The hollow sighs behind us. Sera’s shoulders tense, but she does not turn.
“Keep moving,” I say.
“I am.”
“Soft.”
“I am trying.”
“Try quieter.”
She bares her teeth at the ground ahead.
“When we live through this, I’m going to find a way to make that insulting.”
“You will succeed.”
“I know.”
The answer is immediate. Sharp. Alive. My mouth nearly softens, but I keep it still.
We reach firmer ground beyond the first ruin rib. Its shadow is thin and shrinking as the first sun climbs. I release her wrist. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Her skin is warm where my hand leaves it. Human-warm. Pulse-warm. Alive. I curl my fingers once to rid them of the memory. It does not work, and Sera notices.
She rubs her wrist as if I hurt her, though I did not. No. Not as if hurt. As if recovering herself.
“I could have done that without being grabbed,” she says.
“No.”
Her eyes flash. “Careful.”
“You would have stepped before I finished speaking.”
“I might have listened.”
“You did listen. After I stopped you.”
“That is not the same.”
“No.”
Her anger pauses. I look at the ground behind us. The place where she stood has sunk deeper, a shallow bowl now, with smooth dust sloping toward the center. No full collapse. No breach. But beneath it, something hollow waits.
“That was not ordinary surface crust,” she says.
I glance at her. She is looking at the depression, not me. Fear lives in her face, but she has already chained it to thought.
“No,” I say.
“Old tunnel?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes narrow at my answer. I dislike it more. She crouches before I can stop her.
“Sera.”
