The sound that follows is not heard. It is felt. A high, living strain through the root network. Pain. The epis is in pain. Tajss is in pain. My grip falters.
Sera hears something in my silence. “What happened?”
“The roots are tied into it.”
“Can you cut around them?”
I study the anchor and the epis grown around it.
“Yes,” I say after a moment.
“Will that hurt the growth?”
“Yes.”
“Will leaving it hurt more?”
I look at the black line spreading through the curtain. At the dropping pool. At the reservoir losing itself to old channels.
“Yes.”
“Then cut.”
I draw the knife.
Not hers. Mine. Heavier. Built for scale, hide, and the things under Tajss that require force to convince. I cut through the mineral crust first. Then I cut around the pale roots that have grown over the anchor.
The living strands recoil from the blade. My stomach tightens.
“Forgive me,” I whisper.
The word is Cavern Zmaj. Old and soft. Not for enemies. Not for prey. For stone taken. Water spent. Growth cut so others may live.
I have not said it in years. Sera hears. I feel her hear it. I keep cutting.
The anchor rib loosens by a finger’s width. The signal pulses again. The bridge behind me cracks.
“Kavor!”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. The bridge is splitting from the ridge side.”
I look back. She is right, of course.
The natural bridge has a black fracture running through its middle, crawling toward me. When it goes, the shelf may drop. I have little time. I could return, but we would lose this chance.
The pool drains. The roots pale. The City above waits above a hungry machine. I turn back to the anchor.
Sera swears. Human words. Sharp. Beautiful.
“Do not make me come over there,” she says.
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a snort. It is wrong. Impossible. Badly timed. Still, something inside me warms.
“I thought you disliked heroic mistakes,” I call.
“I dislike yours. Mine are better planned.”
