But I kept walking.
Chapter Two
Storm-Run
Rygnar
The human moves like someone who has run a long time and has finally run out of road. She keeps pace anyway, jaw set, shoulders a thin line of stubbornness beneath the torn coat.
She does not ask again what I am. Good. There will be time for questions later, if we are not dead.
The seam in the stone opens after fifty paces into a narrow artery, then a pocket. I learned about this place years ago while mapping rock density for the tunneling crew. No one comes here because there is nothing to find—unless you know how to listen. The mountain hums if you let it. I have always heard that song.
I shrugged off my pack and set it on the ground to open it. Pulling out a small lantern, I set it on a ledge and adjust the light to a low gold.
The pocket is scarcely a room—two body lengths across, one and a half deep. The ceiling slopes low enough that my helm brushes it. On the far side, a crack draws a ribbon of air—good. We will not suffocate. The smell of old, damp stone settles in my lungs, calm as rain.
“Sit,” I say, and kneel beside the pack.
She doesn’t argue. Her hands shake as she lowers herself to the floor. Adrenaline. Shock. She tucks her knees in and watches me with eyes that have not yet decided whether I am a rescuer or a catastrophe.
The blood on my shoulder is warm where the pellets found a seam instead of a plate. I open the med kit one-handed,shrugging out of the coat. The sticky pull at my bicep tells me I will need to cut the sleeve away.
“Let me,” the human says. She is already on her knees, moving toward me—then flinching at her own impulse.
I keep very still.
She uses the small knife I gave her. The blade is sharp; she cuts the material carefully. I feel the sting of air, then the cooler sting of gel as I spread it over the pellets and pry them out with the tweezers.
“Can I—” She stops herself, searching my face for permission. “Can I hold this light?”
I tilt the lantern toward her. “Yes.”
She holds it steady, the tremor in her hands quieting as a task gives them purpose.
I dig three pellets out—small lead mouths that had begun to kiss the muscle. I drop them in a tin and seal the skin with a thin line of polymer that tastes like clover and iron.
My hands do not shake. They never do while I am working.
When I am done, I sit back against the stone and exhale through my teeth. The room lists a fraction until my blood recovers. I drink water and pass the canteen to her.
She drinks and does not pretend the swallow doesn’t hurt.
“Thank you,” she says. The words are plain and heavy as stones.
“You are welcome.” I slide the tin away. “Your turn.”
“My—?” The word breaks as she tries to stand. Pain puts her back down hard. Her ankle is already swelling against the boot leather.
“Sprain. Maybe worse.” I gesture. “Foot.”
She hesitates, then unlaces the boot with little gasps of breath she tries to hide.
I ease the leather away and work the sock loose. The joint puffs and blooms under the skin like a storm cloud. I press along the bone carefully with my thumb.
She makes a sound between a hiss and a curse when I find the tenderest line.
“Not broken,” I say, and she sags as if I have told her the war is over. “But you will not run on it tonight.”
