The tunnel smelled of rust and stagnant water.
A narrow beam of light trembled over concrete, sliding across walls etched with symbols—arrows, numbers, letters that no one had understood for ages. Rhea went ahead, backpack on her shoulder, flashlight gripped firmly. Lina followed her, with Alaric a few steps behind.
Their footsteps echoed. Three voices of steel, accompanied by dripping somewhere in the depths.
"How much farther?" Lina asked.
"Until you stop asking," Rhea replied. Her tone was dry but not unfriendly.
"That could take a while."
Rhea turned her head slightly. "Then you'll have to walk quickly."
Alaric remained silent. He did that often—staying quiet, observing, reacting. But in the last few hours, his silence had changed. It had grown denser, as if he were suspended between two decisions, both wrong.
