Because I love—I cut the thought off quick.No.
Not in a tunnel while the zemlja turns and the system wakes.
“Because the passage is steep,” I say.
Her quiet huff warms my throat. “Liar.”
“Yes.”
She does not ask again. That mercy is sharp.
We climb.
The passage narrows, then bends hard left. Behind us, the reservoir pulses. The old machine answers. Below, the zemlja moves with growing pressure. Then a sound cuts through the stone ahead. Not the wrong rhythm. Not zemlja. A human-made alarm.
Metal on stone. Three strikes. Pause. Three strikes.
A City emergency signal.
Sera goes rigid in my arms. I stop. The alarm comes again, faint but clear through the passage ahead.
Three strikes. Pause. Three strikes.
Her eyes meet mine. All the blue softness from the cavern vanishes. Duty takes its place. There. The City has called her back.
I set her down before she asks. The loss of her weight is immediate. Cold. Correct.
She stands on her own feet, pale and shaking but upright, one hand braced against the tunnel wall.
“We’re close,” she says.
“Yes.”
The emergency signal strikes again. Above us, the City screams through stone. Behind us, the reservoir wakes. Below us, the zemlja turns. Sera tightens her grip on the map and samples.
“We move,” she says.
I incline my head. She steps forward. I follow beside her. For as long as she allows it.
25
SERA
The City is screaming through the stone.
Three strikes. Pause. Three strikes.
Metal on old pipe, probably. Maybe one of the lower watch stations. A scout with a hammer and enough terror to make rhythm out of panic.
Emergency. Collapse. Movement below.
Something has gone wrong where wrong things have no room left to be polite.
Kavor sets me on my feet before I ask, and for one stupid breath, I hate the absence of his arms. Then the alarm strikes again. Three. Pause. Three.
Duty comes back like heat. It drops over me all at once, the old familiar weight settling across my shoulders, heavier than the pack I’m not carrying, heavier than pain, heavier than want. Want can wait. People can’t.
I tighten my grip on the map and the sample bundles. Healthy strand. Blackened strand. Broken anchor. Gray-residue thread.All of it wrapped, labeled, separated, precious enough to start a war and fragile enough to die in my hands.
