Borzen doesn’t flinch. “You made a tool. Someone else made a weapon. Don’t confuse the two.”
“I made the weapon possible,” I whisper.
“Maybe,” Dravven says quietly. “But you’re also the only one who can turn it off.”
I look up. His face is dirty, smudged with soot, but his eyes are steady. Not pitying. Grounded.
“Yeah,” he says, half a smirk tugging his lips. “We’re still breathing, so maybe twist it back.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You make that sound easy.”
He shrugs. “I play with what’s in front of me. You build things. So build us a way out.”
For once, I don’t argue. I don’t even want to.
I wipe my face, the tears smearing grime across my cheek. The Maze Master’s avatar flickers and vanishes, leaving only silence.
The room feels heavier now. Smaller. Like the air itself is grieving.
Shira hasn’t moved. She’s staring at the wall where Callan vanished, mouth open but no sound coming out. Then, softly, she says, “I don’t think he felt it.”
It’s the first thing she’s said in hours.
Borzen glances at her, gruff voice softening. “You need rest.”
She nods without looking. “There’s no rest in here.”
The mute boy curls against the wall, knees to his chest, rocking. His eyes are open, unfocused. His lips move, forming words without sound. A prayer or a curse—I can’t tell.
I look around the room, forcing myself to think. Every wall, every seam. There has to be a pattern. An escape.
Suddenly, I see it.
In the corner. Faint, almost hidden behind a flicker of light.
A symbol.
Carved deep into the alloy. Not projected. Not printed.
A glyph.
It glows white for a moment, then fades.
Not Dirk’s design.
Reaper script.
My breath catches.
I crouch down, fingers tracing the mark. It’s rough, uneven, carved by claws or blades. The metal is warm where it shouldn’t be.
He was here.
I know it the way I know my own name. I feel it in my bones, in the rhythm of the Maze’s pulse syncing to my own.
I glance back at Borzen and Dravven. “We’re not alone.”
Borzen grunts. “Yeah, no kidding.”
