Skye did a little dance to shirk his urge to pee.

  Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t dislodge the pegs. They clung to the wall like the teeth of a famished beast, unwilling to release their prey. They must be the tips of long spears, or the shanks of heavy anchors. Physical strength alone would never free him.

  If he could channel, he might have a chance. But with him being a useless dud, he could do nothing but squeeze his legs together to not soil his pants.

  Not in his wildest dreams did he envision the duke’s brother would catch him trespassing on wardens’ property to steal bits of forbidden lore, and cast him in a dark dungeon with nothing but insects and corpses for company. It sounded insane, even as he lived the moment. But the things he’d experienced in the past month defied reason.

  He sighed, chasing the bell with his eyes as it darted around. That was his world now: his pains, the constant twitching of insects testing if he’d died yet, and this bell.

  If he didn’t know better, he assumed the Void-spawned fiend was enjoying itself. Swaying lazily on the edge of his vision. Threatening a chime.

  “Go away!” he shouted, kicking dirt at it.

  Nothing thumped or bounced off its body. He’d long known it was incorporeal.

  His head snapped to the wall atop the stairs, staring at the three rays of light. When Emery saw him in the library, his greeting had been a gratuitous bash to the head. Who knew what the wardens might do to an unknown prisoner, screaming in their dungeon?

  He didn’t want to find out.

  Ding!

  Pressing his thighs, he shut his eyes, steering his thoughts away from the pain.

  The bell had first appeared in that cave when his teammates were slaughtered. But his anticipation had been building for months before that. That sensation of constant dread, of feeling strangled and not knowing why, was one of the main reasons he wailed during his nights of recovery, after Gideom rescued him.

  Gideom…

  A lump swelled in his throat. The old man had shared his lifetime expertise of the Deeps with him, taking him on tours, asking for nothing in return. Despite his aches, he smiled, remembering Gideom’s checkerboard grin. If he ever lost half his teeth, he’d never have the courage to smile in front of anyone. So kind, capable, and brave was Gideom, despite his disability. So knowledgeable despite never entering a library, and so optimistic despite never seeing the sky.

  And despite all his hopes and dreams, he was so dead.

  Gideom’s message flashed in his head. “LIVE!”

  Skye released a long sigh. The existence he’d suffered during the past month hadn’t honored Gideom’s will. It couldn’t even be described as living; it was misery and loneliness. And now he was trapped, about to die alone, covered in his own piss.

  He shook his head. He had to hold on. Had to honor Gideom’s will. He had to survive.

  Where was he?

  Right. The bell.

  He tried to recall what exactly he’d been doing before hitting his head, and passing out in the Deeps. When questioned, he always answered he was searching for gemfarms, even when he was the one asking. But he’d been naked, with no gear, or backpack, and no gems to illuminate his path. Yet those were not the only things he’d been lacking.

  Troqua was a subterranean city, buried beneath rock. Its surface district, Solarite, was new, barely older than he was. He couldn’t have been born up there. Less likely was he’d spent his entire life aboveground and never entered the city.

  So, the question rose: why was Troqua being underground a huge news to him?

  Was I born outside?

  He’d considered this idea before, but he’d dismissed it as too outlandish. The odds of him being a foreigner were in the negative; Troqua hadn’t seen one of those since… never.

  Even him being an outlander didn’t explain his ignorance of Troqua’s topography. Nor his oblivion to the necessity of wardens, the threat of elexii, and the wealth of gemfarms. Troqua sent several trade caravans every week. The merchants’ guild had contracts with lands on the other side of the planet. And the quality of Troquean gems was renowned worldwide. No matter where he was born, he should’ve at least heard of Troqua.

  But he hadn’t. He’d been clueless as a newborn, needing to be taught everything about life in this buried city.

  Someone must have been taking care of him beforehand. A family, or a surrogate parent. He might have had siblings, and maybe some friends. But he couldn’t remember any of them.

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  He dug deeper into his memories, ignoring his aching arms, headache, and bloated bladder.

  Growing up, he must have experienced all kinds of feelings. He might have fallen and hurt himself. Or spent an afternoon playing, having fun. All kids did stupid things and got scolded and he couldn’t have been an exception.

  He had… an inkling of those sentiments: a shadow of embarrassment, a tinge of regret, and a smudge of glee. But they were too thin and eroded, making him believe they were mere mirages in his mind, only there because he hoped they’d be. They were pictureless. Formless. Soundless. Just titles of memories, as if his mind was a museum filled with empty pedestals and blank portraits.

  That was absurd. He couldn’t have popped into this world under Troqua. Plus, he knew the language; his accent was impeccable.

  Shutting his eyes tighter, he dug deeper into his consciousness, searching for his mother’s smile, for the smell of his father’s shaving cream, for his siblings’ laughter…

  Finding nothing.

  Not a single fragment of his life before that night existed.

  Perhaps he’d always been cursed. And the head trauma had nothing to do with his amnesia. But he couldn’t accept such an explanation; there had to be proper answers to all of this mess.

