After what felt like an eternity, his torch sputtered and died, plunging him into absolute, terrifying blackness. He was alone, blind, and adrift in the filth. But the darkness didn't last. A faint sliver of light from above broke the monotony. He had found the exit. His relief, however, quickly soured into disgusted confusion. He was staring up at the bottom of a crude, old-fashioned toilet.
'Damn that guy.'
With a grunt of effort, he climbed the disgusting, slimy walls and hauled himself out. He found himself in a small, closed washroom. The place was alien, deep in enemy territory. The light was dim, filtering through a grimy high window, but it was more than enough for his eyes, which had long since adjusted to the utter darkness of the world below.
He looked around, desperately seeking a water source within the cramped, temporary toilet. He had to get out, but if he tried to run while coated in the disgusting sludge, the stench alone would draw everyone's attention. Tiling his head, he finally spotted the dripping water tap. Norvin unslung his bag and quickly hung it on the door's weak hook. This toilet was far from the ideal bathhouse, but anything would have to suffice now.
Norvin stripped off his contaminated clothes and shoved them back down the latrine hole. He scrubbed himself quickly under the meager flow, but the sewer's foul stench had permeated his skin. He didn't have time for vanity. He pulled spare clothes from his bag, dressed rapidly, and eased the door open just a crack, his single exposed eye scanning the deserted area.
Seeing no one, he darted out, crossing several other makeshift cubicles, and stepped fully into the sunlight for the first time since emerging from that awful tunnel. He instantly found himself among several people, all batting an eye at him and quickly moving farther away because of the lingering foulness.
The streets were badly damaged, and the houses looked lifeless, as if they had witnessed unfathomable horror. On one side, people were lining up for their rations, guarded by soldiers carrying swords and shields. Their tunics were embroidered with the ominous symbol of the Everburning Torch—the sigil of the Kvothe Kingdom.
The streets were filthy, and the faces of the townspeople were universally tired and tense, etched with the weary look of those who had been waiting for the war to end for a lifetime—or perhaps for even longer; Norvin didn't knew how long this struggle had lasted.
He ran, ducking into a narrower street to avoid further notice. After venturing deep into the small, winding arteries of Ruxwax, he decided to catch a break. The sun was beginning to set, earlier today than it seemed before. He had to complete his mission tonight, somehow.
He settled into a dusty corner, taking meager shelter in a niche where the street dogs usually slept. The day had been rough; he desperately needed a few hours to replenish his strength, gather his thoughts, and focus on the dangerous task ahead. The small bag he still carried—containing objects too valuable to risk—rested securely in his lap.
Night had fully fallen. The few remaining people on the streets began to disappear, a sensible retreat given the brutal conditions of their town. Norvin's new set of clothes was already soiled and stained.
Just then, a detachment of soldiers assigned to watch duty began returning to their base, exhausted after long hours of patrol. And there was his opportunity.
'Got it.' Norvin began following them, keeping a considerable distance so they would not notice anyone trailing them. It was unlikely any of them would be suspicious of a child wandering alone in the dark; the constant battles had left behind many orphans, surviving alone in this hell. He stayed in the shadows, clinging to the worn path of the occupying force.
Hugging the shadows, Norvin had been eavesdropping on the guards he was following. Unfortunately, his fears were confirmed: the enemy was already preparing for the Serpents' assault. Bridges were being barricaded, heavy new locks were being fitted to the Guild Hall doors, and patrol routines had been tightened. The knights of Kvothe were fortifying against any conceivable attack.
The information didn't deter him. His own purpose was to be the one unforeseen event they couldn't plan for, if he could just manage it without being seen.
As he moved deeper into the stronghold's heart, Norvin felt the very air change. It grew sharp and cold, and the small buildings around him looked desolate and untouched, coated in a thin, grey layer of smoke and ash.
He had to crane his neck to take in the full, intimidating height of the citadel ahead. It was a monolithic tower of polished black obsidian, a needle-like structure that dwarfed every other building. Draped from its heights were captured and tattered Kvothe banners of the Everburning Torch, hung like hunting trophies. But one banner flew pristine and proud above all others: a bronze falchion, its handle intricately detailed with ominous black feathers. The blade was depicted shattering the bronze circle that was meant to contain it—a clear and arrogant warning to all who saw it.
He realized the area he had ventured into was now a hive of activity. Soldiers and knights swarmed the courtyard, their voices a low rumble of shouted orders mixed with the clang of steel. Norvin pressed himself deeper into the shadows of the small tents he was hiding behind, his body tense. He knew he had to encircle this whole chaotic area. The more crowded it was, and the closer to that tower he got, the less chance he had of succeeding.
Forcing his breathing to remain slow and even, Norvin continued his wide, cautious circle around the stronghold's core. His path eventually broke from the dusty perimeter, ending at the shore of a still, black lake. The water acted as a perfect, dark mirror, reflecting the imposing obsidian tower that loomed on the far side, its jagged peak seeming to pierce both the sky and its own reflection.
Without hesitation, Norvin slipped into the shockingly cold water. He bit back a gasp, letting the chill seep into his bones as he began a slow, methodical breaststroke. His movements were fluid, creating barely a ripple on the glassy surface as he kept his eyes locked on the distant figures of guards patrolling the high battlements. His target wasn't the tower itself, but the structure that squatted in its shadow: a barn of truly monstrous proportions.
It was so vast that it defied logic, dozens of meters high and five times as wide. It was less a barn and more a tomb built for titans. Norvin imagined that a giant the height of the obsidian tower could easily lie down to sleep within its cavernous walls.
Shivering, Norvin dragged himself onto the muddy shore, his wet clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Every muscle screamed in protest, but he ignored the exhaustion. He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled towards the barn's immense wall. Up close, he could see that the ancient, dark-red wood was not just weathered, but coated in a thick layer of soot, as if it had endured the breath of a thousand fires.
Leaning against the sooty wall, Norvin finally allowed himself a few ragged breaths. He slid the heavy sack from his back and carefully took out the glass containers, their surfaces slick with condensation. He lined them up on the ground. 'Seven.'
The instructions echoed in his mind, a deceptive whisper of simplicity: 'enter the barn, pour the liquid into the fodder, and escape unnoticed.' He repeated the thought to himself, a desperate mantra. 'Seven bottles. Get in, get out. You're free. Easy, right?'
A hard swallow clicked in his throat. He carefully placed the containers back in the sack. Mat's briefing had been clinically precise, yet completely devoid of any unnecessary details—like what kind of colossal creature could possibly dwell within such a structure. A cold, paralyzing reluctance began to seep into Norvin's limbs.
A single, terrifying question screamed in his mind: 'If it's in there... won't it just kill me the second I step inside?'