The arguments started before we reached the sealed channel. Not loudly, yet. The kind of argument that curls inwards, sharpened by old grievances and newer fear. It coils in half-finished sentences, in looks that linger too long, in the way hands rest closer to weapons than they should.

  The river clergy walk barefoot despite the cold stone, their steps soundless against the slick floor. Their robes are stained dark at the hem, not with filth but with silt worked deep into the fabric, as if they have knelt too often and too long to bother cleaning it away. One of the guards watches them with open distaste.

  “Don’t like it,” he mutters to no one in particular. “No prayers, no sigils, no proper rite. Just… murmuring at puddles.”

  “They worship currents,” another guard adds quietly. “My grandmother said they’d sooner drown a man than bless him.”

  The river clergy do not respond. They never do, to words like that. Silence is their defense, their offence and their patience all at once.

  I feel Nemain stir at my back.

  Sssee hhhow ttthey ssspurn ttthem. Hhhow ttthey mmmock wwwhat ttthey fffear.

  I ignore it and kneel at the channel’s edge. The water pulls at my senses again, faint but insistent, like fingers brushing the inside of my ribs. Garrick steps closer, lowering his voice.

  “I am not one to surrender to hearsay, but if you think their rituals will make this worse-”

  “I think fear already has,” I reply. “Rituals don’t create corruption my friend. They only reveal who believes what when it surfaces.”

  One of the priest bristles at that, fingers tightening around the iron reliquary at his chest. “Belief should be structured,” he says stiffly. “Regulated. Faith without order invites heresy.”

  The eldest river cleric finally looks up. Her eyes are pale, river-worn, reflecting lanternlight like stone beneath shallow water.

  She says calmly, “And order without listening, invites floods.”

  The silence that follows is brittle. The basin lies ahead, sealed by an ancient stone collar etched with marks so worn they are barely legible. I recognize them, old water-binding sigils, crude by modern standards but honest in their intent. Others have been scratched over them, newer, sharper, cut more with iron than care.

  Someone had tried to correct the river. I place my palm against the stone. The grove’s echo answers faintly but the water resists. Nemain hums again, closer this time.

  Ttthey dddistrust tttheir rrroots. Yyyet yyyou rrrun ttto ttthem wwwhen fffear cccomes.

  Ignoring Nemian I say, “The seal is failing. Not because it is broken, but because it is being stretched to thin, trying to fight both sides.”

  The younger river cleric kneels and presses her forehead to the stone, whispering words that do not sound like a prayer so much as an apology.

  A guard scoffs. “Talking to rocks now?”

  The whispering stops. The cleric rises slowly. “We speak to what remembers us. Even when men pretend it does not.”

  Tensions snap tight once again. I feel it in my jaw, in Garrick’s stance, in the way the soldiers subtly spread out. This is danger no blade cuts cleanly; belief turning inward, gnawing at unity when dark presses close.

  Nemain whispers curl again, silk-soft.

  Dddraw mmme. Lllet ttthem sssee wwwhat fffaith rrreally mmmeans.

  I breathe through it, trying to let it pass.

  “We don’t have the luxury of division,” I say quietly. “Whatever lies below does not care whose god you invoke. It only knows the city drinks from this water.”

  That has hit a mark. I can clearly see from their faces. The river clergy exchange glances, the priests tighten their grip on scripture and iron, Garrick nods once, slow and deliberate.

  “Proceed,” he says. “But carefully.”

  The eldest river cleric draws a small bone blade and slices her palm. Small beads of blood starts forming, not much, too little to be a sacrifice but enough to be a mark of consent. She let it fall into the channel.

  The water shivers in recognition. Something deep below shifts its attention again. I straighten heart heavy.

  “This ritual isn’t a summoning,” I warn. “It’s an announcement.”

  Garrick’s hand goes to his sword.

  “Of what?”

  I look into the dark channel beyond the basin, where the stone gives way to something older and less certain.

  I say, “That we’re here and we are no longer pretending not to notice.”

  Behind us the water stirs once more, longer this time, but still patient and waiting.

  The river clergy do not end their ritual with a word; they end it with stillness. The chant fades into the stone until even its echo seem unwilling to linger, and for a long moment nothing happens at all. No surge, no answer, just the steady, disciplined flow of water pretending it has not been addressed. Then slowly, painfully, the ancient collar around the lower channel begins to hum; not only with magic but with strain as well. Hairline fracture creeps along its surface, dust sifting free as the weight of centuries pressed inward. This seal was never meant to be opened. It was meant to endure quietly, forever. Even now, the river does not break it in anger, it simply resumes an old path it has been denied, and the stone, exhausted by time and contradiction, finally yields.

