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The slope was steep and unexpected. She screamed again, the sound bouncing off the cavern walls, as she tumbled down. Her fingers desperately scraped against the cold, rough stone as she tried to stop her fall.
Then, she collided with something hard, her body ricocheting off the rocky surface. Anthea lay there on the ground for a moment, the wind knocked out of her, her heart pounding in her chest.
Up until now, she had focused on the stone walls and her steps, keeping her mind busy and her body moving. Now, sitting here in the darkness and uncertainty, fear began to take hold. She took a deep, shaky breath. Fear wouldn’t help her now; she had to think. Biting her lip, Anthea weighed her options. She could continue forward, holding out hope the prophecy was true, that there really was something inside here, something that gave her an idea, or an insight into how the Obsidian court had managed to control the dragons.
Anthea had no clue how deep the cave was, how long she would have to be here.
Inventory—she needed to make inventory.
She took off the backpacks, opening them, trying to feel the objects inside. In hers, she recognized her sleeping mat, her cloak, her dress from the Iron court, the slave collar and half a piece of dried bread. In Eldrion’s bag, there was a sleeping mat, his cloak, a pack full of dried meat strips, a water pouch filled with water, a small rock like object, two bowls, a small jar, and some parchments.
Anthea nibbled on some dried meat and drank two mouthfuls of water. She would survive in the cave for at least a week. But the water would be an issue.
Her other option: going back to the entrance and waiting until Eldrion came back for her—it felt safer, but also, somehow, it felt wrong. If she did that—then Kaelan died for nothing; Syrafina died for nothing. These guard in the Iron court—they died for nothing. Kaelan and Syrafina had made sure she got to this cave, and if she didn’t at least try?—
Anthea blinked back the tears, forcing the image of an arrow embedded into Kaelan’s neck to the back of her mind. No. She had to at least try.
She lifted Eldrion’s cloak to her face—it smelled like him.
She slumped back against the wall; she couldn’t take another step. Layering the mats for extra padding Anthea curled up on them, swathed in the two cloaks. She closed her eyes, imaging she was still with the elves, imaging how she would give back the cloak in the morning to the tall elf who for unknown reasons seemed to care for her well being, who seemed to believe in her. She didn’t want to let him down.
She had to at least try—that she was sure of.
When she awoke, it was in pitch darkness. She had no idea how long she’d slept, or even what time it was. Her throat was parched, and there was a dull, throbbing ache in her temples. Anthea drank some of the remaining water. Half of the pouch was gone now.
She couldn’t afford to stay idle. She repacked her bags, hoisted them up, and continued, thankful there seemed to be only one way for her to go. She couldn’t imagine having to find the right path in the suffocating darkness. Her feet were heavy, her body ached, and her mind was clouded with dark thoughts. But she was still moving, still alive, still trying.
After eleven thousand six hundred and forty-five steps she came up to two passageways. Anthea slumped to the ground. So much for a lucky break.
She had a couple meat strips and the dried bread, washing it down with some water.
Not being able to stand the darkness anymore, she fished out the rock-like object from Eldrion’s pack, hoping it was a flint. Anthea crumpled one of the parchments and scraped the rock with the smallest of her daggers.
There was a spark.
Again, and again, and again, she scraped until she had a flame.
Looking at the little fire, she realized she had burned some kind of a map. There was nothing she could do about it now. Bunching up her black lace dress, she let it catch fire. Next thing that went onto the burning pile was Eldrion’s sleeping mat. Anthea knew she only had precious minutes to survey the two possible passageways. Getting up, she peered inside them—they both seemed to go on as far as her eyes could see.
“No. No. No. Please give me a fucking break.” She didn’t know who exactly she was addressing as she scanned the entryways in a desperate haste in the dimming light. They looked the same. Anthea used her hands, palming the rock—there had been markings outside the cave. If this was the right one, if this really led to somewhere—there had to be another clue. There just had to be.
There were only embers left now.
Then, she felt it. She couldn’t quite make it out with her eyes, but it felt like an arrow.
Repacking her bags, and marking where the way back was into the cave wall with her dagger, she entered the path with an arrow, desperately hoping she hadn’t imagined it.
Five thousand steps later she called it a day.
She took two large sips of her remaining water?—
There wasn’t much left.
The harsh chill of the cave seeped through her two cloaks, her clothes and into her bones as she succumbed to sleep, her body and mind exhausted.
The next time she awoke, she finished her water.
Fumbling in the dark, Anthea reached out for the cave wall, her fingers brushing against the cold, damp stone. Using it as a guide, she moved forward, counting her steps, counting her progress. Every sound echoed in the massive cave, making her heart pound in her chest. Every time she turned a corner, she half expected to come across some unknown horror. But all she encountered was more darkness, more silence.
