Time in the stone cell felt frozen. Only the faint crackle of the fire-fold and Lin Yan's barely-there breaths proved that life remained.
A Jin didn't dare relax. She stayed at his side, checking his pulse and temperature again and again, wetting his cracked lips with the little clean water left from the cache the Mute Uncle had hidden. The trauma salve and hemostatic powder were working—the wound had stopped bleeding—but the pallor from blood loss and the fever rising under his skin were the real threats now.
She spread her outer robe over him for warmth, then curled against the cold wall, the willow-leaf knife in a tight grip, listening for the slightest sound beyond the sealed stone door. The killer had withdrawn for the moment, but nothing said he wouldn't find another way in—or bring friends.
The night stretched on, long and airless. The fire-fold burned down at last; the final ember winked out. Darkness swallowed everything. A Jin pressed close, drawing what heat she could from him and, with her own body, making sure he was still alive. In that lightless tomb, two strangers' fates were lashed together.
After an unknown time—hours, or a day—Lin Yan's breathing seemed a shade stronger, but his skin had turned hot. The fever had come.
A Jin's chest tightened. She dampened a cloth and kept wiping his brow and neck, coaxing the heat down. The Mute Uncle's medicines were good, but they could only do so much against deep trauma and infection.
Her fingers, searching in the dark for anything more she could use, brushed the scratched letters on the wall again. A thought sparked. If he'd anticipated blood and left medicine—might he have left something else? A way out?
She felt her way around every inch of the chamber, stubborn and methodical. Near the inner base of the door, in a spot anyone would overlook, her fingertips found a stone that shifted differently than the rest.
She pried with the knife. The stone came free, revealing a small recess and a waterproof cowskin roll.
Her heart quickened. She took out the roll and spread it open by touch. Raised lines bit into her fingertips—etched rather than drawn.
A map.
A more detailed plan of the mine and the area around it, cut into leather. Their stone room was marked, as was a route no one would have found: a steeper, deeper passage that wound downward through strata and ended at a subterranean river. Beside it, a line of small characters:
"Dark river to Blackwater; drift thirty li to see daylight. Use caution."
Blackwater—Blackwater River? Or… Blackwater Stronghold?
A Jin had to press her lips shut to keep from crying out. A way to live—and directly toward where Lin Yan had been headed. The Mute Uncle truly had foreseen everything.
She tucked the map away as if it were a jewel. Now they had a direction. But the problem remained: Lin Yan was badly hurt and burning with fever. How could he endure a long trek through twisting tunnels—much less a cold plunge into an underground river?
First, keep him alive. Give him a little strength.
She forced herself calm and went through the oilskin pouch again, searching the seams. In the deepest fold, her nail clicked on something thin and hard: a tiny bamboo tube, corked.
Inside were pea-sized black pills with a faint, clean fragrance. Two carved characters on the tube: "Gu Yuan"—Restore the Source.
A tonic to shore up the body's root.
A Jin didn't hesitate. She worked one pill into Lin Yan's mouth and coaxed water after it.
More waiting. More quiet ministrations. Over time, the medicine took hold: his breathing steadied; the fever still burned, but he no longer hovered at the edge.
At last—perhaps two hours by her body's count—he groaned, lashes quivering, and opened his eyes to the absolute dark. Awareness seeped back, along with the tearing ache in his shoulder and a leaden weakness in his limbs.
"A… Jin?" His voice was a dry rasp.
"I'm here." She gripped his cold hand, relief breaking her voice. "You woke. Don't move—your bandage is fresh."
"We're… still inside? Outside…"
"No sound. I think he left." She couldn't hold it in any longer. "Lin Yan, we have a way out! The Mute Uncle left a map—and medicine. There's a hidden passage to an underground river that runs all the way toward Blackwater!"
She told him quickly what she'd found: the carved map, the tonic, the line of warning.
In the dark, he listened. He couldn't see her face, but hope lit her words. The Mute Uncle—once again—had given him a hand in the abyss. That debt weighed like a mountain.
"Thank you… A Jin." If she hadn't kept searching, they might have died in this box.
"Save it," she cut him off gently. "How do you feel? Can you move? We have to leave before luck turns."
He tried to shift; pain flared white-hot and drew a muffled groan. Sweat beaded cold. He grit his teeth. "Not… dead yet. Help me up. We go."
There was no staying. The killer might be waiting beyond the slab. The village—especially Lei Bao—wouldn't forgive their disappearance, nor A Jin's part in it. Only distance could buy them safety.
With her shoulder under his good arm, he fought his way upright. Every step tugged at the hole in his back; every breath scraped raw in his chest. He refused to fold.
Guided by the map she'd memorized, A Jin found a smooth wall opposite the door and, at three mapped points, pressed hard.
A soft grind answered.
The slab slid inward, revealing a tight, slanting throat of rock and a draft that smelled of wet stone and river chill.
"This is it," she whispered, hope brightening her voice.
She ducked in first, then reached back, easing Lin Yan through.
The passage was narrow and steep, the footing slick. Cold, rough stone pressed them close. In that devouring dark, their breathing and careful steps were the only proof they were moving at all.
After a long, downward slog, water spoke ahead—at first a hush, then a rushing voice. The air grew colder and damp.
The tunnel ended. The world opened: a vast limestone cavern, a black river tearing through its gut, echoing off arching stone. At the bank lay a simple but sound raft tied off with old rope; beside it, several long poles.
The Mute Uncle again.
A joy so sharp it hurt cut through them both.
"Let's go." A Jin settled Lin Yan in the middle of the raft, untied the rope, braced a pole, and pushed off.
The raft rocked, drifted, then the current seized it and drew it into the swift, dark flow—downstream, toward the "Blackwater" the map had promised.
From seams high overhead, threads of light fell like thin stars, glinting on the racing surface and touching the two young faces on the raft—two who had cheated death and now leaned on each other to keep it at bay.
Just as the river bent and the dark beyond swallowed the bank, Lin Yan, weak but restless, glanced back toward the passage they'd come from.
For an instant he thought he saw it: a pinprick of reflected light deep in the black—too sharp for water-glint.
A droplet's flicker?
Or an unseen watcher's eye?