Niam

NIAM

T he chemical stench from the tanning vats seeped through the hidden room’s walls, burning my nose despite the herbed wrappings. I traced the routes marked on Serra’s maps again, committing each twist and turn to memory. Three days of preparation had led to this moment.

“The south passage connects here,” I murmured, following the line with my finger. “Past the lime pits, then up through the old maintenance shaft.”

“You’ve memorized it perfectly.” Tharon’s hand covered mine, steadying its slight tremor. “Ten times over.”

“There’s no room for mistakes.” I pulled another map from the stack - this one showing Fifth Ring’s guard rotations. Denna’s neat annotations marked timing and patrol patterns. “If we miss a single shift change...”

“We won’t.” His certainty grounded me. “The families know their parts.”

I nodded, remembering Mila’s patient instruction on proper rag man movement. Head down, shoulders slumped, each step careful but unhurried. We’d practiced until it felt natural, until even Tharon’s warrior grace transformed into a beggar’s shuffle.

The past three days blurred together in my mind - endless rounds of planning, practicing, preparing. The Wicks’ messenger network had spread word through every ring, each family adding their own piece to the whole. The Maltons’ Barrel Boys knew which alleys to block. The Potswoods’ bone collectors had strategic piles ready to burn, creating smoke screens in narrow streets.

Even the children played their parts, passing messages in games of cat’s cradle and hopscotch. I’d watched them practice, marveling at their quick minds and quicker feet. So much trust placed in our hands, so many lives risked on this one chance.

“Stop.” Tharon caught my restless fingers. “You’re wearing holes in the map.”

“Sorry.” I tried to still my hands. “I just keep thinking of everything that could go wrong.”

“Then think of everything that could go right.” He turned me to face him. “Think of the families who chose to help us. Think of how many lives we’ll save when we succeed.”

“When, not if?”

“When.” His certainty wrapped around me like a shield. “Now check your supplies one last time, then rest. Dawn comes too soon.”

I knew he was right, but sleep felt impossible. Instead, I inventoried the items hidden beneath my rag man’s disguise - route markers, emergency tokens, signal flags. Everything in its place, everything ready.

The Temple bells would ring soon, calling people to the central squares of each ring. Guards would herd the crowds forward, enforcing a facade of order while priests set up their selection bowls.

Not this time.

“They’re moving.” Mila’s whisper carried from her watch position. “Guard rotation just changed.”

I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. All our preparation, all our planning, came down to this morning. The trust these families had placed in us...

“Ready?” Tharon’s hand squeezed my shoulder.

I nodded, unable to speak past my dry throat. We moved silently up the hidden stairs, emerging into pre-dawn darkness. The air hit my face, sharp with chemical tang and old fear.

Denna appeared from the shadows, Korrin at her shoulder. Ashur materialized next, helping Mila secure the last of her disguise. We moved as one unit, melting into back alleys as the first Temple bell began to toll.

Memory and muscle memory guided us through the maze of Terr’s streets. Past the chandlers’ warehouses where Maya’s people waited. Through the brewers’ district where Barrel Boys lounged with casual menace. Behind the metalworkers’ forges where children played elaborate games that just happened to block key intersections.

The bells kept ringing, pulling people toward the central squares.

Everything as it had always been.

Everything about to change.

I felt Serra’s eyes trace our movements over the forge yard of the Bitter Ways. My years in the Temple hid my shaking hands, kept my steps measured while my mouth dried like tanned leather. A lifetime pretending calm would serve me well today.

Denna brushed past, her disguise perfect down to the weary shuffle. Her father’s warriors blended through the crowd - men who’d spent their lives honing combat skills now hunched like beggars. I’d never have spotted them without knowing to look.

“Papa’s right where he should be,” she breathed against my ear, using the soft lilt we’d practiced instead of her natural tones. “Fifth Ring warriors in position.”

My chest squeezed at her casual mention of family. At least she had that anchor, that certainty of belonging. My own past remained a bright-edged void, memories burned away by Temple conditioning.

Near the massive tanning vats, Pol and Ren worked with careful efficiency, their synchronized movements drawing no attention. Just another day at the Grell tannery. Nothing unusual about the strange lumps hidden beneath fresh hides.

The Temple bells began their call, pulling people toward the central square. Guards herded the crowds forward with practiced efficiency, clubs ready for any resistance. Priests arranged their selection bowls with precise movements, white stones mixed with black though everyone knew which families would draw dark fates.

Not this time.

A child’s cry pierced the air. My head snapped up as a Temple guard grabbed a young girl from the crowd, her dark hair flying as she struggled. “No! Mama!”

The mother’s scream ripped through the morning - raw, primal grief that triggered Maya’s signal. Smoke bombs erupted from the chandlers’ positions, thick gray clouds billowing through the square. The Tully’s dye vats “accidentally” overturned, sending rainbow rivers across cobblestones.

Chaos erupted exactly as planned. The crowd surged, carrying us in different directions despite our preparations. I lost sight of Denna as she vanished into the smoke with her father’s warriors. Glimpses of Mila and Ashur heading for the tannery flashed between bodies. Korrin disappeared completely.

“Stay with me.” Tharon’s grip anchored me as the crowd pushed us toward the Temple wall. His disguise couldn’t quite hide the predator’s grace in his movements, but no one was watching closely now.

Children darted through the chaos, their games creating precise patterns of interference. Little feet tangled with guard formations, scattered marbles found their way under boots at critical moments. I recognized Sarah Wick’s youngest weaving through the crowd, his soot-stained face hiding a fierce grin.

The guards struggled to maintain control, their usual tactics useless against this orchestrated mayhem. Groups would start to form up only to find their targets melted away, replaced by innocent-looking workers going about their business.

Smoke stung my eyes, but through the haze I spotted it - the maintenance access we’d marked on Serra’s maps. Plain metal set into ancient stone, unremarkable except to those who knew its true purpose.

I tugged Tharon’s sleeve, tilting my head toward the hidden door. He nodded, already moving to take advantage of a fresh surge of bodies between us and the nearest guards.

The riots spread outward in careful waves, each new disturbance drawing more attention from Temple forces. By the time we reached the access panel, no one was watching this section of wall.

My fingers found the familiar patterns, muscle memory from centuries of ship’s data guiding my movements. The door slid aside with barely a whisper.

We slipped through the gap, Tharon at my back. The last thing I saw before it sealed was Old Man Wick’s grandchildren leading a merry chase through the dye-stained streets, their laughter carrying even through the chaos.

The rebellion had begun. Now we just had to make it count.