  As far as he knew, no channeler in Troqua was powerful enough to cast this curse. But power wasn’t its only prerequisite. Whoever unleashed this bell must be one merciless, brutal, sadistic coalson. A demon worse than any murderous warden or elexos. Those only killed. And killing was a kindness compared to this tormented reality.

  One day, he’d find the creator of this bell. And then he’d bind him, blind him, and drag him into a secluded pit in the Deeps, alone, naked, and hungry. And he won’t tell him why. He’d leave that to the machinations of his mind, lost in a sea of questions, slowly eating himself with doubt.

  Hesitantly, Skye unclenched his jaw and uncurled his fingered, performing his breathing exercises. Losing his mind would only worsen his state. He had to conserve what little strength he had left, because there was no telling when he’d eat or drink again. He couldn’t remember the taste of food, or the coolness of water on his lips.

  Sighing, he straightened, relaxing his abdomen. The dripping behind never stopped, driving him crazy. He really needed to unburden his bladder.

  The drum in his head picked up the pace, pang, pang, pang…

  He’d only felt such pain after he woke up in Dr. Stenser’s clinic with his skull half-broken. Back then, Rierana and Lyonel visited him regularly, talking to him for hours, trying to ease his suffering. He hadn’t been lucid in the first few days, but they never left his side.

  Lyonel would bring his books and ramble about fantastical, faraway lands: cities erected atop flying islands, towns flourishing beneath the ocean, volcanoes that spew rivers of ice. Oh, how many nights Skye’d spent dreaming of visiting each and every one of them.

  One time, Lyonel brought a story about a land inhabited by strange half-human-half-animal beings. They’d spent the afternoon sketching each other as animal-kin. Half-Rierana-half-cat. Half-Skye-half-hawk. Half-Lyonel-half-hamster.

  A faint smile touched his lips at the memory before pain in his lower abdomen twisted it away.

  He wondered whether his friends still met regularly, hanging out in the park, or gazing at the ceiling, imagining the stars. He’d been a lousy friend, abandoning them to chase shiny gems in the Deeps. If he had any sense, they’d be exploring together now, searching for new and exciting places, working to finish their map of Troqua. They’d end up somewhere high, enjoying dessert and juice, far from the world below.

  The thought of drink clenched his bladder. The denim pants were buttoned up, his belt tight.

  Although he knew he wouldn’t be able to put them back on until he freed his arms, he pushed at the heels of his boots, each in turn, fighting the laces, and peeling the pair off. A stupid decision. His feet would become a prime target for any crawler with stingers or mandibles, and there were plenty in this cave. But he had to undress. He didn’t want to spend the night damp with his own urine.

  Back during his bed-ridden days, he’d hated waking up to discover he’d wetted himself. Hated the smile the doctor plastered on his face as he reassured everything was alright. Hated how cold the doctor’s hands felt as he stripped him of his pants and cleaned his unmoving body. And most of it all, he hated when the doctor called Ms. Jella or Rierana to help.

  He couldn’t speak properly then, neither could he control his body. And so, he’d flounder and flop like a fish out of water, trying to push them away, but that’d only throw the covers off of himself and force them to work harder. And they’d end up undressing and scrubbing him anyway.

  As he pulled down his socks, he remembered with great shame that one time he accidentally met Rierana’s eyes when she helped her mother remove his wet pants. He looked away in that instant, wishing the earth would split and swallow him. Or that she would forget all about him.

  With his socks off, he twisted his foot up to remove his pants. When that didn’t work, he caught the edge of his pants leg with his toes and pulled down. He stumbled, stood, and tried again. Then again and again. But as his bladder came close to bursting, the belt stubbornly sustained, refusing to go past his hips.

  “Please,” he begged, squirming under the judgmental gazes of the skeletons, and the red eyes of the bat. ”Move, please.”

  What if someone discovered his unconscious body here and carried him to the city? What if they took him to Dr. Stenser’s clinic again? He couldn’t suffer the humiliation of being washed by Rierana or anyone else. He was no longer an invalid; he had no excuse for spoiling himself anymore.

  “Please, just move… I can’t hold it in anymore.”

  He bit his lips, trying to ignore the pain in his waist as he yanked the pants down. It hurt. His bladder. His stomach. Everything hurt like the cold Void. And it was cold here, he hadn’t noticed before because of the hot pain wrapping his body like a fever. He shuddered, sweating, fighting till the moment passed so that he could keep the last remains of his dignity. But in the end, it was all for naught.

  Warm liquid seeped down his legs, pooling around his feet. As the nearby coalants fled the ammonic flood, he breathed a guilty sigh of relief. He felt frighteningly free, and the pain he’d been fighting faded away. Silently, he kept his face impassive, smothering his emotions, keeping everything under control. His lips didn’t shake, his chin didn’t quiver, and his eyes remained dry even though they burned red with heat.

  Familiar with his fortune as he was, he knew if any warden were to enter this dungeon, they’d arrive now while he leaked. He couldn’t let them see him weeping as well. He’d never cried in Dr. Stenser’s clinic, fearing someone might check on him at any moment. He hated the idea of others seeing him defeated and helpless. Hated revealing his weakness to the world.

  For a moment, he was glad to be alone.

  **********