Screaming.
I don’t hear the cell door close.
Don’t hear him leave.
Don’t hear any other sound save the unending howls that shred my throat and make my ribs feel bruised.
Until there’s nothing left.
Ipress my hand against the wall, letting it absorb my weight as I pull my lungs full of breath—so cold and crisp this far below ground, like gulping air from an ancient well.“Hugth att, aht mahn uhn-ah.”
The words are gravel coming out, spoken past a threadbare throat as the wall dimples to the tune of Bulder’s smooth response. A hole just the right size for me to stab a torch into, the wooden stave etched in silver runes that make it stand out in the dull, powdery light. Runes that immortalize its flammability.
I flick the lid of my weald and tilt the flame until it’s clawing at the rope coiled around the torch. Ignos registers the offering, seethes in ravenous glee, and wraps his maw around it.
A warm glow ignites the small slumbersuite. Bare of sunlight, yes, but so far beneath the surface that it’ll be one of the only safe spots to slumber once the moonfalls come to pass.
I push off, wobbling. Don’t dare step away from the wall until my head stops spinning.
Slowly, I move through a small common area—freshly forged and in desperate need of a sweep. Simple but practical, complete with a fire pit hollowed in the ground and a rim of tiered seating.
A few cushions will make all the difference. That’s what Mah used to say.
I brush some of the stone dust from my hair and beard, moving down the stubby entrance tunnel toward the sound of flowing water. As I emerge onto the gloomy underground riverbank, another bout of dizziness knocks me to a crouch. “Dammit,” I mutter, eyes on the ground.
I focus on filling my lungs in steady draws, distantly aware of village folk moving along the riverside path to my left, hauling soft furnishings, personal belongings, and urns of preserves into the dwellings I’ve spent the past few daes shaping. Near to a hundred of them along the banks of this deepunderground river, arched bridges connecting either side that’ll hopefully invoke a sense of community and keep folk anchored to their sanity.
Despite the preparation, I’m somberly aware that many won’t emerge from the bunkers in the same manner as they enter. Especially those from my kingdom, who thrive in the sun.
I roll my head, splay my hands behind my neck, and close my aching eyes. Immediately see Raeve as she looked at me in the mirror’s reflection. As she told me Elluinstill loved me—
My eyes snap open.
Growling, I shove up, brimming with fresh determination to keep going.
Keep moving.
Keep fucking busy.
The squeal of rolling wheels pulls my focus left to where a broad fae is pushing a cart of torches toward me. He dips his head and tips the load on the path, making a clattering ruckus that bounces off the tunnel’s lofty walls. A pile large enough for me to illuminate the next few dwellings.
“Thank you,” I say, and he raises his fist to his chest.
I’m just about to bend down and pick two up when he clears his throat, steps to the side, revealing—
“Shit,” I mutter, shaking my head as I look at Siharna—belly bulging beneath a loose twill tunic, a laden basket hanging from her arm.Siharna, over a thousand steps underground in the bunker she’s not supposed to set foot in until she gives birth, for Creators’ sake.
I open my mouth to speak—
“Don’t start with me,” she snips, eyes like hard, mossy stones. Despite the color difference, they remind me too much of Veya when she’s busting my balls in her opinionated vice. “Youtry having a youngling’s skull wedged so far down your pelvis you can barely huff a laugh without pissing yourself.”
Creators.
“The sooner I convince him to enter the world, the better.” She hobbles forward, tossing her feather-tipped braid over her shoulder while passing the male now backtracking with his empty barrow. “Walking helps.”
Though I want to argue, I rather value my life.
She thrusts the basket at my chest.
