The Shaftfall was the only place in the entire sub-basement where you could look directly at the sky—albeit through a vertical tunnel of rock that measured at least two hundred meters in height. It was part of a vast ventilation system that ensured people like the Orphan could breathe in and breathe out. At the moment, water fell from far above, a steady sprinkle that splashed in tiny explosions across the glistening black rock of the floor. The Orphan went to the far side, loving the sweet chill of the rain against his skin, and sat down with his back against the curved wall of the shaft. The fresh air, the drizzle, the walk—all of it had invigorated him, helped him recover from the crushing doldrums he’d felt just a half hour earlier.

No one questioned him. No one bothered him. He closed his eyes.

Time passed.

A soft cry woke him from a half sleep in which he’d just begun to fade from the world. At first he thought it was the inkling of a dream, but after rubbing his eyes and letting out a brisk yawn, he heard it again. More than a cry, now. A scream of pain. A frantic shout for help. Shrieks of terror that suddenly cut off, far too abrupt to be voluntary. Then a steady, miserable sobbing.

The Orphan’s instincts had ignited like a struck match on kerosene.

He’d already reached a small access tunnel to his right, one of a million such openings throughout the fortress. He had to duck but that didn’t slow him down. Running at almost full speed, his ears guiding every step, turning left, turning right, going straight, whatever brought him closer to that pathetic cry for help.

He burst through an entrance to another vertical shaft, much narrower than the one in which he’d been resting. Whimpers came from a small tunnel above his head, one level up. Without hesitating, he leaped and grabbed the bottom edge with both hands, hauled himself into the dark hole in one swift motion. A man knelt there in a pool of filth, a small, pitiful child lying prone next to him, in the worst shape the Orphan had ever seen another human so tiny. Bloody. Bruised. Beaten to the point his own mother couldn’t possibly have recognized him. And the pustule of a man had his arm raised to strike another blow.

Anger exploded within the Orphan, a thousand fiery pounds of dynamite rage.