Vincard woke with a sudden jolt, as if someone had thrust a cold blade between his ribs. Sweat stuck his shirt to his skin, salty and sticky. His mouth was dry as ash, his tongue a heavy, foreign lump. Hunger gnawed deep in his gut, not the normal, daily hunger, but something animalistic that felt like his body was screaming for something he didn't want to name. Every muscle trembled with exhaustion.
But he was still tied up and in a hopeless situation.
The straps dug into his wrists and ankles, the leather warm and damp with his own sweat. The stretcher beneath him felt like a cold iron plate, slowly cooling his back. His gaze wandered lazily around the room, taking in the shelves of jars glimmering in the yellow gaslight and the humming machine in the corner.
His gaze lingered on the glasses. Something inside him knew, instinctively, without any conscious thought, that the liquids inside them could help.
He concentrated on his right hand, the one with the scar. He clenched his teeth, felt something shift inside him, not physically, but deeper, as if a second layer of his blood were awakening.
A soft, wet sound rang out. In one of the glasses, a tall, slender one filled with a dark, almost black liquid, something began to bubble. The surface rippled as if an invisible finger were stirring it. Then a thin stream shot out, leaving the glass in a controlled arc.
He controlled it with sheer willpower, a thin, whipping thread that wrapped around the leather strap on his right wrist. But it was too fast.
The liquid didn't just hit the leather. It cut through skin and tendons at the joint, a sharp, hot pain that took his breath away. At the same time, a second splash whipped up, involuntarily, and hit him on the neck, just below the jaw. A burning streak ran across his skin, and blood spurted out, warm and thick.
"Damn it..." He cursed softly, a hoarse croak. But the pain cleared his head. He took advantage of it.
His own blood, now darker, thicker, with a black sheen, obeyed him. He directed it purposefully at the leather on his wrist. The strap was cut like hot butter.
His right hand was finally free. A tingling sensation spread from his wrist up his arm, hot and cold at the same time. The wound on his wrist closed slowly, very slowly, black threads pulling the edges together like a living seam. The same thing happened on his neck: the blood dried up, the skin tightened, leaving only a thin, silvery scar that glistened in the lamplight until it disappeared completely.
"What did he do to me?" His gaze fixed on the closing wound.
However, he didn't have time to waste and worked quickly. With his free hand, he loosened the other straps, first on his left arm, then on his ankles. Every movement sent new waves of pain through his body, but he gritted his teeth. When the last strap fell, he slumped off the stretcher, not elegantly, but like a wet sack. His knees gave way and he caught himself with his hands, his palms slapping against the cold stone. For a moment he remained like that, breathless, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the floor.
Then he forced himself up with all his remaining strength. He stumbled to the table, grabbed his bandolier, Aetheris, Mater Doloros and his watch. The weapons felt heavier than before. His coat was hanging over a chair in the corner, crumpled but undamaged. He threw it over his shoulders, the movement almost causing him to fall again.
But suddenly he noticed something else. Despite the pain, his ribs were healed again. The broken bones had apparently healed slowly, without him noticing.
Besides, he noticed that the door wasn't locked. It was just ajar. A narrow strip of cold air came in, smelling of rust and rain.
Vincard staggered toward it, bracing himself against the doorframe. He glanced back at the stretcher one last time before stepping outside.
The hallway beyond was dark, lit only by sporadic gas lamps. He didn't know where he was going. Only that he had to go.
Vincard stumbled through the corridor, which soon turned into a narrow, steep staircase. The walls here were rougher, damp, made of rough stone and old mortar, covered with cracks from which cold water seeped. The gaslight from the chamber remained behind; instead, scattered bioluminescent spots glowed on the walls, a sickly, greenish shimmer like rotting moss. Each step sent echoes ahead that were lost in the depths.
The corridor ended abruptly in front of a rusty ladder that led vertically into the darkness. At the top, barely visible, was a faint circle of gray light. Vincard grabbed the rungs, cold and slippery with condensation, and pulled himself up. Each rung felt like an eternity. Sweat ran into his eyes.
At the top, he pushed through a heavy hatch. It squeaked like a dying animal. Fresh air, if one could call it that, hit him: the familiar stench of wet stone, sewage, and decay. He climbed out and found himself in a narrow alley, wedged between two dilapidated row houses. The ground was muddy, littered with broken bricks and shards of glass. Gas lanterns flickered in the distance, their light yellow and sickly. No cranes, no chimneys, and no industrial district anymore.
Vincard blinked against the weak morning light filtering through the alley's grime-streaked walls. Dawn. Which meant he'd been in that underground chamber for hours, or days.
As he left the alley, he realized where he was. In the Lower Districts, near the slums. He ended up near the southern part of the city, close to the edge of the quarantine zone.
He leaned briefly against a damp wall, breathing through his mouth to get rid of the metallic taste of blood and fog. His mind was working slowly, but more clearly than before.
„Evelie needs to know," he thought to himself. This stranger wasn't just a threat to him. He was a plague with a will of its own. If he left the walls, if he broke through the quarantine zone, Eldridge would no longer be just an isolated wound. It would become an infection that would consume the whole world. The government had to be warned. Immediately. And he himself... he had to leave. Before the voices in his head got louder.
He pushed himself away from the wall and moved forward. Slowly and carefully. Every step was a careful decision not to make any noise. The alleys of the Lower Districts were a maze of crooked facades, overhanging balconies, and improvised barricades. Human beings, or what was left of them, scurried past like rats, wrapped in rags, their eyes milky or glowing red. Vincard kept himself in the shadows, his coat pulled tightly around him, his hood pulled low over his face. He didn't want any fights. Not now. Not with a body that could barely move forward.
He crossed paths with a blood slave twice. Once it was a single person leaning aimlessly against a wall, the other time it was a couple arguing over a dead dog. Both times he avoided them. Once he ducked into a doorway until the shuffling sounds faded away. His breathing was shallow and controlled.
The southern gate wasn't far away. He knew the direction, the same one he had taken to enter the city days ago. The Iron Guard was far to the east, but that didn't matter. The guards at the gate had resources: messengers, carrier pigeons, whatever still worked in this cursed city. If he told them what he had seen, the warning would be passed on. Quickly enough.
The alleys grew wider. The stench of sewage mingled with that of burnt oil and rotting flesh. Gas lanterns flickered, casting long, shimmering shadows. And then, finally, he saw it. The southern gate.
A larger version of the eastern entrance: thick steel plates, rusty chains, two watchtowers with guards in leather coats and gas masks. Rolls of barbed wire lay in front of them like sleeping snakes.
Vincard stopped, half hidden behind an overturned cart. He was breathing heavily, and his head was burning. The scar was pulsing again, quietly but steadily.
He got up and took a few steps forward. After a few meters, he stopped again, about twenty meters in front of the gigantic gate.