Nessa squeezes my hand. “It’s loud,” she whispers.
“That’s just the tunnels breathing,” Vael says. “Means they’re still holding us up.”
She looks at him like he just told her magic was real.
We reach the end of the corridor and find an old cargo bay, half-collapsed but stable enough. Vael sets the pack down and starts sealing the door. I pull out the burner filters and hook them to the vent pipes, the hiss of pressurized air filling the silence.
When we’re done, I sit beside Nessa and pull her into my lap. Her heartbeat presses against mine, too fast. I smooth her curls and whisper, “You’re safe.”
She nods but doesn’t speak.
Across from us, Vael sits with his elbows on his knees, head bowed. The scrambler collar hums softly, a faint green pulse lighting his throat. His eyes find mine in the dim.
“We’ll keep moving,” he says. “We always do.”
But I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am — that this time, running might not be enough.
________________________________________________________________________
The tunnels breathe around us.
That’s what it feels like—like the walls are lungs, and every time I draw in air, the old metal exhales back, hot and stale and heavy with dust. The faint tang of oil burns my nose. My throat’s raw from breathing through the filter mask, and every sound we make—boots scraping, bags shifting, Nessa’s quiet sniffles—comes back in hollow echoes.
We’ve been walking for hours. Or maybe minutes. Down here time folds in on itself. I only know my legs ache and the small light on my wristband’s almost red.
Vael moves ahead of us, shoulders broad in the low tunnel, light glancing off the scarred plating of his cybernetic arm. Every few paces he stops, listens, then keeps going. Even in the dark he moves with purpose, like his instincts map what my eyes can’t.
I wish I had that kind of certainty.
Nessa clings to my hand, fingers sweaty, small and trembling. Razorclaw dangles from her other arm, one wing missing, the remaining one streaked with grime.
“Mom,” she whispers, voice muffled through the filter cloth, “my feet hurt.”
“I know, starling.” I crouch to her level, brush her cheek. Her eyes glow faintly gold in the half-light, catching the lantern beam. “We’re almost there, okay? Remember what I told you?”
“Hide and breathe.”
“That’s right. Smart girl.”
Vael glances back, his voice low but steady. “We’ll rest soon.”
He means it to reassure, but I can hear the undertone—the way soldiers talk before they make a decision that can’t be undone.
We finally reacha junction where the tunnels split three ways. Rusted signage in old Vakutan script hangs crooked on the wall. The left route dips deeper, the middle climbs toward a service shaft, the right disappears into shadow.
Vael studies the old map Drel embedded in his compad. “The smuggler’s route starts here,” he murmurs. “Drel said it connects to the old extraction tram. From there you can reach the underport.”
You.
Notwe.
The word sits heavy between us.
“What do you mean, you?” I ask.
He looks up. His face is calm in that terrifying, soldier way. “I’m not going with you.”
“No,” I say immediately. Too sharp. “Absolutely not.”
