Chapter 136: Kariv Went To The Sewers

It was night, and the palace had fallen into a deep, uneasy silence. The servants had retreated to their quarters after making sure everything was already done, their footsteps fading into the distant corridors, their voices hushed as they bid each other goodnight.

The candles in the great hall had been extinguished one by one, leaving only the faint glow of the moon filtering through the tall windows, casting pale silver shadows across the marble floor. The air was cold and still, carrying the faint scent of wax and old stone, and the only sound was the distant howl of the wind through the towers.

Soldiers guarded every corner of the palace, their armor gleaming in the darkness, their spears held tight in their hands, and their eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. They were the sovereign’s elite guard, the best of the best, and they did not miss anything.

Kariv watched them with bated breath. He was standing in the shadows of a narrow corridor, his back pressed against the cold stone wall, his heart pounding so loudly in his chest that he was certain the guards could hear it. He had been waiting for this moment for hours, had been watching the guards’ rotations, had been counting the minutes between their shifts.

He knew their patterns now, knew when they would turn, when they would pause, when they would speak to each other in low voices about the cold and the long hours. He had memorized the exact moment when the corridor would be empty, when the shadows would be deep enough to hide him, when the risk of being seen would be at its lowest. And now that moment had come.

It was forbidden to leave the palace at night for royals. The royal rigid traditions, the ethics, the morality—all of it was designed to keep them safe, to keep them controlled, to keep them from doing exactly what Kariv was about to do.

The laws had been written centuries ago, by kings and queens who believed that the night belonged to the gods and the spirits, that mortals should not walk the streets after dark, that the royal bloodline must be protected at all costs.

But Kariv did not care about the laws. He did not care about the traditions. He cared only about power, about the Crown Trial, about becoming the heir that his mother had refused to name. That’s why he had no choice but to sneak out, taking slow steps without making any noise, his boots soft on the stone floor, his breath held tight in his chest.

He waited until the guards left for the next shift, their footsteps fading into the distance, their voices low as they murmured to each other about the cold and the long hours. He counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty, giving them time to turn the corner and disappear from sight.

Then he moved. He slipped out of the shadows and walked past the hall, his movements quick and silent, his eyes fixed on the tapestry at the end of the corridor. The tapestry was old and faded, depicting a battle scene from a war long forgotten, and behind it was the door to the secret tunnel that led to the sewers of the palace.

The door was old and rusted, hidden behind the tapestry that had not been moved in years. Kariv had discovered it by accident, months ago, when he had been exploring the palace out of boredom. He had pulled back, curious about what lay behind it, and had found the door.

It had been locked then, but he had found the key in a dusty drawer in one of the unused rooms, and he had kept it hidden ever since, waiting for the day when he would need it. That day had come.

He pushed the door open, and it groaned softly, the sound echoing in the silence. The smell that wafted out was enough to make his stomach turn, a foul, rotting stench that spoke of years of neglect and decay. He gagged, his hand flying to his mouth, and he took a step back, his eyes watering.

He had known it would be bad. He had known the sewers would be dirty, that they would smell, that they would be filled with things he did not want to think about. But he had not expected this. He had not expected the sheer, overwhelming foulness of it, the way it seemed to cling to the air, to his clothes, to his skin.

Kariv was one of the princes who did not like strong and bad odors or even dirt. He had been raised in luxury, had been pampered and spoiled, had never had to lift a finger for anything. His clothes were always clean, his hands always washed, his chambers always scented with fresh flowers and expensive perfumes.

The thought of descending into the sewers, of wading through filth and waste, made him want to retch. He stood there for a long moment, his hand over his mouth, his eyes closed, and he fought the urge to turn back. He could go back to his chambers.

He could forget this whole ridiculous plan. He could accept his fate, could accept that he would never be the crown heir, and could accept that he would live the rest of his life in obscurity and shame.

But he could not. He could not accept that. He had come too far, had sacrificed too much, had burned too many bridges. His father was counting on him. His future depended on him.

And if he turned back now, he would be nothing. He would be a failure. He would be the prince who had almost tried, the prince who had almost been brave, the prince who had almost been worthy. And that was worse than death.

"For greater power, this is a great sacrifice," he told himself as he covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, the strong odor washing over him, making him dizzy and nauseous. He felt like he wanted to throw up, but he didn’t.

He had come too far, had sacrificed too much, had burned too many bridges. "How ridiculous this is, but whatever," he muttered to himself as he went on, his torch casting flickering shadows against the damp stone walls, until he found the sewers.

The sewers were worse than he had imagined. There were so many dirt and feces, piles of it that he had to step over, and some of it was rotting food that soldiers had probably thrown despite the rules that sewers were not for garbage. The walls were slick with moisture and grime, and the water that flowed through the central channel was dark and foul, carrying with it the stench of urine and decay.

