Through the Slats

A smooth drop led from the carpet into the galvanized chute. The interior was cool and smelled of dry zinc. Ahead, trapped against a metal rib, lay a lost brass key ring holding a single translucent acrylic bead. Rather than bypass it, I planted my boots on the corrugated slope, wedged the rim of my shield beneath the iron loop, and leveraged it upward. The metal shifted with a dull clatter, dislodging the bead. It rolled forward into a smooth recess, clearing the subterranean passage toward a distant gentle draft. I wiped the dust from my vambrace and offered a quiet, resolute nod.