Two days later, he was in a tunnel. It was suffocatingly small and seemed to stretch into an impossible, endless darkness, its length spanning dozens of miles. The only source of light was the sputtering torch in his trembling hand, which cast dancing, monstrous shadows on the curved, slimy walls.
The stench was a physical assault, a choking miasma of filth and decay far worse than he could have ever imagined. This wasn't just a tunnel; it was a sewer. When Mat had spoken of delivering a present, Norvin had certainly not pictured himself wading through this disgusting pipeline.
Even if he could force his mind to ignore the overpowering smell, the feeling was inescapable. A vile, greasy sludge flowed in the icy water that soaked his ankles, its constant, slimy caress more than enough to make his stomach clench. He had already vomited hours ago, emptying the contents of his stomach until only dry, retching heaves shook his small frame.
Each step forward was a treacherous guess. The torchlight illuminated only a pitiful few meters of slick, moss-covered brick ahead, leaving the path behind and the future ahead in absolute blackness. He couldn't turn back now; he had already traveled for miles. He remembered the entrance, a secluded spot where Mat had opened the way with the sheer force of his blade. The man's blow could have demolished the entire structure, but he had chosen to carve a hole just small enough for a boy to pass through.
A bitter thought surfaced. If only he had known, he would have demanded more delicious food from Mat. He swore to himself that he would, right after he returned.
'But will I return?' The thought was a cold stone in his gut. It was highly unlikely.
His small hands tightened around the torch. A flash of anger cut through his fear.
'That guy... he better pay up for making me go through this.'
Norvin's speed was severely diminished by the heavy sack slung over his back. It was a crude bag, stitched from low-quality cloth to match his own tattered clothes. Inside, his sheathed weapons were nestled against the so-called "presents"—several glass containers that clinked together with a soft, unnerving chime at every jarring step. They were filled with mysterious liquids, he was tasked with delivering to a very particular place.
Though his lungs burned for air and the weight of the bag tried to drag him down, he refused to slow. He pushed himself harder, faster, his movements fueled by a desperate need to escape the suffocating darkness and finally breathe clean air again. A fleeting, painful memory surfaced. '
Ah…I want to jump from a cliff into a river again.'
That single thought was all it took. Being trapped in this dreadful tunnel, surrounded by darkness, was so much like that final, terrifying fall. His mind, with nothing else to focus on but the sludge and the stone, inevitably drifted back to his sister, Yara.
He wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her. He could still feel the phantom sensation of her small hands on his back, pushing him with all her desperate strength toward the cliff's edge. Her face, fierce and tear-streaked, was the last thing he saw before he tumbled into the abyss. She had saved him from the ruthless assault of the murderer knight, giving him the chance to survive when everyone else was lost.
'But did she survive?' The question was a constant, agonizing battle in his mind. As he took another agonizing step through the infested water, he desperately tried to cling to hope. He pictured her face, her stubborn smile, the way she promised they would always look out for each other. But how could a mere child of thirteen have escaped the grasp of that knight in the golden armour? That monster had struck down their grandfather, their father, and their mother in a blur of steel that seemed to defy time. Did Yara somehow escape, or did she meet the same terrible fate? The most dreadful thought of all followed, a cold certainty that he tried to fight back every single day: 'Am I truly the only one left?'
If only he could go back. If he could just follow the river upstream, back to Northwood, he could finally reach his home. Perhaps he could give his parents a proper burial. And maybe, just maybe, he would find his sister there. The thought was a painful, vivid flash in his mind: his parents in a final, warm embrace, still clutching Yara with all their might, not letting their precious daughter go. Their eyes would be filled with love, and they themselves… covered in blood. 'No!' The image shattered. 'Yara has to be alive. She can't be dead. I survived, so she could have too.'
In his days spent with Remus, he had hoarded every scrap of knowledge the old man offered. He had learned that the river flowing through Northwood originated from the "Land of Foul Souls"—a cursed death zone that bordered both the Roric and Kvothe kingdoms.
It was a place so dreadful that only a handful of souls had escaped it over centuries, regardless of what level of strength they possessed; surviving in the Land of Foul Souls was simply suicide. Anyone who had ever met the abominations in that place was immediately considered a very strong warrior by everyone. Of course, those who had successfully crossed the place itself had their names written in the pages of history, each one becoming a powerful warrior who changed the world.
The land's blight was the primary reason the war was concentrated in the northeastern regions, where the cursed territory had its border.
The Roric Kingdom lay in the southern part of the huge landmass, making it the southernmost kingdom with a long coastal region. To its north lay the Kvothe Kingdom. However, Roric shared only a small border with Kvothe in the northeastern region because the northwestern region contained an elongated, small cursed land separating the two kingdoms. This didn't mean those northwestern places were safe from the war, as abomination-beasts and demons would attack the nearest settlements, bypassing the Land of Foul Souls itself. Not to mention, fighting them was far worse than fighting humans. The western borders were shared by the Zenithar Kingdom, while the eastern borders had no shared kingdom, as the Aureus Kingdom and Roric were separated by a vast mountain range that neither kingdom deemed worthy of conquest.
Well, anyway—the river, their river, was born in that dreadful place and rushed past his home. If he followed it back, he might find the remains of his sister by its banks, a thought that was enough to shatter him.
And yet, he desperately wanted to see that place again. He prayed he would find no such remains, as that would be the only proof that she had survived. Only then could he truly believe he could find her, reunite with her, hold his sister's hand again, and finally allow himself to weep.
His tortured thoughts were suddenly shattered by a low, persistent tremor vibrating up through the soles of his feet—the distant, violent heartbeat of a battle raging somewhere far above. A new urgency seized him. Norvin pushed his aching body harder, the fear of being crushed in a collapsing sewer tunnel now a very real and immediate threat.