Roman followed Dacre over the parlor threshold and down the hewn stairwell, leaving the morning sunlight of Merrow behind. He carried his typewriter and Elizabeth’s letters, folded and hidden in his inner pocket. He had known Dacre would be taking him to the realm below at dawn, and yet he hadn’t been able to destroy her letters before slipping from the privacy of his room.
He was relieved when they reached a narrow corridor, lit by torches. From there, they walked for a while in silence with nothing but the clip of their boots and the rush of their breath for company. But Roman sensed the floor tilting, ever so slightly, as if they were traversing further and further downward. Without any warning, the corridor suddenly ended, ushering them into a massive chamber. Although perhaps chamber is the wrong word for it, Roman thought as he came to a slow halt, craning his neck to take it all in.
This place was vast and lively, like a courtyard in a market square, with windows and doors and balconies carved high up into the white stone walls. It was another world, truly, and Roman was surprised to find so many people within it. Mainly soldiers, who were swiftly identified by their uniforms. Some were gathered around a forge, where sparks danced in the air and a wash of heat could be felt, while others were in line for food, bowls in hand. Another company looked to be in the midst of a drill, their boots stomping the stone floor in perfect rhythm, their rifles catching the firelight.
It all felt strangely normal save for the lack of sky and sunlight, until Roman noticed other things.
There was a creek babbling nearby, cutting a serpentine path through the rock. The small stones in its bed looked to be silver coins, and smoke was rising from the currents. And then a woman walked by with a basket of freshly laundered uniforms on her hip. Upon first glance, she looked human, until Roman blinked and saw a flash of the otherworldly in her—talons curling from her fingertips, silver hair with bloodstains on the ends, and long canines protruding from her mouth. She was wearing a glamour of some sort to make her appear human, a camouflage, and Roman shivered, watching her melt into the crowd. Lastly, a dog was trotting about, looking for scraps. A dog and yet not, for it had two limp wings on its back, and three eyes in its face.
“Welcome to Lorindella,” Dacre said. He sounded amused, and Roman realized the god had been watching his reaction. “Are you hungry?”
Roman nodded, feeling the hollow ache of his stomach. He was ravenous. For food, for warmth, for home. For safety.
He shifted his typewriter to his other hand and followed Dacre to the food line. The air became delicious to breathe, overwhelmed with the aromas of chargrilled meat. Roman didn’t realize he was shaking until a bowl of what looked to be chicken, bread, and some sort of thick red sauce was given to him.
“Go rest and take your fill,” Dacre said, indicating the heart of the square, where soldiers were sitting while they ate. “I’ll come for you when it’s time to move.”
“Yes, sir,” Roman said, but his voice was hardly above a whisper.
He found a place to sit and devoured the food. He could have eaten three more bowls, but he distracted himself from the lingering pangs by studying the city again. Lorindella, Dacre had called it. Roman tried to imagine it on the under map he had seen earlier. He closed his eyes and remembered all the illuminated passages he had seen, flowing like rivers, tangling like tree roots.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Lieutenant Shane standing a few paces away, speaking to Dacre.
Roman glanced down at his hands, but a few moments later, two shined boots came to a stop before him.
“You’ll be marching with my platoon, correspondent,” Shane said. “Here’s your pack.” He dropped a bedroll strapped down with a water canteen, a small iron griddle, and a leather pouch of food. “You’re responsible for carrying it from now on. You have ten more minutes before we depart. Take care of any other business you may have before then.”
Roman stared at it, numb with shock, before looking up at Shane. “Why am I in your platoon? I didn’t think I would be fighting.”
“Dacre thought it best you remain under my instruction since we come from the same place.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t know I’m from Oath?” Shane said with a smirk. But before Roman could scrounge up a reply, the lieutenant had turned and walked away.
It was nearly impossible to tell how much time had passed, but Roman had blisters on his heels and an empty, growling stomach by the time Shane brought his platoon to a halt. They had been marching along an eastern route, one that had led them to another vast chamber, although this one was empty and dim, laced with fog. There was no forge or market, nor were there windows or balconies hewn from the walls. It felt quiet and reverent as a forest, although no trees grew here. Only straggly plants blossomed from cracks in the rock.
Roman felt dried out, like a stone that had cracked in two. He rushed to untether the canteen and drank a few sips, the water so cold it made his teeth ache.
The privates around him were beginning to bed down for the night. Roman followed suit, keeping his typewriter close—the only weapon that he possessed. The bedroll was two woolen blankets, scratchy but warm, and Roman lay down with a sigh, his arms crossed, his palms resting on his chest, just above Elizabeth’s letters. He couldn’t resist pressing down until he felt the paper crinkle.
He fell asleep with a shiver.
He dreamt of Iris Winnow again.
But of course he would, and he tasted the irony like he had set a coin in his mouth. She seemed to haunt his dreams at the direst of times. When the waking world felt the most uncertain and bruised.
This time, they sat on a park bench side by side, eating sandwiches. It was cold and the trees were bare overhead. Iris was telling him about her brother, Forest. He was missing in action.
Then he dreamt of home again. He was in his room; it was late, and he was typing on his typewriter. He was writing about Del’s drowning and the guilt that still haunted him like a shadow he could never escape. When he was done, he folded the paper and slipped it beneath his wardrobe door. After that, he sat on his bed and reread the letters that Iris had written to him.
He saw Iris again at the Gazette. Their battleground. She was leaving. She was quitting, and Roman didn’t know what to do, what to say to convince her to stay or why this truly mattered to him. He only knew that he felt most alive when she was near, and he stood before the doors and watched her walk to him. He sought to read every line of her expression, every thought flickering through her mind, as if she were a story on a page. He was desperate to know what she was thinking, what he could say to convince her to stay.
Stay, Iris. Stay here with me.
“Roman.”
Dacre’s voice woke him. The deep timbre moved like shockwaves in Roman’s mind, trespassing into the dream. Iris Winnow melted into iridescent rain at the sound. Roman surprised himself by reaching out to touch her. But she was nothing more than mist and memory. She slipped through his fingers, leaving behind the taste of tart citrus in black, sugared tea.
“Wake, Roman,” Dacre was saying, his grip hard on his shoulder. “The hour has come.”
“Sir?” Roman said reflexively, his voice rusted. He opened his eyes to the blurred sight of a god staring down at him.
But even under the heavy watch of immortality, all Roman could think was this: he had been writing to Iris the same way he was writing to Elizabeth now. He had been slipping typed letters under doorways for a while. Long before he had ever become entangled with the war. It made his blood quicken, his skin warm like gold heated over fire.
“Get up,” Dacre said. “It’s time for us to take Hawk Shire.”
