This is not how I imagined my first real time alone with her.
In my mind, she would be by the central fire, doing her coo-keen, face warm from the heat. My skin would be glowing with a steady, impressive light: healthy, calm, strong. I would walk over slowly, not lurking in shadows like a cave-creature. I would offer her the gift I have been carving. It would be perfectly smooth, each curve just right for her hand. She would see it and make that soft inhaling sound. She would press it to her chest, look atme, and understand that I am the only male worthy of her fire-broth.
Instead, I am here in a half-collapsing tunnel, skulking in the dark, growling at rocks.
I force my face to soften. The humans bare their teeth to show friendliness, so I do the same, pulling my lips back from my fangs in what I hope is a reassuring display.
Mih-kay-lah’s brows come together in a strange upside-down way.
“All right, don’t go all Cheshire on me, Stabby,” she mutters.
I only catch two words there: Stah-bee—mine—anddon’t. But I get the sense I have not succeeded in reassuring her.
The moment she uses the name, she freezes slightly, as if surprised she let it slip. Her eyes flick away.
Stah-bee.
Stah-bee. Yes, that is me. And I am here to guard.
The mindspace thins as we go deeper. It always does in the old tunnels, but now the distance feels more obvious. Thoughts from the main cavern reach us dulled, as if too much stone has been piled on top of them.
Mih-kay-lah has no such thread to anyone. Her mind is entirely her own, closed to us unless she pushes sound through her soft throat.
It is both frustrating and… precious.
Part of me wants to press my brow to hers, to open a channel and let understanding pour between us with no clumsy mouth-words. To feel her thoughts the way I feel my brothers’ in battle.
Another part of me is glad she cannot look inside and see the things that move there. The glow I can never quite coax into a full blaze. The stab of jealousy when I see Rok with Jus-teen, or Jah-kee with Tharn. The cold fear that the dust will choose everyone else and leave me with nothing.
So, I keep my brow to myself.
Not yet.
The tunnel hooks sharply left, then right. The sound of water grows louder ahead, but not like the gentle seep of the lower spring. This is a constant, thinner trickle, bouncing around in a tight space.
“Close,” Haroth projects, excitement brightening his tone. His glow tries to flare in answer.
“Dim,” Kelvan sends at once, shooting him a look. “If the tunnel is weak, too much light-heat will make it angry.”
Haroth pulls his light back under his skin, chastened.
I adjust mine as well, keeping it low and steady. Bright enough that Mih-kay-lah will not catch her foot or misjudge a step. Not so bright that we heat the stone more than we must.
If this stone so much as scratches her, I will grind it to dust.
“The air’s colder,” Mih-kay-lah vocalizes. Her breath smokes faintly in front of her face.
Cold.
I cannot understand her words, but I know Ain’s touch. I know what her night-breath feels like. This is the chill of places where light never goes. Where only water and time have power.
Some stubborn part of me wants to bare my teeth at it. To snarl at the air until it gives her back its warmth.
We round one last bend, and the stone opens up.
The chamber ahead is small but tall. The ceiling arches high above us into darkness. The drip and trickle of water is louder here, echoing from somewhere overhead.
“We are under the water-path,” Kelvan projects. He forces the Een-gleesh word “here” out for Mih-kay-lah’s benefit, then points to a dark seam high in the wall, where a thin, steady thread of water is seeping down toward us.
