The air is not just cooler; it’s older. The scent hits a second later. Dry. Mineral. And something else beneath it. Faintly organic.
He lands first, turning immediately, hands up to guide me the last drop instead of letting me take it on my own. I don’t argue and let him catch me. The contact is brief, but it lingers. His hands gripping my waist long enough that I feel the difference when it’s gone.
I step back, taking in the space. The crevasse widens at the base, opening into a tunnel that curves out of sight. The walls are smooth, worn by something that moved through it over and over again. This isn’t natural erosion; it’s deliberate.
“Zmelja,” I say, the word slipping out as recognition clicks into place.
He nods once.
“Yes.”
I turn slowly, tracking the shape of the tunnel, the way it bends and narrows in places before widening again.
“They burrowed through here,” I murmur. “Deep enough to stay below the heat. Below the storms.”
“Below scan.”
That pulls my attention back to him.
“You think this will block them?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation or doubt, and I believe him. The tension knotting my muscles eases a fraction. It’s not gone, but it eases enough that I feel it.
Fatigue hits hard. My legs feel heavier. My shoulders tighter. My focus looser. I lean back against the wall just for a second. Just to breathe.
He moves closer, not fast, not forcing, just there. The space between us narrows. The confined tunnel makes it unavoidable, the walls too close to allow distance even if I wanted it. I should move. Create space. Reset. I don’t.
Because for the first time since we turned away from the city, we’re not moving. Not running or reacting. We’re here, in this moment.
The silence settles around us, thick and contained, the outside world cut off by layers of stone and distance. No wind. No open sky. No immediate threat.
Just him. Too close. Too aware.
And the quiet stretching longer than it should. The quiet doesn’t last. Not because something outside breaks it. Because I do.
I push away from the wall before the stillness can settle too deep, forcing myself upright, forcing my body to keep moving even when every part of it would rather stay exactly where it is.
“We shouldn’t stay near the opening,” I say, more to keep my thoughts from drifting than because he hasn’t already considered it. “If they track us this far?—”
“They will not.”
His voice is contained by the tunnel walls, but no less certain. I glance at him.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
No explanation, just that same unshakable certainty. It should frustrate me. It did, earlier. Now I just take it in. Because every time I’ve questioned him so far, he’s been right. That doesn’t make this easier. It just makes arguing pointless.
“Fine,” I say, exhaling slowly. “Then we move deeper anyway. Just in case.”
This time he doesn’t argue. Which tells me he already intended to.
We move further into the tunnel, the space narrowing before opening again into a wider section where the walls curve upward and the ceiling dips low enough that he has to angle slightly to avoid brushing it.
The ground is smoother. Worn, but not recently. It’s old and feels long abandoned.
