Elias ducked into the nearest alley, heart pounding against his ribs. Behind him, the shouts of Sentinels rose above the murmur of the market crowd. Their tracking device had found him far more quickly than he''d anticipated.
The alley opened onto a small courtyard surrounded by the back entrances of several shops. No exit except the way he''d come in. He scaled a drain pipe before the first Sentinel reached the alley, pulling himself onto a low roof as armored boots clattered on cobblestones below.
"He went up!" called a voice. "Surround the building!"
Elias moved swiftly across the rooftop, years of navigating the precarious structures of the slums making him surefooted even on the sloped tiles. The gap to the next building was wider than comfortable, but the sound of Sentinels ascending after him left no room for hesitation.
He jumped, arms windmilling as he barely cleared the distance. His landing should have been clumsy, should have sent him rolling—but instead, he touched down with unexpected grace, as though his body had calculated the precise movements required. For a split second, he froze in surprise at his own coordination.
"There he is!" A Sentinel had reached the roof of the first building, already drawing a crossbow from his back.
No time to wonder at his newfound agility. Elias ran, leaping to a third roof, then sliding down its far side to drop onto a covered walkway. The impact jarred his bones less than it should have. He sprinted along the walkway, aware of armored figures converging from multiple directions.
The Market Quarter''s layout worked against him. Unlike the chaotic, organic growth of the slums, these streets followed orderly patterns, making his movements predictable. He needed to reach the boundary, get back to familiar territory where hidden paths and secret tunnels might offer refuge.
A flash of metal to his left—a Sentinel had cut through a shop to intercept him. Elias changed direction without breaking stride, vaulting over a merchant''s cart and darting into a narrow passage between buildings. The new route would take longer but avoided the main thoroughfares where Sentinel concentration would be highest.
The marks beneath his skin burned now, pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat. The pull toward the Sanctum District had become an almost physical tether, and resisting it took conscious effort with each step in the opposite direction.
He emerged onto a less crowded street, hood pulled low over his face. Walking now, not running. Running attracted attention. Despite his efforts to appear calm, people stepped aside as he passed, some making the Church''s warding sign against their chests. Could they sense the marks? Or was it simply his obvious slum origin that caused their aversion?
Ahead, the wall separating the Market Quarter from the Outer Slums loomed, its checkpoints visible at regular intervals. All would be on high alert now. His usual routes would be watched.
A voice called from his right. "Boy! In here, quickly!"
An open doorway. An old man beckoning urgently. The shop behind him filled with fabrics in colors Elias had only seen in Sanctum District pageantry.
Instinct warned caution, but the sound of Sentinel signals nearby made the decision for him. Elias slipped into the shop, and the old man closed the door immediately, sliding a heavy bolt into place.
"Thank you," Elias said, moving away from the windows. "I need to—"
"Shelter a moment," the man interrupted. "They''ll sweep the street and move on. Better to wait."
He was thin but not starved, with the calloused hands of a working merchant rather than the soft palms of the wealthy. His eyes held neither fear nor disdain as they observed Elias—unusual for a Market Quarter resident encountering a slum dweller.
"You''re marked," the old man said simply. "I can see it in your eyes. The Maw''s gaze reflected back."
Elias tensed. "What do you know of the Maw?"
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"More than most. My brother was taken, twenty years past." He moved deeper into the shop, gesturing for Elias to follow. "He returned, though not as himself. Not entirely."
The back room was small but well-organized, rolls of fabric stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling. The old merchant moved a particular roll, revealing a small door set into the wall.
"This leads to a maintenance tunnel that runs beneath several buildings," he explained. "Follow it to the end, and you''ll reach the boundary wall near the old tannery. There''s a section where the mortar has crumbled away. You can slip through there, back to your slums."
Elias studied the man carefully. "Why help me?"
"My brother said the Maw''s trials change depending on how you enter them. Those who go willingly face different challenges than those dragged in against their will." The old man''s eyes held a distant sorrow. "He went unwillingly. Never forgave himself for what he did in there to survive."
A heavy pounding on the front door interrupted them. Sentinel voices called for the shop to be opened by order of the Church.
