The chill air sat heavily in the old tunnel, thick with the smell of old bat shit, the wet miasma threatening to suffocate Ilara. Choking on air was absurd way to die, but not exactly uncommon in these lesser-known catacombs. Smuggling, as ever, had its dangers.

Perhaps worse than the smell was the darkness. The more trafficked tunnels, the safer ones, were regularly checked for air quality. Here, you couldn’t hazard a lighted match, unless you wanted to find out the hard way that you were nearing a natural gas leak.

No. Ilara followed the shuffling in front of her, just as Logue was surely - hopefully - following her own muffled steps. The leader, the head mole, knew the tunnel by heart, as Ilara would know it one day.

She would either know all its secrets as her own, or it would kill her.