The darkness of the old New Delhi sewers was not empty. It was a thick, humid weight that pressed against the skin, smelling of a century of forgotten waste and the cold, damp rot of the "Dead-Zone" foundations. Above them, the ground vibrated with the rhythmic thud of the GEU Vacuum Bombs. The Authority was cauterizing the wound, burning the Ashoka Archive and every rebel inside it to a crisp.

Azaan led the way, but his movements were no longer characterized by the sharp, predatory grace he had displayed in the basement. He was stumbling. His breathing was a harsh, ragged sound that echoed off the slime-slicked walls. The emerald glow of the brand on Meera's thigh was the only lantern they had, casting a sickly, flickering light on Azaan’s back.