Into the tighter cuts of rock and shadow where movement slows and choices narrow. Where they’ll have to commit.
The wind shifts again, thinner, carrying less sand and more sound. And beneath it that hum. Faint. Persistent. Adjusting.
I don’t look up. I don’t need to. Because now I know it’s not trying to find us.
It’s waiting for us to make the next move.
16
LEENA
The ground tilts, not enough to fall, but enough that I slip. There’s a delay between what I tell my body to do and what it actually does. I correct and keep moving, trying not to slow us down.
The rock cuts get tighter and the path grows more uneven. Sand thins into hard edges and broken stone. Every step takes more focus than the last. Then I miss one.
My foot catches instead of clearing, and I trip. I get my hand up, hitting the wall to steady myself. I inhale sharply, holding down the urge to yelp. He stops.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
His hand closes around my arm, but not like before. This isn’t correction; it’s assessment. He looks me over—quick, precise, taking in everything. My breathing, posture, and how much delay I’m costing us. Everything I can’t hide. I pull back.
“I can keep going.”
“You are slowing.”
I exhale, irritation flaring even as I know he’s right.
“I’m adjusting.”
He doesn’t argue or agree. He just looks at me a second longer. Then his attention shifts past me. He’s scanning, recalculating.
“We stop.”
The words snap through me.
“No.” I shake my head before he finishes the thought. “We don’t have time to stop. They’re tightening the pattern. We just saw?—”
“You will fail.”
I go still, not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. No edge. No frustration. Just certainty.
I open my mouth to argue and nothing comes out because part of me already knows he’s right. Every step is taking more effort. My reactions are slower. My focus is fractured, and out here, that’s not a weakness. It’s a liability.
He’s already moving again, but not forward. He’s going sideways, off the narrow path and into a tighter break in the rock where the ground dips sharply. The walls close in enough that I have to turn sideways to follow.
“This isn’t better,” I say, pushing after him. “It’s tighter. If they come through here?—”
“They will not.”
Again with the certainty. I follow because I don’t have a better option. Because I don’t trust myself to argue and move at the same time anymore.
The cut deepens as we move, the light shifting as the rock rises higher around us. The red glare of the suns dulls, replaced by shadow and reflected heat trapped between the walls. The air changes, cooling away from the direct light.
That’s the first sign. The second is the ground.
The sand disappears almost completely, replaced by packed earth and stone that doesn’t shift under my weight. Then a break. Not a clean opening. A split.
The rock fractures downward into a narrow crevasse, deep enough that the bottom disappears into shadow. He goes down without hesitation, and I follow, lowering myself carefully, boots finding uneven holds as the light above narrows and the temperature drops another degree.
