Page 152 of The Blood Rites

“Are you afraid?” Nyxen asks, out of nowhere.

I start to say no, but the truth won’t let me. Lies are getting harder these days. “Yes,” I say. “Always.”

He gives a short nod. “Good. Survival depends on fear.”

We keep moving. The cave narrows again, and I lose track of how far we’ve gone, how long we’ve been underground.

After a while, Nyxen says, “If I die—”

He stops. Like he didn’t mean to say it.

“Stay with him,” he says.

The request stops me dead. “What?”

“With Kael,” he says. “He won’t—” He exhales. “Just... don’t let him be alone.”

“I don’t think I’m strong enough,” I say, and my voice cracks.

“No one ever is,” he says. “That doesn’t absolve you.”

Nyxen’s hand is on my shoulder again, and this time it doesn’t feel like a threat. “Don’t let him lose himself.”

I want to promise, but the words catch in my throat.

The ground trembles. At first, it’s so subtle I think I imagined it. Then a low rumble rolls through the cave, and pebbles start to rain from the ceiling.

“Move,” Nyxen commands, voice sharp.

We run, stumbling through the dark. The tremor worsens, stone cracking overhead. I hear the roar of water behind us—the pool must have overflowed. Nyxen is ahead, running with a speed I can barely match.

The cave narrows so tight I have to turn sideways to fit. My shirt snags on a jagged rock, ripping open the side. Blood beads and drips down my ribs, hot and sticky.

I hear Nyxen shout from ahead, then nothing.

I crawl through the pinch-point, scraping the skin off my arms. On the other side, the tunnel opens up again. Nyxen is there, but he’s trapped beneath a slab of stone that must have fallen from the ceiling. He isn’t moving.

I rush to him. He’s breathing, at least, though his face is twisted in pain.

“Can you move?” I ask, panic tearing through my voice. “Can you channel?”

He shakes his head. “My arms are pinned. Get out,” he orders. “Go!”

“I won’t leave you.”

He grits his teeth. “If you stay, you’ll die too. It’s pointless.”

I ignore him, pressing my hands to the stone—not to move it, just to feel it.

It’s not solid. Not entirely. There are fractures running across the surface—hair-thin, branching.

I drag in a breath and let my light rise—not as a weapon, not even as a plan.

Just instinct. Just need.

It spills from my palms and seeps into the cracks. But it doesn’t behave. It spreads wrong. Not like illumination—like something searching. Like it’s feeling its way through the stone.

The light grows heavy, moving slowly, like dragging through mud.