The wood splintered with a whisper.
The leaves rustled behind him, and the neverwood separated to reveal stone steps that descended beneath the mountain.
“Mother’s Gold,” Elena whispered. “How did you do that?”
“It pays to get out of Ravence every once in a while,” he said and hopped back on his brenni.
The old tunnel’s steps veered steeply into the mountain, but their mounts were sure of foot. With a groan, the entrance closed behind them, and they were submerged in darkness. Yassen’s hand tightened around the reins. He wished they had some sort of light, but he would have to rely on memory now. Yassen stopped his brenni and called for Elena to do the same, twisting in the saddle to get his bearings as his eyes gradually adjusted to the dark. It came back slowly, piecemeal, like the glowing embers of a campfire: his father leading him across the narrow ridge, through the obsidian rocks that had scared him as a child, and up until he could smell the rotten leaves.
“This way,” he said, guiding them toward a ledge. A deep abyss plunged down just beyond it.
The bowels of the mountain glinted despite a lack of light. Unlike the mining tunnels, this one was wide, tall, the walls still rough. When Yassen had asked his father who had created this tunnel, his father had merely shrugged.
“Does it matter?” he had asked.
He made Yassen memorize the tunnels that connected the mines, the cabin, and the foothills of the mountain, often walking alongside him, but he refused to let him explore the ones that led to the middle of the range.
“Stick only to this path,” he had said.
As they wound further into the depths, the mountain rumbled. His brenni neighed as dust and dirt rained down.
“They’re drilling,” Elena said, and though her voice was barely above a whisper, it echoed through the chamber. “I thought you said there were no rigs in this part of the mountain.”
“There aren’t, but they’re close. You can feel the drills everywhere.”
Something scuttled between the rocks, and his brenni reared. Yassen squeezed his knees to steady it, speaking softly as his hand dropped to his hip.
They heard a growl. It bounced off the rocks and filled the chamber with a deep, guttural boom. The brenni bucked and tossed its head. Yassen fought for control just as they heard another snarl, closer this time, and he saw a flash of something black—something deeper than the darkness—slither down the rocks. A chill crept down his shoulder and into his burnt arm. Elena’s brenni reared; she tugged on the reins, but her mount shot forward, past Yassen. It raced up the tunnel with breathtaking speed, spraying rocks in its wake.
At the sound of its mate’s flight, Yassen’s brenni also sprang forward. Yassen threw one last look over his shoulder. The black shape sprang into the abyss, and his hand twitched, as if stung.
Yassen cried out at the sudden pain, his grip on the reins loosening, but his brenni was already vaulting forward, screeching. Up ahead, he saw the fork in the path. East and west. Where had his father taken him?
“Left, go left!” he yelled.
Elena struggled, her brenni fighting her every step of the way, but she ripped off her visor and slapped it against its hide. The brenni yelped and swung left, and Yassen’s followed.
The path began to ascend. Yassen could smell the forest above. The scent drifted over the rocks as the darkness began to lighten into a muted grey. The path widened, and Yassen urged his brenni on until he was side by side with Elena; he flung out his right hand to grab her brenni’s bridle. Perhaps it was the sight of his blackened fingers reaching for its eyes, but Elena’s brenni skidded to a stop. She gasped, grabbing its mane to steady herself, and Yassen’s brenni suddenly halted as well, almost flinging him over its neck.
Ahead, pockets of sunset peeked through a crumbling stone roof. Roots cracked through the surface, crawling into the chamber. The ceiling sloped downward, so when Yassen dismounted and crept forward, he had to bend his head. Another white-hot flash of pain shot through his arm. He stumbled forward like a drunk, blinded by agony.
“Yassen?” Elena called, her voice laced with worry.
He sagged against the wall. Her voice seemed to come from the bottom of the mountain. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to breathe.
One, two, three, count damn it.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
When he opened his eyes, he felt a little less sick, although the taste of the meat they had eaten earlier pushed back up his throat. With his good hand, he felt the rough wall. He followed it until he found the smooth rock—the false rock—and pushed. The stone ceiling hinged open; rotten leaves and dirt fell in, almost burying them in forest litter.
Yassen coughed, pulling himself up. His brenni popped its head out. It snorted in disapproval, but easily climbed onto the steady ground, shaking leaves from its drooping ears. Elena’s hand shot up, and Yassen pulled her out.
“Why weren’t there steps for this one?” she huffed as she shook pine needles and molorian leaves from her hair.
“Patterns are dangerous,” Yassen said as her brenni jumped out of the debris and sauntered about.
