It’s a lie. The bond tells me so. But I cling to it anyway because the alternative is dissolving into screaming panic.
“Tell me what you see.” I force the words out through clenched teeth. “Describe it. Please. I need—I need to know where I am.”
He understands immediately. “The ceiling is about eight feet high. Domed. Carved from single piece of coral stone—you can see the growth rings if you know where to look.” His voice is calm, methodical, painting pictures in the dark. “The walls are smooth. No handholds. No gaps except the door seal. The water channels run in a pattern—five of them, evenly spaced. They’re maybe two inches wide.”
“Can we block them?”
“I tried while you were—” He stops. “While you were adjusting. No. They’re enchanted. Water flows regardless of obstruction.”
Of course they are. This is a prison designed by people who control water. They’d think of everything.
The water reaches my knees. Cold. So cold it aches.
“How high now?” I ask.
“Knee-high. Maybe a bit more.”
“And when it reaches the ceiling?”
“Zara—”
“How long, Torin?” I need to know. Need to understand the timeline of my death.
He’s silent for a long moment. Then: “Six hours. Maybe seven. High tide doesn’t peak until after midnight.”
Six hours. Six hours of watching—of feeling—the water climb. Six hours of knowing exactly how and when I’m going to die.
The panic claws back up my throat. My breath goes ragged again. The bond pulses with Torin’s concern, his helplessness, his desperate need to fix this and his inability to do so.
“I’m going to die in a box.” The words come out flat. “In the dark. Drowning. This is—this is every nightmare I’ve ever had.”
“You’re not going to die.” His hands tighten on my shoulders.
“Torin—”
“You’re not.” There’s steel in his voice now. Determination. “I won’t let you.”
“You can’t stop the water.”
“No. But I can keep you above it.” He pulls me closer, and I feel his body against mine—solid, real, warm despite the cold water rising around us. “I can tread water for days if I have to. I’ll keep your head above the surface. I’ll share breath with you when the water reaches the ceiling. I’ll find a way.”
“Shared breath?” The term is unfamiliar.
“Deep Runner technique. We can pass oxygenated water through a kiss—like breathing for someone who can’t breathe water on their own.” His voice gentles. “I’ve kept you alive this long. I’m not stopping now.”
The bond carries his absolute conviction. He means it. He’ll drown himself trying to keep me alive, will fight the inevitable until his strength gives out, will never stop reaching for me even when there’s no hope left.
It should comfort me. Instead, it makes me want to weep.
“You can’t save me from this.” I press my forehead against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the bond. “The water will rise. The ceiling will come. And we’ll both drown because you won’t let go.”
“Then we drown together.” He says it simply. Like it’s already decided. “I chose you, remember? That doesn’t stop just because things got difficult.”
The water reaches my waist. I feel it climbing, inexorable as time.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?”
