A faint crack runs outward from the point of impact, but not enough.
“Again,” I say.
He moves with me, his foot striking beside mine, reinforcing the break, and the crack widens. The creature reacts too late.
The ground gives under its front weight, dropping enough to throw its balance, one limb sliding into the fractured section as the surface collapses inward.
It catches itself, but now it’s wrong. Off-center. Its angle compromised again.
“Back,” I say, already moving.
We retreat into the narrow edge of the chamber, forcing it to follow into a worse position, forcing its body to compress and work against the space instead of owning it.
It comes slow and deliberate. The filament snaps out. One line, not two, targeting me.
I twist, pulling him with me, the line grazing past my side, embedding into the stone behind us with a sharp crack.
The line retracts, and Kael moves into it. His hand snaps out, catching the filament before it can fully retract, wrapping it once around his forearm, forcing tension.
“Kael—”
“Hold.”
I don’t question him, shifting closer and bracing him. I feel the strain build through him, through me, through the line connecting him to the thing trying to take him as the creature pulls hard. The line goes taut. Kael’s body jerks. The wound tears a little more under the strain. My stomach twists.
“Let go,” I say.
“No.”
The tension spikes. The ground beneath the creature shifts again, the compromised footing forcing it to adjust, to pull harder to compensate, which is exactly what we need.
“Now,” he says.
I move, grabbing the loose rock near my foot and slamming it down into the line where it stretches taut against the ground, forcing it deeper into the fracture point.
The line grinds against stone. Sparks fly. The crack spreads. The creature pulls. Stronger. The ground collapses further. This time, it drops.
One side of its body sinks deeper into the fractured floor, its limb trapped at a sharper angle, its balance breaking enough to matter.
The line snaps free from his arm, and he staggers. I catch him, but we both nearly go down.
“Move,” he says, rough, breath uneven.
I don’t argue, pulling him back, retreating into the tightest part of the tunnel again, forcing distance, forcing space between us and it before it can recover. Behind us, it adjusts.
Slower. Damaged, but not stopped.
“You’re worse,” I say, not asking.
“Yes.”
No denial or softening, just truth. Good. I can work with truth.
I keep us moving. It’s not fast or clean, but we’re together. And behind us, it follows.
It’s not as strong as it was, but it’s still coming. And that’s the problem, because this isn’t over. Not even close.
23
