The eyes opened one by one.
Pale yellow, slit-pupiled, each one the size of a shield. They studded the cavern ceiling like diseased stars, blinking slowly in the crushing dark. The water around us grew thick with a low, subsonic hum that vibrated through my ribs and rattled my teeth.
"Malachi," Pearl whispered. Her voice carried through the gillweed essence, thin and trembling. "Above us."
He looked up.
For one heartbeat, nobody moved. The four of us hovered at the edge of the obsidian vault, staring at the chained figure on the altar, at the golden spark pulsing over her heart, at the face that was Amara's face. Malachi's sword was still half-lowered, his free hand outstretched toward the illusion.
Then the first creature dropped.