  The seal grinds open with a sound like stone teeth breaking. Dust drifts down in a slow, choking curtain as the collar shifts aside, exposing the passage beneath. The air that breathes out of it is warm and wet, carrying the stench of stagnant water, old decay and something sharper beneath; iron-rich, like blood diluted beyond recognition. Lantern flames gutter at once, shrinking, as if reluctant to illuminate what waits below.

  No one speaks and even the river clergy fall silent. The channel slopes downward at first, gentle enough to suggest mercy. That illusion lasts all of ten steps. The stone changes beneath our boots, smoothed not by tools but by centuries of water grinding patience into rocks. The walls curve inward, narrowing our lanternlight into long, trembling blades that cut more shadow than clarity.

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  Every sound stretches. Footsteps echo too long; drips fall too slowly; somewhere ahead, water moves, not flowing, not rushing but adjusting, as though something large has shifted its weight and the river is accommodating it.

  My breath fogs in front of me. Nemain presses closer against my back.

  Ttthis dddownward pppath, iii rrrecognize iiit.

  I grit my teeth and I keep my hand away from the hilt. The first body appears around a bend. It is half-submerged in the channel, wedged between stone and current like refuse caught in drain. At a distance, it might have been mistaken for a collapsed laborer, clothes bloated with water; skin pale; hair plastered flat to the skull.

  Then the lantern light reaches its face. The eyes are gone, not rotted or eaten, removed. Smooth hollows gape where they should be, filled instead with a glossy black film that rejects light like oil. The mouth hangs open, stretched too wide, jaw distended as if something forced its way out rather than in. The chest rises and falls once.

  I swallowed bile rising up in my throat, when I heard a soldier retch.

  “It’s alive.” Someone whispers.

  “No,” I say quietly. “It’s listening.”

  As if in answer, the body twitches, a signal. Water ripples outwards from it, thin waves slapping softly against stone. Further down the channel more shapes stir. Limbs slide free of water’s surface with a sound like meat peeling from ice. Fingers scrape stone, nails long dissolved into blunt, blackened tips. They do not rush us. They stand.

  “Sentries.” I whisper to the group.

  The sentries were placed deliberately where the channel narrows, where sightliness collapse, where numbers matter less than inevitability. Bodies claimed not for hunger, but for watchfulness.

  The river clergy freeze.

  “This isn’t the river’s doing,” one breathes. “This is something wearing it.”

  The nearest corpse straightens. Water pours from its mouth as it rises, spine bending the wrong way, vertebrae grinding audibly beneath the skin. Its head tilts, hollow eye-sockets fixing on the lanternlight and then on me. The black film within them quivers, forming ripples that move against the current.

  I feel the pull then, different. It was not Nemain, something deeper; like a hand closing around the roots beneath the city, squeezing just enough to remind everyone above how fragile it is. Fallowspire drinks from this water, its children, its wounded, its fields.

  This thing has been patient, much like the cursed blade humming, pleased and restrained at my hip.

  Sssee? Iiit bbbuids wwwhat yyyou rrruse… wwwatches wwwhere yyyou fffear ttto look.

  The corpse takes a step forward. Its foot does not splash. The water parts around it, clinging to its calf like a lover reluctant to let go. When it opens its mouth, the sound that comes out is not a voice but a pressure; a low vibration that rattles bone and teeth alike.

  Behind it, others answer. Three more rises; then five; big enough to form a small warning line. Garrick draws his sword with a clean, ringing scrape that snaps the moment like a cord pulled taut. The guards fan out shields up, breathing hard. The priests clutch their iron and scripture, pale and sweating. The river clergy kneel as one, palms pressed to the stone.

  “Do not strike yet,” the eldest warns. “It wants reaction.”

  Garrick snarls, “It’s already getting that.”

  I step forward before steel can answer instinct.

  “Hold,” I say.

  The nearest corpse turns its head toward me with slow, deliberate interest. Its neck stretches, skin splitting slightly where it should not. I feel Nemain’s pull harden.

  Dddraw mmme. Iiii kkknow ttthis hhhunger. Iii kkknow hhhow to cccut it.

  I breathe through clenched teeth.

  “No,” I murmur. “Not yet.”

  I meet the thing’s hollow gaze and let my awareness sink, not in the water but through it; following the pull downward, past these stolen bodies, past the channels and veins and forgotten stone.

  Far below something shifts in response, not wounded or panicked at being discovered but aware. The sentries do not attack, they await orders and in that waiting, the truth settles cold and absolutely in my chest. The corruption is not spreading blindly. Its mapping us, testing us, measuring response and learning restraint.

