“Everything does. Be more specific.”
“I must lift you higher and press you close to climb the ledge.”
Her eyes find mine. Even here. Even now. Heat moves between us, impossible and immediate. The red opens one eye. No.
“Do it,” she says.
My jaw locks.
“Sera.”
“I know where your hands are.”
The words from the cavern. Memory bites deep.
“That is not enough.”
Her gaze softens. Not with fragility. With understanding that nearly ruins me.
“No,” she says. “But I am choosing where I am.”
I close my eyes for one breath. Good. Dangerous. Necessary. Then I climb.
The ledge is barely wide enough for one foot. I keep Sera braced against my chest, one arm around her back, one under her knees, claws finding old cracks in the wall. My injured shoulder burns. My wing drags stone. Her breath catches against my throat every time the movement jars her ribs.
Halfway across, the floor below us collapses. Not all at once. It peels open beneath the thin roof, falling into a lower dark where white-gray light pulses like exposed nerves. The old network waited there, hungry and patient.
Sera’s hand tightens in my harness. Below, the collapsed stone strikes something vast. The zemlja answers. Pressure slams upward through the passage.
I flatten us both against the wall. The ledge cracks beneath my foot. Dust blasts past. From below comes a sound too deep for hearing, felt in bone, tooth, and old fear.
Zemlja moving through the tunnel. Not breaching here. Passing under. Close enough that the stone remembers being eaten.
Sera’s face presses against my neck. She is shaking. Not from fear alone. Pain. Blood loss. Exhaustion. The system tugging through her wound.
I need to get her out. I need to feed her. Shelter her. Bring water to her mouth. Place my body between her and every hunger in this cursed City. I need to take her somewhere no one can count her usefulness.
Mine.
The red surges. I nearly miss the next grip. My claw slips. Sera’s breath stops. I catch the ledge with my burned hand. Pain explodes white and clean. I welcome it.
No. Not mine. Not unless she chooses.
Not even chosen if she is bleeding. Not even chosen if I am afraid. Fear is not consent. Pain is not consent. Survival is not consent.
I repeat the words like striking stone.
Fear is not consent.
Pain is not consent.
Survival is not consent.
The red snarls. I climb.
The ledge ends at a narrow break where the passage rises sharply. Hot air spills over us. The alarm is closer now.
Three strikes. Pause. Three.
