They reached the base of the shaft just as the tunnel behind them collapsed with a final, grinding roar. They were sealed in. The only way out was up.
The thermal lance and its generator were still at the top, hundreds of feet above. The shaft was a sheer, glass-smooth tube of cooled magma.
Mo Chen looked at Silas. There was no rope that could withstand the heat needed to climb this.
So, she made her own.
She focused, pouring her will into her hands. She didn't create a destructive flame. Instead, she generated intense, localized heat in her palms, enough to soften the glassy rock without melting it completely. She jammed her hands into the wall, the rock yielding like stiff clay, and created a handhold.
She looked back at Silas. "Follow my marks."
It was an agonizing, slow-motion climb. She would create two handholds, haul herself up, then create two more for Silas. The mental strain was immense, a constant, grinding drain on her spirit. Her arms screamed in protest. Below, the darkness of the collapsed tunnel seemed to yawn wider, a hungry mouth.
But she climbed. Handhold by searing handhold. The system was silent, offering no help. This was a test of pure will.
After what felt like an eternity, her hand touched not rock, but the cold metal of the thermal lance's base. She hauled herself over the edge, into the howling blizzard, and then turned to help a exhausted Silas out.
They had made it. They were alive.