“One. Two. Three...”
I focus on the numbers. On the warmth of his grip. On the bond that pulses between us, steadier now, like it’s trying to help.
“...eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.”
The passage opens, and I stumble into a cavern that makes me want to weep with relief. It’s vast—cathedral-high, with walls that curve up and up until they meet at a jagged hole far above.Through that hole, I can see it: a single star, burning silver against the black.
Not sky. But close enough.
I stand there, breathing, staring at that star like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. Torin releases my hands but doesn’t move away.
“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You’re no use to me if you lightning-blast yourself into a coma.” But there’s no bite in it. “We’ll rest here. Catch your breath.”
I sink down against the cavern wall, and I hate that his help made a difference. Hate that the bond seems to have settled into something almost comfortable. Hate that I’m starting to see him as something other than my captor.
That way lies danger.
“Why did you close your borders?”
We’ve been sitting in silence for what feels like hours, me staring at the star, him cleaning and sharpening a knife he produced from somewhere. The question breaks the quiet like a stone into still water.
He doesn’t look up. “Why do you care?”
“Because I’m a diplomat. It’s my job to understand.” I shift against the stone wall. “And because we’re going to be walking for a long time. Might as well talk.”
For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then: “The surface world is dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
“Contamination. Pollution. Sickness.” The knife moves in steady strokes. “Every time we’ve had contact with surface-dwellers, our people have suffered for it. Diseases we have no immunity to. Poisons in the water that take years to clear. It’s simpler to avoid the contact entirely.”
“Simpler,” I repeat. “But sustainable?”
His hands pause on the knife.
“Integration works,” I press on. “The Alliance has proven that. Different species, different magics, different cultures—they can coexist. They can strengthen each other.”
“Pretty words for assimilation.” His voice has gone cold. “You don’t want coexistence. You want absorption. Take what makes us unique and sand it down until we’re just another tributary feeding into your great river of sameness.”
“That’s not?—”
“Isn’t it?” He looks up now, and the gray-green of his eyes has gone stormy. “The Integration Alliance. Even the name tells you what they want. Integration. Folding everything different into one acceptable whole. What happens to the Deep Runner traditions that don’t fit your model? The customs that seem strange to surface eyes? Do we get to keep those? Or do we negotiate them away piece by piece until there’s nothing left?”
The passion in his voice catches me off guard. This isn’t Caspian’s hatred—blind, burning, destructive. This is something else. Fear, maybe. The desperate protectiveness of someone who’s watched something precious slip away.
“Your people are dying.”
The words come out quieter than I intended. His jaw tightens.
“Declining population,” I continue, gentler now. “Genetic bottlenecks. Every generation smaller than the last. I’ve read the reports—what few exist. You’ve been isolated so long that you’re breeding yourselves into extinction.”
Something flickers across his face—pain, quickly suppressed. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’m good at my job.” I hold his gaze. “And because I came here to help, not to conquer. Your borders can stay closed to armies, to exploitation, to anything that threatens your way of life. But they can’t stay closed to hope. Not forever. Not if you want your people to survive.”
He’s silent for a long time. The star gleams above us, cold and distant, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too hard.
