He quickly reached the discreet sewer entrance that led to their underground base, hidden beneath the collapsed remains of a neighborhood café. The access was camouflaged with consummate artistry: even a trained eye would have had difficulty distinguishing the secret entrance among the surrounding debris. Mordred activated the magical unlocking sequence with a precise gesture, and the metal plate slid silently aside.
Once inside the underground network, he let out a long sigh of relief. The confined but familiar atmosphere of the abandoned tunnels contrasted radically with the stale air of the surface. Here, in the bowels of Paris, the war seemed distant, almost unreal. The walls oozed with humidity, but they were solid, protective. This was their sanctuary, their last refuge in a world gone mad.
