“Can we reach it from the lower shelf?”
“Maybe.”
“That is becoming one of our least comforting words.”
“Yes.”
The lower shelf lies beyond a narrow natural bridge of hardened zemlja leavings and mineral crust. It is slick and curved, bright at the edges with moss. Beneath it, the pool continues to drain sideways. The shelf sits near the arch, close enough for me to reach if the stone holds.
Too close for her. She sees my thought before I speak.
“No,” she says.
“I did not speak.”
“You breathed like a heroic mistake.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is when you do it.”
I look at her. She looks back. The cavern glow shifts between us.
“This one is mine,” I say.
Her lips draw into a tight line. Her brow furrows.
“No,” she says again, softer now. Worse. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“The bridge may not hold both of us.”
“Then we test it.”
“You are injured.”
“You are too.”
“My weight is the problem.”
“That is not helping your argument.”
“If it fails, I can reach the shelf with claws.”
“And if the whole section drops?”
“Then you remain here.”
Her eyes go dark, but not with fear. With fury.
“There it is,” she says, her voice so low it is barely a whisper.
“Sera.” I exhale her name, but that will change nothing. I change tactics. “There what?”
“The part where you make yourself the acceptable loss.”
The words strike too close. I go still. The cavern does not. The pool drains. The epis flickers. The signal trembles faintly through stone.
Sera steps closer. I want to step back. I do not.
