The Refuge Below

The map’s descending line ended at a small circle beneath the northern front. No name marked it. Vael tapped the circle once, then traced the cracked route leading into it.

“An evacuation refuge,” he said. “If the lower passage still holds.”

Seraphine checked the rope at her waist. Aren’s right hand hung close to his side, numb fingers curled in against his palm. The black mark reached over his shoulder beneath his collar. He could carry the larger pack, but the strap kept sliding off that side.

Vael took the pack from him without asking. “You’ll need your left hand.”

“I know.”

They entered the descending passage one at a time. Seraphine went first, keeping the rope taut and calling back each time the path narrowed. The steps had been cut into dark stone, but long cracks split them from wall to wall. Here and there, narrow iron rings had been fixed into the rock. Vael tested each before they trusted it with their weight.

“How long since you used this route?” Aren asked.

“Years.”

“Was it safe then?”

Vael looked down at the next broken step. “It was useful.”

The answer stayed with Aren as he followed. The walls bore shallow marks at knee height—scrapes from stretchers, perhaps, repeated over years of hurried passage. Some were recent enough to show pale stone beneath the dust. The route had been used after the boundary began failing. It had carried the injured away from the fighting, but its present damage made every step an argument with gravity.

Below, Seraphine called for them to stop.

A section of stair had split away ahead. The broken edge hung over a narrow drop, and the rope had snagged on a bent iron ring. Seraphine leaned over to reach it. The stone under her boot shifted.

Aren dropped to one knee and caught the rope in his left hand. The jerk pulled his shoulder hard. His useless right hand swung against the wall, sending a bright sting through the black mark.

“Hold,” Vael said.

He wedged his spear across the passage, bracing its shaft against two iron rings. Seraphine pulled herself back from the edge, then worked the rope free. She didn’t look at Aren until both her boots were on solid stone.

“Can you keep moving?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She studied his arm, then moved on. The rope slid through Aren’s left fist as they descended.

The passage widened without warning into a square landing. A double door stood across it, one leaf buckled inward. A painted symbol beside the latch showed a stretcher beneath a roof. Someone had scratched over the paint, then marked the door again in a different hand.