I kill the torch, plunging us back into darkness.
“Stay quiet,” I whisper. “Don’t move.”
Her hand finds mine in the dark. Grips tight.
And I don’t pull away.
Chapter 10
Ember
The darkness presses in from all sides. I follow the sound of Luke’s breathing; steady and controlled, even after hours of walking. My own comes harder, ragged at the edges. From time to time, he’ll turn the torch on, the dim light sweeping across walls slick with moisture, revealing rough stone that gleams like black glass in the narrow light.
Every few minutes, a metallic echo drifts through the tunnels from somewhere behind us. Distant but distinct. A reminder that the Syndicate hasn’t given up.
My legs shake with exhaustion. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I’m wading through water.
“Easy.” His voice cuts through the darkness when I stumble for the thousandth time. “Breathe.”
The calm in his tone steadies me more than it should. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue. Just keeps moving, and I force myself to follow.
He moves like the dark belongs to him. Sure-footed on uneven ground, reading the stone and shadows like a language I don’t speak. I just follow blindly, thankful that at least one of us knows where we’re headed. I hope.
The passage narrows. The air grows colder with each step, frigid enough to leave my lips numb and my eyes aching. My breath fogs white in the torchlight on the rare occasions that he switches it on.
“Luke—” I barely recognize my own voice. “Just… give me a minute.”
He stops immediately. Scans the passages branching left and right, then nods toward a narrow split in the rock wall.
“Through there.”
We crawl through the gap. The stone presses against my shoulders, and my jacket catches on something sharp. I hear fabric tear, feel the brush of cold air against skin. Then the passage opens into a small alcove; dry and protected, barely tall enough to stand if I crouch.
Luke checks the airflow first. I watch him lift his hand, feeling for drafts, his fingers steady, even though he must be as exhausted as I am. He looks for signs of old soot on the ceiling, calculating whether we’re safe from detection.
“We hold here,” he decides.
“I’m slowing you down.” The admission is torn from me.
“You kept pace with a dragon who’s been doing this for centuries.” He kneels by his pack, pulling out compact rations wrapped in silver foil. His movements are efficient, economical. No wasted motion. “That’s not slowing down.”
The statement catches me off guard. Not what he said, but how he said it: matter-of-fact, without judgment or reassurance. Just information.
He hands me a ration bar and water. “Eat.”
I take them, settling against the wall. The stone is cold through his oversized jacket, but at least I can breathe without feeling like my lungs might give out. I unwrap the bar with shaking fingers, force myself to chew even though I’m too tired to taste anything. My body craves fuel to keep me warm right now.
Luke unwraps his own ration but doesn’t eat. Just watches the entrance to the alcove, head tilted, listening to sounds I can’t hear.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… heavy. Like there are words between us that neither of us knows how to say.
Eventually, I can’t resist the urge to break it. I take a drink of water. Clear my throat.
“You said you’ve been doing this for centuries.”
He glances at me. Waits.
