Finding the sewer outflow took nearly an hour of careful searching, but Aeon's nose led him to it eventually. The stench hit him like a physical blow—a concentrated mixture of human waste, rotting food, and chemical runoff that made the corpse pit seem almost pleasant by comparison.
The outlet was a circular stone pipe, perhaps three feet in diameter, that emerged from the base of the camp's wall and emptied into a fetid pool of sewage. Brown water trickled from the opening in a steady stream, carrying with it the refuse of hundreds of slaves and their captors.
This is what my freedom looks like.
Aeon forced himself to approach the pipe opening, fighting back waves of nausea. His scarred hands shook as he gripped the slime-covered stone edges and peered into the tunnel beyond. Darkness stretched ahead, broken only by occasional glimpses of pale light filtering down through drainage grates.
The pipe was barely large enough for his malnourished frame, which meant crawling on hands and knees through several inches of liquid filth. The smell alone might kill him before he reached the other end.
But the alternative was certain death at the hands of the patrol guards.
Think of it as data. Just sensory input that can be ignored and overcome.
He lowered himself into the pipe and immediately regretted every decision that had led to this moment.
The sewage was warm—body temperature from its recent origin—and thick with substances he refused to identify. It soaked through his tattered slave rags within seconds, coating his skin with a layer of slime that made every movement feel like swimming through rotting soup.
Each movement forward sent ripples through the muck, creating sounds that echoed off the tunnel walls like whispered accusations. His hands and knees found purchase on objects he desperately hoped were stones or debris rather than anything organic.
The smell intensified as he crawled deeper into the tunnel. His eyes watered constantly, and breathing became an exercise in controlled panic as he fought not to vomit into the already-contaminated water around him. The taste of the air was almost as bad as the smell—thick and cloying, coating his mouth and throat with the flavor of human waste and decay.
Twice, he had to stop and press his face against the tunnel wall to avoid drowning in his own bile. The iron collar around his neck caught on protruding stones, scraping against already-raw skin and sending fresh blood trickling down into the sewage below.
The tunnel seemed endless. His sense of direction became completely lost in the darkness, and claustrophobia began to set in as the stone walls pressed close around him. What if he was crawling deeper into the system instead of toward the camp? What if these tunnels led to a dead end, trapping him in this nightmare of filth until he starved or suffocated?
Keep moving. Think later. Survive first.
After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, pale light began to filter down from above. A drainage grate, similar to the one that had covered the corpse pit but smaller. Through the gaps, he could see the interior of the slave camp—wooden buildings, dying campfires, and most importantly, sleeping guards.
The camp was quiet in the pre-dawn hours. Most of the bandits and overseers would be resting, leaving only a skeleton crew to watch over slaves who were too weak and broken to pose any real threat of escape.
Aeon positioned himself beneath the grate and pushed upward. It was lighter than the pit covering had been, designed for drainage rather than security. With careful pressure, he managed to lift it just enough to create a gap.
He pulled himself up through the opening like a creature emerging from the depths of hell itself—covered in filth, reeking of sewage, and leaving a trail of contaminated water behind him. For a moment, he lay on the ground beside the drainage opening, gasping in relatively clean air and trying to process his surroundings.
The slave camp was larger than he had imagined from outside the walls. Rows of crude barracks stretched in organized lines, interspersed with workshops, storage buildings, and what appeared to be an administrative complex near the center. Guards dozed at their posts, confident in their magical abilities to handle any disturbances.
But Aeon's attention was drawn to something else entirely—a cave opening carved into a rocky outcropping at the far end of the compound. Unlike the other structures, this cave entrance was heavily guarded even during the night hours, and strange lights flickered from within its depths.
Memory stirred. Fragments from this body's experiences, overheard conversations between guards, whispered legends among the slaves. A dungeon gate. A portal to treasure chambers and ancient trials that the bandits had been systematically looting.
But there was something else—something the guards had mentioned in hushed, frustrated tones. The dungeon was a trap of sorts. Those who entered could only exit by completing the trials within and returning with a specific crystal from the depths. Many bandits had entered seeking easy treasure, but few had returned.
It was a desperate gamble, but desperation was all Aeon had left.
But how to reach it?
The cave was heavily guarded, positioned at the opposite end of the camp from his current location. Even moving quietly through the sleeping compound would be nearly impossible for a child who could barely walk without stumbling from exhaustion.
He needed a distraction. Something significant enough to draw the guards' attention away from the cave entrance.
Aeon's eyes fell on the rows of wooden barracks, the supply buildings filled with stolen goods, and the stables where the bandits kept their horses. All of it was flammable. All of it was valuable enough that its destruction would mobilize every guard in the compound.
Fire. The universal problem solver.
Moving as quietly as his weakened body allowed, Aeon began making his way toward the nearest supply building. His bare feet left wet prints on the ground, but the pre-dawn darkness and his small size helped conceal his movement from the drowsing guards.
The supply building was poorly secured—why would it need heavy protection inside a fortified slave camp? Aeon slipped inside and found exactly what he had hoped for: oil, dried goods, and most importantly, flammable materials stored carelessly together.
Using techniques he vaguely remembered from this body's time working in the mines, he began preparing a crude but effective fire-starting system. Oil-soaked rags positioned to spread flames quickly, dry goods stacked to provide fuel, and wooden support beams that would carry the fire to the roof and beyond.
When he was satisfied with his preparations, Aeon struck sparks using a piece of flint and metal he found among the tools. The oil-soaked rags caught immediately, flames spreading with hungry eagerness across the carefully arranged combustibles.
He slipped out of the building just as the first wisps of smoke began to curl upward into the morning air.
The fire spread faster than he had anticipated. Within minutes, the entire supply building was engulfed in flames that reached toward the sky like grasping fingers. Shouts of alarm began to ring out across the compound as guards awakened to find their valuable supplies burning.
"Fire! Fire in the supply depot!"
"Get the water brigade organized!"
"Save what you can!"
"Where did this come from? How did it start?"
Perfect chaos. Every guard in the compound was converging on the burning building, leaving their posts unmanned as they fought to contain the destruction.
Including the guards at the cave entrance.
Aeon sprinted across the compound with the last of his strength, his sewage-soaked form moving like a shadow through the smoke and confusion. The cave entrance loomed ahead, unguarded for the first time in what were probably years.
The opening led downward into worked stone passages lit by flickering torches. And there, perhaps fifty feet into the tunnel, stood an archway filled with swirling energy—a portal gate that seemed to bend light around its edges.
A dungeon entrance. A gateway to underground realms that might offer the freedom he had been seeking.
Behind him, the shouts of the guards grew louder as they realized the fire was spreading to adjacent buildings. Soon, they would discover that someone had deliberately set the blaze. Soon, they would come looking for the saboteur.
Aeon staggered toward the portal gate, his vision blurring from exhaustion and the lingering effects of his ordeal in the sewers. The swirling energy of the gateway seemed to call to him, offering the only alternative to certain capture and death.
Without hesitation, he threw himself forward into the unknown depths of the dungeon portal.
Whatever trials lay beyond couldn't be worse than remaining in a world where children were worked to death and thrown into pits like garbage. At least in the dungeon, he would have a chance—however slim—to prove himself worthy of escape.
The portal's energy engulfed him, and the slave camp disappeared in a rush of displaced air and shifting reality.
For the second time in as many days, Aeon found himself falling into darkness.
But this time, he was falling toward a chance at earning his freedom.