Patrol had been quiet up until the end. A sharp pain pulsed through his head—the start of a migraine he thought. He secured his rifle over his shoulder and reached up to rub his temples. Dark spots bloomed in the corners of his eyes, the dark petals laid over a drowning man or one about to pass out.
Barsad knelt. He took several deep breaths, gritting his teeth when the pain ratcheted up to a new level. He closed his eyes and opened them again to a matte black. The breath left him in a rush. He reached out in front of him and couldn’t make out the shape of his hand. The outline of the city was lost to him entirely.
Blind. Had he just gone blind when his whole life had depended on what he could and could not see. Expressions on faces, approaching danger, his food. He could hear his heart now, the flow of blood speeding up as he started to panic. Stop.
If there was one thing the League taught him was to rely on all of his senses. The only sound was the low thrum of the outflow to the east of him. He stood carefully and made his way slowly in that direction. Until he reached his quarters Barsad wouldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t without feeling like he was suffocating. Darkness, flat darkness like that of The Pit.
He slipped down the last stair before the entrance of the tunnels and fell until his head met the metal of the catwalk.