World Cry

The stone beneath his feet was uneven, each step sending faint jolts up his legs. The corridor stretched ahead, cloaked in shadows, the flickering remnants of the runes behind him offering no more guidance. The air was damp, thick with the scent of decay and something metallic—blood, perhaps.

Zephyr—Ra'el—moved forward, pressing his hand lightly against the wall to steady himself. His muscles still felt weak, his steps uncertain, but the urgency in his chest drove him on. He had no idea where he was or what lay ahead. But he knew one thing—he could not be found.

The corridor twisted sharply, narrowing. He paused. He heard voices—distant, muffled, but unmistakably human. His pulse quickened. He strained his ears, picking up the low murmur of conversation, the scrape of boots on stone. He crept forward, every movement deliberate, careful not to let his feet drag. The voices grew clearer—two men, perhaps more.

He pressed himself into a dark recess in the wall as their footsteps drew closer. His breathing slowed, each inhale shallow, careful. The men passed by—a brief glimpse in the dimness. Robes, dark and heavy, embroidered with symbols like the ones in the ritual chamber. Their faces were shadowed beneath hoods, but he caught the glint of steel at their waists.

They didn't speak as they moved past him, but their purpose was clear. They were dragging something behind them—limp, heavy. A body.

Zephyr held his breath until their steps faded. When he was certain they were far enough ahead, he slipped from his hiding place and followed. He kept to the edges of the corridor, his footsteps light, his body low. He moved like Ra'el—the street rat who had learned to survive in the alleys of Taisora.

Taisora.

The name surfaced like a fragment of a dream. He clung to it, forcing himself to remember. A port town—salt air mixing with the stink of fish and unwashed bodies. Narrow streets where the strong preyed on the weak. The kingdom of Baoshen's distant authority meant little there. The real rulers were the gangs—and especially to him, Scarface.

Zephyr—Ra'el—could almost see him. The jagged scar that cut across his cheek, pulling his mouth into a permanent sneer. The man controlled the street rats, taking their stolen goods in exchange for protection and scraps. Disobedience was met with broken fingers—or worse.

But now thinking about it, Scarface had been different the last time they met. Too cordial, his usual hostility dulled. He had watched Ra'el closely that day, his eyes lingering a moment too long.

Zephyr's stomach tightened. Had that been the start? Had Scarface sold him?

The thought made his teeth clench.

He pushed it aside as the corridor widened into a cavernous chamber. He stayed hidden behind a jagged outcrop, peering into the space beyond. The men were still there—three of them now—standing at the edge of a pit that seemed to devour light itself.

Bodies.

Dozens of them, maybe more. Pale limbs tangled together. Flies buzzed over the heap, their droning faint but constant. The stench hit him like a physical blow—rot, bile, death. He fought the urge to gag.

The men grunted as they rolled the newest corpse into the pit. It tumbled down, landing with a dull, wet thud atop the others. A life. Gone—without any buzz.

Zephyr's fingers curled into his palm. He understood now. He had been meant for that pit.

He was never supposed to wake up.

A cold anger burned in his chest, but he buried it. There was no room for fury now. Survival came first.

He watched the robed figures for a while longer. They lingered, speaking in low voices he couldn't quite make out. One of them gestured back the way they had come—toward the chamber where Zephyr had awoken.

His heart lurched.

If they checked that room…

He slipped back into the corridor before they moved, retracing his steps with more haste now. His mind raced alongside his feet.

How long had he been here? How many had died before him? How many had been abducted just like him—only to be killed and thrown back into that pit?

He reached a fork in the passageway, his breath quick, limbs trembling from exertion and nerves. He had to get out.

But where was out?

Panic was beginning to set in again. He didn't sign up for this.

"Calm down...calm down"

He pressed himself against the wall again, taking a moment to slow his breathing. He needed clarity, not panic. He thought of Earth—of Zephyr Hayes—how he had faced exams with logic, breaking every problem down into parts.

He could do the same here.

He had woken up in a chamber next to the ritual site. They dumped bodies nearby. That meant this area was likely on the outskirts of their domain. They wouldn't drag corpses through their main gathering places.

The way out had to be ahead, further from the pit.

He moved forward, every step deliberate. The corridor sloped upward—his heart leapt at the implication. Up meant surface. Up meant escape.

But his reprieve was short.

He heard a voice—closer this time. Sharp, irritated.

He froze, pressing himself against the stone.

More footsteps. Different from the last. Lighter, but quick.

Zephyr's eyes darted around. There—a crevice in the wall, just wide enough. He slipped into it, holding his breath.

A figure passed—a woman this time, clad in the same dark robes. She moved swiftly, muttering to herself, clutching a scroll.

Zephyr stayed hidden until she vanished into another tunnel.

His chest heaved, but he pushed onward.

The corridor began to curve—air stirred faintly ahead. Not as damp, less suffocating. Hope surged through him.

He pressed on, but his mind never stopped working.

Scarface. The ritual. The dead.

Pieces of a puzzle still scattered.

But one thing was clear—he wasn't just a street rat anymore.

And whatever this place was, whoever these people were—they had made a mistake.

They had not disposed of his body immediately.

He was alive.

And he intended to keep it that way.