The caverns thinned until the air carried a damp chill, every breath echoing too loudly against stone that felt half-asleep, as though the earth itself waited for something to stir it awake. The humans carried what little rations they had, armor patched with scraps of leather and chain that looked more prayer than defense.
Lindarion led at the front, shadows flowing around his boots like a second cloak, the sword resting on his back in a sheath of living night. Nysha walked a pace behind him, crimson eyes flicking to every dark crack in the stone, shadows twitching restlessly as if they anticipated teeth waiting to snap.
The commander had chosen fifteen of his best to follow. Veterans, or what passed for them now, scarred men and women whose eyes had learned to narrow against the sight of blood, whose bodies hadn't yet bent to malnourishment.
