It’s practical. Necessary. Nothing more.
So why does it feel like a lifeline I didn’t know I needed?
Contact established. I start moving.
The descent continues through passages that twist and branch. I navigate by touch and memory of the diagrams Aurora shared with us, building mental maps as we progress. Left here. Narrow squeeze. Watch the ceiling. The rock changes texture under my palms; rougher in places, smooth in others. Everywhere, I sense history. Dragon-carved centuries ago, before humans knew this range existed.
Ember stays close, one hand on my vest, matching my pace in utter darkness. She doesn’t falter. Doesn’t hesitate when I change direction or duck under low clearances.
She trusts me to lead.
That trust sits uncomfortably in my chest. Unfamiliar weight. When did I start caring if she trusts me? When did her faith in me become something I want to protect as fiercely as her life?
“Mind your head,” I warn her as we reach a low ceiling. Her fingers tighten on my vest. The small gesture—that increased grip, like she’s anchoring herself to me—does something to my carefully maintained control.
I should be focused on navigation. On survival. On anything but the way her hand feels against my back, the way her breathing syncs with mine in the darkness.
But I don’t. Because I’m a fool.
The passage opens into what feels like a larger space. The air moves differently, less confined, more volume. I risk the torch again, keeping the beam low.
We’re in a natural chamber, maybe forty feet across. The ceiling arches overhead, lost in shadows beyond the torch’s reach. Thin warmth curls through the air like exhalation, fire gone cold but not forgotten.
I touch the wall. A pulse trembles under my palm.
Not geological. Not natural.
Living.
Feeding. I sense it as my fingertips tingle.
“It’s aware of us,” I say quietly.
Ember moves beside me, her own hand pressing against stone inches from mine. So close our knuckles almost touch. That thin warmth curling through the air… It’s nothing compared to the heat building in the space between our hands.
Everything about this is wrong. The magic feeding on our presence. The ancient power waking in the mountain’s depths. The Syndicate hunting above while something stirs below.
But the wrongest thing is the way I’m hyperaware of every breath she takes, every small movement, the way torchlight catches her eyes when she turns her head to look at me.
“Then maybe whatever was sleeping down here isn’t sleeping anymore,” she says.
Neither is whatever’s waking up inside me.
And that’s a bigger problem than ancient magic or Syndicate agents or losing our dragons.
That’s the kind of problem that gets people killed when they stop thinking practically and start thinking emotionally.
The kind of problem I’ve avoided for centuries by keeping everyone at arm’s length.
The kind of problem currently standing close enough that I can catch the scent of her hair and see the pulse beating in her throat.
Above—distant but distinct—the mechanical whine of Syndicate scanners disturbs the stillness. They’re still searching. Still hunting.
We’re caught between predators above and ancient power below.
And I’m caught between duty and something that feels dangerously close to caring whether Ember Arrowvane lives or dies for reasons that have nothing to do with mission success.
The scanners whine again. Closer this time.
