The Pull at the Third Turn

The passage narrowed at the first turn, forcing Jorren to turn his pack sideways and drag it past the stone. A pale line ran down the floor ahead of him, then vanished around the bend.

“Still there,” he called. “Floor, I mean.”

Aren followed with one hand against the wall. The seam behind them had already disappeared from view. Their route sloped down in a steady, cramped descent, its turns cut too sharply for a natural passage. Seraphine held the tablet against her chest and kept the lantern low, searching the rock for any mark that matched the third station.

Kharos came last. The blue tether from his chest trailed east behind him, visible only when it tightened. It slipped around the bends without touching the stone. Each time it pulled, Kharos’s hand went to the dark place beneath his ribs.

At the first turn, he stopped to brace himself. Aren looked back, but kept his hands where they were.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked.

Kharos pressed his palm against the wall until the pull eased. “I want to know what waits at the end of this passage. That is not the same thing.”

“Then we keep going?”

“To the next turn.” Kharos lifted his hand from the wall. “I’ll decide again there.”

Jorren had wedged the pack through. He glanced back at them. “We can’t make much speed in here. If the rock shifts, there won’t be room to turn around.”

“Then we don’t waste it,” Kharos said.

They went on. The first turn opened into a sloping stretch of dark stone, long enough for them to walk two abreast. Cold water ran in a narrow groove along the wall. Seraphine matched the passage to the tablet’s route line and marked their progress with a charcoal stroke. The second turn lay just beyond a low shelf of rock.

The tether tightened before they reached it.

Kharos stopped. The line pulled straight through the passage, its blue light bright against the stone. His spear shifted on his back, drawn toward the east. He put one hand around its haft and leaned forward, keeping his feet planted.

Aren moved close enough to speak without raising his voice. “Can I help?”

“Tell me what you mean.”

“I can brace the spear. I won’t pull the tether.”

Kharos studied him, then turned the spear so its haft rested against the wall. “Hold it steady while I pass the turn. If I say let go, you let go.”

Aren gripped the haft. Its leather wrap was cold and damp. Kharos moved around the bend, shoulders scraping stone. The tether dragged tight across his chest, and the spear strained against Aren’s hands. Aren kept it in place without leaning his weight against the line.