"Please don't be sealed shut," Selis whispered, jamming her fingers between the grating.

With a grunt and one solid kick, it creaked open with a metallic shriek that echoed down the stone shaft like an ominous trumpet.

Not great for stealth.

Selis grimaced, torch in hand, and ducked inside.

The tunnel was damp and humid, a mixture of old water, mold, and something that could either be rotting cabbage or dead hope.

Fortunately, she wasn't completely blind—the city engineers, bless their slightly insane hearts, had placed wall-mounted torches at intervals inside the wider sewer paths. Their flickering orange light cast long shadows across the damp stone, but it was better than absolute darkness.

The map was clutched in her other hand, slightly damp from the humidity. She turned corners carefully, hiding behind stone outcrops whenever the faint echoes of boots approached.

Some guards were patrolling down here—probably to catch smugglers or vampires—but Selis had spent enough time evading vampires to make ducking behind sewer walls seem like a tea break.

Twice, she held her breath as a guard passed close by, the scent of oil and sweat strong in the air. But they didn't see her.

One even muttered about wanting to quit and become a farmer. She silently wished him luck and took another turn, guided by her mostly-legible map.

The path to the inner cathedral's understructure lay somewhere beyond the third bend, if the map was right.

"If this leads me into a pit of rats again, I swear I'm feeding this map to a vampire," she grumbled, pressing forward.

Ten steps in, Selis slipped on something that looked and felt like the ghost of mashed potatoes past and landed flat on her back.

She stared up at the moss-covered ceiling, nose twitching.

"Ah yes," she muttered. "The scent of mildew, despair, and whatever's rotting in my dignity jar."

With a squelch, she sat up, made a half-hearted attempt to brush off her coat (which only spread the filth around), and got back to her feet. This was her life now. Sewer rat. Sewer Selis.

The first sign that this was going to get worse came in the form of a rat roughly the size of a toddler—and with about the same level of personal space respect. It hurled itself at her from a ledge like it had been waiting all week for this moment.

Selis yelped, stumbled back into the wall, and waved her torch around like she was swatting ghosts.

"Back off! I'm armed and extremely irritable!"

The rat gave a squeak that sounded smug, grabbed something shiny from the floor (which might've been her flask), and scampered off.

She took a breath, adjusted her grip on the torch like it was a blessed relic, and trudged forward. Her map—roughly sketched and questionably reliable—told her the tunnel should eventually lead to a door into the inner capital.

Assuming it was still accurate. And assuming she didn't drown in despair or whatever that puddle up ahead was.

The next thirty minutes were pure navigation chaos.

Wrong turns. More wrong turns. A full loop around a pipe she swore she'd already passed (and then passed again). She glared at it on the third go-around.

"Are you following me?" she asked the pipe.

Eventually, she hit a slope. It wasn't on the map. Of course it wasn't. Before she could step back, one slick patch under her boot sent her down like a sack of laundry into a chute that screamed "regret" all the way down.

She landed with a splash in a pool of something that felt . . . gelatinous. She did not dare to investigate further.

She emerged, dripping, hair plastered to her face like a sad seaweed creature, and muttered, "If what I think this is on my face, I'm suing someone."

Still, she pressed on. Because that's what determined sewer adventurers do when they're too stubborn to give up.

At one point, she came across a fork in the path. To the left: a long, solid-looking metal beam. To the right: a wooden bridge that looked like it had trust issues. Selis studied both for a moment.

"Quick death or slow one," she said. "Decisions, decisions."

She chose the bridge.

Three planks in, the middle gave out with a dramatic crack. She barely caught herself, legs dangling over the side. Somewhere in the darkness below, something made a wet gurgle.

"Oh good. Witnesses," she grunted, hauling herself up and flopping onto the remaining planks with the grace of a beached whale. "That was dignified."

When she finally reached the far end—grimy, soaked, and running low on both oil and optimism—she found herself in a narrow corridor. It matched the one on the map.

And at the end of it, there it was: a hulking iron door, half-covered in moss, with the faded crest of the High Council stamped into its center. The hinges were rusted solid. The lock looked complicated enough to require a minor miracle or an entire locksmith convention to open.

She stared at it. Then at her map. Then back at the door.

". . . If this leads to a janitor's closet, I'm burning this place down."

She approached and gave the door an experimental shove. It didn't budge. Of course it didn't. She pressed a hand against it anyway, letting the cold metal soak into her bones.

And then, finally, a grin tugged at her lips.

She'd made it.

Bruised, filthy, out of patience, and possibly carrying a fungal souvenir—but she was here.

"This is it, Emerald," she murmured, tapping the door. "You better be on the other side. Or close. Or vaguely in the same zip code. Because I've fought rats, poop, and emotional damage to get here."

Something squeaked behind her. She didn't turn.

"Not now, Jerry," she muttered. "I'm having a moment."

Then she dropped to her knees and got to work, eyes narrowing as she studied the lock. No fancy tools. No magic spells. Just her, a nearly burnt-out torch, and enough spite to move mountains.

The door might've been sealed shut.

But Selis?

She was not about to give up. She had come this far.