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I hold my breath. Then I do. Scraping. Not the loud, sharp kind from earlier. This is softer. Steady.

Purposeful.

It’s coming from beneath us. Z’leni curses and reaches for his weapon.

“They’re digging,” Z’leni says and panic floods my chest.

“We’re not alone down here,” I say.

“No,” Ryatuv says grimly. “We never were.”

Z’leni crosses the chamber in two strides, dropping to one knee near a crack in the floor. He presses his ear against the stone.

“There’s more than one. They’re below us. And close,” he says.

“What do we do?” I ask, voice shaking.

“We fight if we have to,” Ryatuv says. “But if we can run?—”

“There,” Z’leni interrupts. He stands and points to the wall behind me. “That stone’s weaker. Cracked from the collapse.”

I twist to look. A jagged seam runs along the edge of the chamber, partly hidden by shadows.

“It’s not a tunnel,” I say.

“Not yet,” Z’leni replies, “but it could be.”

Ryatuv pulls away from me and moves to inspect it. He presses his claws to the seam, then glances back.

“It’ll be loud,” he warns.

“I don’t care,” I say, already on my feet. “Do it.”

Z’leni hands me his torch and a knife.

“Hold the light. And if anything comes through that floor—” he trails off.

“I’ll make it bleed,” I promise.

“Good girl,” he says in a low rumble that makes my knees weak.

Ryatuv slams his shoulder into the wall. Once. Twice. The stone groans. Behind us, the floor splits with a crack. We don’t have much time.

Ryatuv slams his shoulder into the wall again, harder this time. The crack widens. Dust rains down, stinging my eyes and catching in my throat. The floor behind us shudders.

Not stone. Not structure. This is a different kind of sound. Flesh on rock. Scraping. Clawing. Coming up.

Z’leni pulls me toward the wall, his hand curling tight around my uninjured wrist. Ryatuv braces himself, wings spread wide for balance, then launches forward with a bellow that echoes through the chamber.

The stone gives.

It explodes in a burst of fractured rock and stale air, revealing a narrow chute on the other side. More of a crevice than a passage, barely wide enough for a single body at a time. Cold, damp air rushes out. It smells wrong. Like metal and old death, but we don’t hesitate.

Ryatuv grabs the torch from my hand and thrusts it into the gap. Shadows leap across slick, ribbed walls that plunge at a steep angle.

It isn’t a tunnel. It’s probably some kind of drainage shaft. Or an old collapse route going down.

“We’re going in there?” I ask.