Rill's boot hovered at the spiral's lip before she let it fall. Cold washed up her throat—a tide of stale air pressed from beneath Ravelyn's bones. The Rift yawned open under them, ribs of collapsed arches spiraling downward, bone and root coiled together. Black ichor dripped in slow threads. Violet light throbbed below like a pulse.
It wasn't a passage.
It was a wound. The city's wound.
Rill inhaled through grit teeth. Her lungs rebelled against the air, sour and thick. Fennel's hand—ice-cold—clung to hers. Lysa's gaze flicked between awe and terror, eyes glinting like glass under torchlight. Ivar crouched low, sweeping flame toward the descent. "Watch your step."
Fennel's breath stuttered. "It's… calling." Her voice barely scraped out, eyes fixed on the chasm, then darting to Rill, then back again. Rill's throat tightened. We're stepping in—but stepping out is earned.
Her boots stayed planted for a moment longer.
"Wait."
Her voice came out rough. She looked to each of them.
"I know going deeper won't fix what's broken. But if we don't—someone else will."
Lysa's throat bobbed. "I can't un-hear those graffiti voices in my head."
"Then rewrite them." Rill's stare hardened.
Fennel whispered, "I… I'll try."
They lined up. Rill took point, Lysa close behind, Fennel pressed between them, Ivar guarding the rear. Torches carved thin halos into the dark, shadows clawing at the edges. The walls pressed close, ribbed with calcified roots slick with moisture.
Fennel stumbled, clutching her chest. A wet cough rattled through her. "My lungs—"
Ivar's hand steadied her back. "Breathe. Any way you can."
Lysa knelt, palm against a root-bone tendril. She whispered something low. The tendril pulsed beneath her touch. For a heartbeat, the violet light surged toward her hand—then recoiled. She gasped at the sting. Rill crouched nearby, blade still sheathed, eyes tracking every twitch. Remember trenches…
Her fingers found a glyph carved into the wall. It pulsed faintly beneath her touch. Memory bit hard: Trudge's face—reckless grin, blood-matted hair—the promise he never kept.
We'll fix this, Rill.
Except his face blurred now. Less Trudge, more dream. His voice rasped somewhere in the corners of her mind, half radio-static, half ghost:"R–ra… ve–lyn…"Was it him? Or the city mimicking him back?
Her breath came sharper. Memories burn. Like boneflowers, too bright, too fast.
A rumble stirred beneath their feet. Stone shook. Dust sifted down from broken arches. Laughter scratched the air—not human. Not now.
Fennel flinched, clutching Lysa's coat. "Something… breathed at me."
Ivar crouched beside her. "I'm here." His eyes met Rill's. They're fraying.
Lysa's voice cut through. "What are we doing here? We don't even know what happens if we go deeper."
Rill's shoulders dropped, tension leaking out slow. "Neither do they. And I'd rather it be us."
The spiral narrowed; they pressed to single file. Violet veins glowed in the walls, cold sweat glistening on root-bone. Their breath fogged the air.
Fennel faltered again. Rill turned. "Want me to carry you?"
Fennel shook her head, eyes wide but determined. "No. I… I'll walk."
She pushed forward—barely visible now, small between Lysa's torch and Ivar's shield.
At their feet, bone-white fungus crusted the cracks. Some had the shape of teeth, huge fangs braced in the roots. Rill nudged one aside with her boot. It snapped. The echo rang sharp and thin.
The city listens.
Above them, pale forms skittered.
"The gobbins," Lysa whispered, eyes flicking upward. "They followed."
Rill stiffened. Her stomach turned cold. She watched their shapes—fingers like claws, teeth like scrap-metal. But she held still.
"They echo rhythm. If we pause—they'll fill it."
She whispered a chant. Primitive, broken, not words but beats. Lysa picked it up. Ivar followed. Fennel—barely—mouthed along.
Stone joined their rhythm.
The gobbin chorus wavered, shimmered, then scattered back into the cracks. For now.
Rill pressed her hand to the wall. "The city wants memory. Not just any memory—ours."
Lysa whispered, "Then show it truth. Or it takes what it likes."
She gripped Fennel's hand. Fennel squeezed back, ice-fingered but steady.
The passage opened wider. A shaft of violet light spilled from above, falling on stagnant water in a sunken arch. At its center, the pool rippled over a glyph—starburst spiraling into black ichor.
Ivar crouched beside it, torch lowered. "It's a cistern."
Rill knelt beside him. Her reflection surfaced in the water—but not just hers.
Childhood laughter. Trudge's grin, twisted then severed. Broken nights beneath the Rift. The faces swam, all jumbled together.
A chitter from above snapped her out of it. Gobblets watched from the cracks, faces like cracked porcelain.
Rill stood fast. "Circle."
They formed it—Lysa opposite Ivar, Rill and Fennel low.
Lysa began to chant, voice taut with fear and grit:
"Sow—memory—into the wound. Line by line—bone—by bone."
The water glowed brighter. Images shimmered beneath its skin. A woman's laugh cut through—Maris? Fennel's breath hitched. Lysa faltered.
"Don't stop," Rill growled. "These are ours to give. Or take back."
Fennel reached for the ichor. Her fingers broke the surface. Black silk rippled out.
She whispered:"Maris… forgive."
The glyph lit. Gobbins hissed and retreated. The pool stilled.
Fennel collapsed, shaking.
Lysa caught her. Ivar knelt, torch clenched.
Violet light pulsed in time with the city's breath—slow, heavy, alive. The wound beneath them calmed. But not for long.
Rill's throat was raw. "We did it."
Overhead—a crack. Bone-tendril roots collapsed into the cistern. Water sloshed.
Lysa grabbed Fennel's hands, pressing them against her own coat. "We go. Now."
Rill nodded once. "We follow the spiral back—hear the city exhale."
Ivar lifted Fennel into his arms. Heavy, but breathing. "I've got her."
They turned away. Stone flexed underfoot. Arches creaked. Violet light blinked overhead. Water cascaded from cracks.
Halfway back, Rill paused, eyes on the path behind them.
"They'll know we named it."
Ivar's voice came from the rear. "Good. That's our weapon now. The wound isn't theirs alone."
Up ahead, Lysa held the lantern steady. "We carry ourselves out. Whole."
Fennel coughed. "I… believe you."
They climbed step by step. Drips counted time behind them. Their chants quieted. Only breath remained.
At the spiral's crest, the Rift's lip glowed pale. Almost out.
Rill unsheathed her blade and laid it flat across her forearm. She looked to them.
"Hands."
They placed theirs over hers—blades pressed together in silence.
Rill reached for the final glyph near the wall. Her fingers left warmth.
The glyph pulsed. The stone trembled.
"We remember."
They turned away from the cistern and walked back into Ravelyn's exhale—the broken lungs of the city—carrying memory as weapon, scar, and bond.