“The anchor first,” I say.
My voice is rough. Sera is silent behind me. For one breath. Then two.
“Fine,” she says.
The word does not mean fine, but we return to danger. This is easier.
I cross the natural bridge alone because she allows it, not because I command it. The distinction matters. I hold it like a blade between my teeth.
The bridge flexes under my weight. Sera stands at the ridge, watching the wall, the pool, me, and the channels. She leans forward as if she can catch stone with her will.
The signal pulses. Once. Pause. Again. The bridge shudders.
“Kavor,” she calls.
“I know.”
“Left side is thinning.”
“I know.”
“Not left-left. Your other left.”
I pause. She makes a sound behind me.
“Your right, impossible male. Move right.”
I move right. The bridge holds. Barely.
The lower shelf near the arch is slick with mineral runoff and glowing moss. The air is colder here, tugged toward the draining channel. The white-gray shape beneath the pool hums louder, vibrating through my claws. Epis roots cling to the arch, bright blue at the base and paling where the channel drinks.
The anchor is not like the spike above.
It is embedded inside the arch, almost grown over. It is a crescent of blue-black metal ribbing, half-hidden beneath crust and roots. It pulses beneath my hand without scent. Off-world alloy, but old enough for the stone to have tried to claim it.
Not old Tajss. Using old Tajss. Teaching the reservoir to empty itself. I grip the edge. It burns cold. My claws scrape uselessly across the surface. Of course.
“Kavor?”
“Found.”
“Can you break it?”
“No.”
“Can you loosen it?”
“Perhaps.”
“Useful, or panic?”
“Angry.”
She goes quiet.
Then, “I accept angry.”
I brace one foot against the arch and hook my claws beneath a loosened rib of crust. Pull. The anchor does not move. The signal pulses. The machine under the pool answers. The channel drinks harder. Blue roots around my claws flare white.
