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The tunnel walls glisten with dampness, each breath you draw tasting of wet stone and old earth. Overhead, lanterns swing, throwing long, frantic shadows that stretch and snap with the rhythm of the crowd. Hundreds of feet hammer the dirt floor, a relentless drumbeat that resonates in your chest. Ahead, a guide's torchgutters, leading the horde deeper into the mountain's belly. You force yourself forward, legs aching, heart pounding against your ribs. You're a child among hardened figures—warriors and killers whose eyes hold scars and cold judgment. Their glances slide over you: some pitying, others mocking. Then you see them—two boys skating through the chaos on boards, moving with an impossible, fluid grace. The one with wild black hair and a grin that cuts through the gloom nudges…