The air was thick with the buzzing of flies, and the sound of rats scurrying in the shadows made Kariv’s skin crawl. He saw one of them, a big, fat rat with gleaming eyes, and he screamed, his voice echoing through the tunnel. The rat scurried away, disappearing into a crack in the wall, and Kariv stood there, his heart pounding, his hands shaking, and he felt tears of frustration and fear prick at his eyes.

"Shit, shit, shit! It’s so dirty!" he screamed as he felt so dirty, his expensive suit coat was covered in feces, other dirt, and the smell of urine and mixed waters. He looked down at himself, at the ruin of his fine clothes, and he felt a surge of fury and disgust.

He had paid a fortune for this coat. It had been tailored by the finest seamstress in the kingdom, had been woven from silk imported from across the sea. And now it was ruined. Absolutely ruined.

The silk was stained, the embroidery was torn, and the whole thing smelled like a latrine. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to burn the coat and the sewers and the whole damn palace to the ground.

"Shit," he muttered another curse under his breath and just went on. He had no choice. He could not turn back now. He could not return to the palace, could not face his father, could not admit that he had failed before he had even begun. So he kept walking, his boots squelching in the filth, his torch flickering in the damp air, until he found the way out.

The tunnel ended at a rusted iron grate that opened onto a narrow alley behind the palace walls. The grate was unlocked, and it swung open easily, and Kariv stepped out into the cold night air, his lungs filling with fresh air for the first time in what felt like hours.

He stood there for a moment, his hands on his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The night air was cold and clean, and it washed over him like a blessing, chasing away the stench of the sewers. He looked up at the sky, at the stars scattered across the darkness, and he felt a wave of relief so intense it made him dizzy. He had made it. He had survived the sewers. He had escaped the palace. He was free.

And then he saw it. The door to the tunnel was unlocked. It had been unlocked the whole time. He had not needed to go through the dirty tunnel of the sewers. He had not needed to ruin his clothes, to cover himself in filth, to endure the stench and the rats and the humiliation.

There had been another way out, a cleaner way, a way that would not have left him covered in shit and smelling like a garbage heap. And he had missed it. He had been so focused on his plan, so determined to find the secret tunnel, that he had not even checked the ordinary one.

"You’re so stupid!" He screamed at the night, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the alley. He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes. He was not going to cry. He was not going to let this defeat him.

He was going to keep going. He was going to find the Abyssal Realm, was going to find the power, was going to return and claim the throne. And when he did, he would make them all pay. He would make them all regret the day they had ever doubted him. He would make them all regret the day they had ever laughed at him, dismissed him, overlooked him.

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing dirt and filth across his face, and he began to walk. The night was cold and dark, the streets of the city empty and silent, and the only sound was the soft echo of his own footsteps on the cobblestones. He walked with his dirty clothes and his torch and his burning determination, and he did not look back.

The palace loomed behind him, a dark silhouette against the star-filled sky, and he did not look at it. He was leaving it behind. He was leaving everything behind. And he would not return until he was powerful enough to take what was his.

As he walked, his mind raced with thoughts of the Abyssal Realm, of the power that awaited him there, of the demon that Qazaethel had locked away so many years ago. He did not know what the demon looked like, did not know what it would demand of him, did not know if he would survive the encounter. But he did not care. He was desperate. He was willing to do anything, to sacrifice anything, to become the heir he had always known he was meant to be.

He thought of his siblings, of the ones who had laughed at him, of the ones who had dismissed him as weak and useless. He thought of his father, of the disappointment in Kai’s eyes when Kariv had failed his lessons, when he had been outshone by his brothers and sisters.

He thought of his mother, of Qazaethel, of the way she had looked at him with cold indifference, as though he were a stranger, as though he were nothing. He thought of Eiravelle, of the omega who had stolen his mother’s love, of the child who had stolen his birthright. And he felt his hatred burn hotter, brighter, until it was the only thing he could see.

He would show them. He would show them all. He would return from the Abyssal Realm with power beyond their wildest dreams, and he would crush them beneath his feet. He would take the throne, and he would make them kneel. He would make them beg. He would make them pay.

The streets grew narrower, darker, as he walked, but he did not slow down. He had a map in his pocket, a map that would lead him to the entrance of the Abyssal Realm. He had studied it for weeks, had memorized every turn, every landmark, every sign. He knew where he was going. He knew what he had to do. And he would not stop until he had done it.

The night stretched on, and the city fell away behind him, replaced by fields and forests and the distant mountains. The moon hung low on the horizon, casting pale silver light over the landscape, and the stars glittered like diamonds in the velvet sky. Kariv walked on, his torch burning low, his feet aching, his clothes still reeking of the sewers. But he did not stop. He did not rest. He had a destination, a purpose, a destiny. And he would not let anything stand in his way.