  The river clergy begin to chant; low, rhythmic, not a prayer but a countercurrent, words shaped to interrupt rather than command. The water shivers, tension rippling through the channel like a held breath about to break. The corpse tense in unison.

  Garrick glances at me, jaw tight. “Kaelen.”

  I nod slowly. Now we understand each other.

  “This,” I say quietly, “is the perimeter.”

  The water pulses once, as if agreeing.

  The first sentry breaks formation without warning. There is no charge, no roar. One moment it stands motionless in the channel, water lapping obediently at its knees and next it steps sideways, vanishing into the shadow where the stone ribs of the aqueduct narrow. The movement is wrong but decisive, like a piece moved on a board the moment a rule is tested.

  “Left!” I say, a little too late.

  It comes out of the darkness low and sudden, arm sweeping wide. The blow catches a guard square in the shield and drives him backward into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs. Bone cracks, the shield folds inward like wet bark. The corpse sentry does not follow through; it simply withdraws retreating to the channel as if the strike were never meant to kill, only to measure.

  Garrick steps forward, fury cutting through discipline. “Hold the line.”

  Steel flashes as two guards surge to cover their fallen comrade, spears braced, boots slipping on wet stone. The sentry tilts his head, studying them, hollow gaze unreadable. Behind it, the others do not show any signs of movement yet.

  Suddenly, the river clergy’s chant changes. It deepens, slows, drops into the chest rather than the throat. One of them presses both palms flat against the stone, fingers trembling as dark veins rise along her wrists. The water responds, reluctantly, its surface puckering as though pulled between opposing hands.

  “This is not binding,” the eldest cleric grasps. “It’s interference. We are… confusing it.”

  The water screams; not aloud but in pressure. The channel trembles, stone dust raining down as the current surges unevenly, smashing against its own blanks. The sentries react at once, bodies shuddering as if struck by a silent wave. One stumbles, other drops to a knee, black water pouring from its mouth in a steady, choking stream.

  That is the opening I was waiting for. I move, not with Nemain. I draw the other blade, the plain one, scarred and honest, the one that does not whisper. I step into the channel, boots sinking ankle-deep as the water clutches at me like cold hands. The nearest sentry turns, arm swinging wide again, but this time I am already inside the arc.

  I cut once, directly at the spine. The blade bites through bloated flesh and grinds against stone. The sentry convulses, a soundless shudder tearing through it as the black film in its eye-sockets ruptures, spilling down its face like oil poured onto a corpse. It collapses into the water and for the first time the river rejects something, pushing the body aside, slamming it against the stone wall with sudden, furious force.

  The others react instantly, two advance, one retreats, learning. Nemain roars in my blood, furious now.

  Yyyou fffeel iiit.

  Tttat cccut wwwas wwweak.

  Lllet me-

  “No,” I snarl under my breath, forcing myself to breathe, to choose each movement. My arms burn; my heart hammers. The blade in my hand feels suddenly small.

  The ritual falters. One of the river clergies cries out, collapsing to her knees as blood runs freely from her nose, dark and thick. The chant shutters, loses cohesion. The water surges violently, slamming into the walls hard enough to throw men off balance.

  “That’s all we can do!” the eldest shouts. “We cannot hold it; it is pushing back!”

  The sentries seize the moment. They move together now. Advancing in staggered steps, forcing us inward, driving us away from the basin and deeper into the narrowing throat of the aqueduct. This is no random corruption. This is containment. We are being herded.

  Garrick locks eyes with me across the chaos. Blood runs from a cut on his brow, but his grip is steady.

  “Kaelen,” he growls. “Now or never.”

  I hesitate for a heartbeat, then I nod. I step back, raising my free hand, toward the stone beneath my feet. I press my palm down and call, not for growth or life, but for memory. For the stubbornness of earth that remembers when water tried to claim it.

  The stone answers. The channel floor fractures in a jagged line, not collapsing, but rising, forcing sentries to halt as their footing breaks. One stumbles, caught mid-step, balance gone.

  Garrick does not waste it. He charges straight ahead. Steel meets dead flesh with a ringing impact and this time the sentry does not withdraw. It falls hard, body slamming into the water, which recoils violently around it. The black current shrieks in protest.

  Then everything goes still. The remaining sentries retreat as one, slipping backward into the deeper dark beyond the bend not retreating but satisfied. The water calms unnaturally fast, surface smoothing as if nothing happened at all. The silence that follows is worse than the noise.

  The eldest river cleric sags, barely standing. “It knows us now,” she whispers. “Knows how we fight.”

  I stare into the darkness where the sentries vanished, chest heaving, hands shaking.

  “Yes,” I say. “And it wanted us to survive.”

  Nemain hums, low and pleased.

  Ttthat wwwas jjjust ttthe fffirst tttest.