“That’s specific.”
“It’s accurate.” I sweep the light across the ceiling, checking for structural integrity. Focus on the mission. On keeping her alive. Not on the way she’s looking at me. Stable enough. Old rock, no recent fractures. “The caves were filled with defensive wards during the last battle. Which means there’s a network. We find it, we lose the Syndicate.”
“And if we can’t find our way back out?”
“Then we adapt.”
I catch the edge in her tone, fear wrapped in sarcasm. She’s holding together, but barely. No fire. No magic. Just flesh and bone in hostile territory with agents hunting above and unknown variables below.
Flesh and bone that I’m now responsible for protecting.
Flesh and bone that felt too right pressed against me in the darkness.
I’d be impressed by her composure if I weren’t busy figuring out our odds of survival while simultaneously trying not to remember exactly how she felt in my arms.
Fifty-fifty at best. The survival odds, not my self-control.
“Can you move?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I don’t point out that she stumbled twice on the climb before the drone found us. Don’t mention the way she favored her left ankle or how her breathing went ragged after the first hour. She knows. And telling her won’t change the fact that we need to keep moving.
Won’t change the fact that watching her struggle and not being able to fix it guts me in ways I don’t want to examine.
I turn the torch downward and start descending.
The passage forces us sideways; crammed tight, boots finding purchase on uneven footing. My pack catches on a protrusion. I twist, angle differently, keep moving. Behind me, Ember follows without complaint.
Twenty feet down, the fissure opens into a larger chamber. I sweep the torch across walls veined with crystalline deposits that catch the red light and throw it back in fractured patterns. The air tastes different here; old, but not stale. Moving. Which means ventilation. Which means connections to other passages.
That’s good. It means we have options. I hope.
Ember examines the nearest wall, fingers tracing the glowing veins. They pulse faintly under her touch, so faint I almost miss it. But I’m watching her hands instead of the stone. Watching the way her fingers move in graceful spirals, the way she leans in close to examine the patterns.
When did I start watching her instead of the terrain?
When you lost your mind, asshole.
“There’s dragon magic here,” she says. “And more.”
I force my attention back to the matter at hand. “Can you identify it?”
She frowns, concentration tightening her features. Even exhausted and powerless, she’s trying. That stubborn courage that kept her moving through the snow, that made her grab my vest and trust me to lead through absolute darkness.
“It’s… layered. Different signatures. Dragon, definitely. But underneath—” She pulls her hand back. “I can’t tell without my fire. My power.”
Frustration bleeds through her tone. Not directed at me. At herself. At the magic that won’t answer when she calls.
I know that feeling. The helplessness that comes with losing something fundamental to who you are.
I file it away; another variable, another weakness to account for. Not a judgment. Just operational reality.
Except it feels like more than that. Feels like I’m collecting pieces of her, storing them somewhere that has nothing to do with mission parameters.
We reason through it together. The caves powered protective wards. Ancient magic, still active enough to register even if diminished. But something’s changed. Instead of stabilizing the mountain’s defenses, the power feels different. Pulled.
Feeding.