"Go now," the merchant urged, sliding the fabric panel back into position as Elias ducked through the small door. "And when you face the Maw, remember that intention matters."
The tunnel was low-ceilinged and damp, forcing Elias to hunch as he navigated by touch more than sight. Behind him, the muffled sound of the shop door being forced open spurred him forward. The merchant would delay them, but for how long?
The passage turned sharply several times before gradually sloping upward. After what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Elias found himself facing a rusted grate. Beyond it lay the familiar stench of the tannery and, more importantly, the Outer Slums.
He pushed against the grate, which resisted briefly before giving way with a groan of protest. Slipping through, he found himself in a narrow space between buildings, exactly where the merchant had promised. The boundary wall loomed before him, its imposing height diminished by a section where age and neglect had weakened the structure.
Elias pressed himself into the gap, stone scraping against his shoulders as he forced his way through. The marks on his skin flared painfully, as though objecting to his movement away from the Sanctum District. When he finally emerged on the other side, the familiar squalor of the slums greeted him like an old friend.
No time to return to his shelter. The Sentinels would cross the boundary soon, tracking device in hand. He needed to reach the rag-picker before nightfall, to learn what truly awaited him beyond the Maw''s embrace.
The slums were unusually quiet. Word of the Sentinels'' hunt had spread, driving people into whatever shelter they could find. No one wanted to be mistaken for a chosen one or, worse, accused of harboring one.
Elias kept to narrow alleys and shadowed passages, moving swift and silent as he approached the red door. The streets around the tannery remained clear of Sentinels for now, but that wouldn''t last. He knocked on the door with the same pattern as before.
No response.
He knocked again, more urgently. Still nothing.
"Looking for the rag-picker?" came a voice from behind him.
Elias spun to find Drav leaning against a wall across the alley. Drav was slum-born but had risen to become something of a power broker in the district, trading in information and favors. They had crossed paths occasionally, neither friend nor enemy.
"Where is he?" Elias asked, keeping his distance.
Drav shrugged, picking at his nails with a small knife. "Gone. Packed up and disappeared about an hour ago. Interesting timing, wouldn''t you say?"
"What do you know about it?"
"I know the Church pays handsomely for information about chosen ones." Drav finally looked directly at Elias, his gaze falling meaningfully to the cloth wrapped around Elias''s arms. "Especially the troublesome ones who try to avoid their divine calling."
Understanding dawned cold and hard. "You told them."
"Business is business," Drav said without remorse. "The rag-picker figured it out when I started asking questions about you. That''s why he ran—wanted no part of it. Me, I''m more practical."
Elias''s hand moved to his own knife, but Drav just laughed.
"Don''t bother. They''re already here."
As if summoned by the words, a squad of Sentinels appeared at the end of the alley, moving with disciplined purpose. At their head, an officer held the tracking device, its center glowing bright as it pointed directly at Elias.
"I did you a favor, really," Drav continued conversationally. "They''re taking you to the Sanctum District. Clean beds, good food—better than starving in this shithole, waiting for corruption or a knife in the ribs."
Elias turned to run, but the other end of the alley was already blocked by more Sentinels. He was trapped.
"The chosen one is cornered," called the lead officer. "Approach with caution. No permanent damage—the Maw requires them intact."
Drav backed away, duty discharged. "See you around, Elias. If you come back, that is."
The first Sentinel advanced, shield raised defensively. Elias drew his knife, knowing it was futile against trained soldiers in armor but unwilling to be taken without resistance.
"Stand down," the Sentinel ordered. "There''s no escape. The Maw has chosen you."
Elias lunged forward, feinting left before ducking right, aiming for a gap between the Sentinel and the alley wall. For a heartbeat, it seemed to work—his newfound agility carrying him past the armored figure with surprising ease.
Then pain exploded across the back of his skull, and the world tilted sideways. He hadn''t seen the second Sentinel''s strike coming. The cobblestones rushed up to meet him, cold and unyielding.
As consciousness fled, the last thing Elias felt was the pull of the Maw, stronger than ever, calling him home.