The inn smelled of rotting flesh and unwashed bodies.

Myth supposed she fit right in.

That, and the inn was little more than a collection of flimsy flats of wood hastily nailed together, leaning against the rocky surface of a giant boulder. The common area where fellow Netherwalkers gathered to eat and talk and drink didn't have so much as a floor as packed dirt, with flat pillows to sit on for some. The rooms were scarcely alcoves in the rock and walls, with threadbare curtains for privacy. If they were lucky the bedrolls would be clean.

At least it was dry. And cool.

"Myth, eat." Soren's voice distracted her from her thoughts. "Please?"

Myth looked down at the wooden bowl cradled in her hands. In it, a few chunks of mysterious brown mush hung suspended in a thin, pale broth. The very sight set her stomach off, but the fact that it smelled like a corpse's innards had her surprised she even still held it.

She put the soup down. "I'm sorry. I can't."

Soren frowned. "Mythra, please," he said softly. "I've seen you eat worse than that. Nether knows what they fed you at the institute but I remember watching you eat an entire raw tarantula when we were struggling two years ago. Remember? You were only twelve then and you ate a spider. Now you can hardly stomach gizzards. You've never been a picky eater before."

She wrapped her arms around her knees and looked away. "It's not the taste," she said. Soren was right. In the nether, you had to eat what you could get. She'd forced worse things down her throat.

"Then what is it?" His soft brown eyes guarded concern, but she could see it there.

They should have had it. The starving ones, she thought. They need it so much more.

If they could even stomach it either.

Red. If the soup was red, the gizzards white—

Blood, intestines, spilling down the operating table.

She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea hit her, hiding her head between her knees.

A presence joined at her side, a hand rubbing her back. "I'm sorry. You don't have to eat it. I just want you to be okay," Soren said gently.

Myth sat there, letting the nausea pass. A moment. Two. She opened her eyes, picked up the soup and stood.

Curled in the corner, a mother, face caked with dirt, held her small child to her chest. Without a second thought, Myth picked her way through the maze of bodies towards the woman. Myth knelt and left the bowl by the mother, who looked back up at her with utter surprise.

Myth didn't say a word. Didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just turned around and walked back to Soren. "Where is our room? I'm tired."

Soren looked like he wanted to speak, but for once didn't. Instead, he nodded towards one of the alcoves carved out of the rock.

Without any further conversation she made her way to the room, threw close the curtain behind her, and collapsed into the first of the bedrolls she saw. It had taken the better part of the day to walk to the encampment, and her feet and back ached just laying down. She couldn't bring herself to even take off her shoes.

She only closed her eyes, wishing for sweet, black oblivion.

----------

The alcove felt oddly spacious when Myth awoke.

Which was saying something, considering it was only as wide as she was tall. And she was short.

She turned over on her side. The bedroll beside her was empty.

Myth reached a hand over. Cold. And from the looks of it, untouched.

She scrambled to her feet and pulled aside the curtain, stepping into the common area. Only a few Netherwalkers were still awake, as well as the innkeeper. Soren was not among them.

Myth tentatively approached the innkeeper. The old, scant woman didn't intimidate her, but something about the fact that she vaguely resembled a melted candle unnerved her. Shiny, wrinkled, cracked skin— a symptom of having been in the nether too long. "Hey, would you have happened to see my brother leave here? Looks like me but taller and skinnier. Also long black hair and this really conceited grin most of the time."

The innkeeper grinned, showing all of her yellowed teeth. "The pretty boy? Yes, m'saw him slip away like a thief in the night. Didn't say where he went."

Myth sighed through her nose. "Thank you. I'll be back."

She made for the door and the innkeeper called after her. "Ye better be back soon, or yer room is forfeit!"

Myth ignored the woman and strode out into the night.

Even the evenings in the Nether were hot. Warm enough for bugs to still attack her at every chance. She prowled the dark, dirt streets of the encampment. A hundred people at most resided in the collection of storm-weathered, ramshackle huts and lean-tos. Those without the money to sleep at the inn or build their own hut slept along the roads, huddled in filthy blankets. Worn posters nailed to the walls warned of traitorous Netherwalkers and Grounded gangs to avoid on earth.

The only part she liked about this place was the stars.

Scattered across the deep velvet sky, the stars shone like diamonds. Scarcely touched by electric light, they glowed brighter than Myth had ever seen on earth. A phantom presence walked with her.

The stars can guide you in the Nether, Mythra. Learn their patterns and you will be able to find your way back to safety.

Myth. I prefer Myth, Mum.

Myth. Don't forget about the stars. They'll always be there for you, even if you find yourself alone.

I won't, Mum. But I also don't plan on being alone.

The sound of shouts from around the corner banished the phantom.

Voices— harsh, angry shouts. Yet one of them she recognized. And it sent chills down her spine.

Whatever was happening, Soren was there.

Myth silently drew out her knife, flattening herself against a wall, just out of sight of the ruckus. The voices grew louder— speaking so quickly she couldn't understand them. But there was one sound she could make out.  A click.

And then a gunshot.