We drop together. The lines whip past, embedding into opposite walls, anchoring.
“That’s new,” I breathe.
“Yes.”
The lines retract faster than before, resetting for another strike. We do not wait. I slam the stone into one of the cracks in the floor, driving it hard, forcing it deeper. It shifts—not much, but enough.
He moves in the same instant, his foot coming down hard beside mine, driving force into the weakened section.
The ground groans but does not break. Yet.
The creature lunges closer. Its forelimb drives forward, and he intercepts it. Not clean and not without cost. The impact hits his injured side, and his whole body jerks as a sharp breath tears out of him—but he holds.
“Again!” I shout.
I drive the stone down harder, shifting my weight into it, forcing the crack wider. He follows, pushing through the pain, driving his weight down beside mine?—
The ground gives.
The surface fractures under the creature’s front weight, one of its limbs dropping into the split as the structure beneath it collapses inward.
It does not fall completely, catching itself and adapting. But its balance is off. Its angle wrong. Its movement slowed.
“Move!” he snaps.
I don’t hesitate.
We pull back together, retreating into the narrowest part of the tunnel behind us, forcing the space tighter, forcing it to follow through a compromised position.
It adjusts, pulling its limb free. Rebalancing—but still coming. Always coming. But slower. Now, though, we’re not just reacting—we’re shaping the fight, and that changes everything.
Even if it’s not enough. Even if it never will be.
We move deeper, and behind us it follows. But it’s not as clean or as certain. And that is the first real crack we’ve made in it.
We don’t get distance. We get seconds. That’s all the broken ground buys us. Seconds.
The tunnel tightens further, forcing us into single file, my shoulder scraping stone as I push ahead, his presence close behind me—close not from urgency, but because the space demands it. Because he can’t afford to fall back. Because I won’t let him.
Behind us, it comes. Slower, but not slow enough.
The sound has changed, though. It’s less precise and less clean. Something is dragging. It’s not stopped, but definitely damaged.
I force my attention ahead, looking for something we can use. Anything.
The tunnel curves, then opens—not wide, but wider. We emerge where there is a low ceiling fractured in uneven lines. The stone is thinner and looks brittle.
“This one,” I say.
He’s already looking and sees it.
“Yes.”
We move into it fast, positioning without words, instinctively taking opposite sides again, creating space, creating angles. This time, we don’t give it a clean entry.
I grab a loose chunk of rock and hurl it toward the center of the chamber, forcing movement, forcing sound, forcing a reaction. It works.
The creature accelerates without caution or calculation. It pushes through the bend harder, faster, trying to reassert control of the space. Good.
