber clutching his wounded arm. Another room with a sewer grate he reckoned, but this one was different. The drip of toxic waste was loud, pattering like rain. His dry tongue licked cracked lips.

  Trailing his fingertips up against the slick outer wall, he took a step, stretching his sore muscles. A delicate skittering over stone brushed against his senses, almost masked by the pattering.

  Something alive.

  He froze.

  Then a tug on his boot. Without shifting his weight, he lowered himself in the dark, holding his breath and raising his good arm.

  His hand shot downwards, finger wrapped around warm fur.

  The creature thrashed in his palm with a squeal, tiny claws scratching at his grip.

  He squeezed, and with a dull crunch, thin bones snapped and the squeal grew in pitch. After a final spasm, it went limp.

  Panting, he sat back against the stone wall, running a hand along the body of the rat. Filthy fur wrapped around brittle bones.

  He bit down just below the skull and tore through. The blood was thick and oily but his dry throat didn’t care. He tore meat and blood from the carcass, swallowing in greedy gulps.

  It settled in his stomach like coal in a dying furnace. Not enough, not even close, but something to keep moving. After a brief rest, he got up and continued as before, feeling himself forward along the wall.

  More rats, that can only be a good thing.

  His foot hit something, the recognizable sound of glass rolling on stone. He crouched and patted the ground in front of him with outstretched fingers, his hand met something cold and smooth.

  A bottle.

  Its bottom had shattered, resulting in sharp, pointy edges. He took it with him and moved forward, light fingertips searching for yet another ascending pipe.