“Just stand back and let me concentrate,” I say, turning back to the door.
I don’t waste any more time.
I burn out a thin, shallow line in the metal, and then continue to guide the fire over and over along this same channel, resulting in a slow, controlled melting that eventually eats through to the other side. Once the flames have that other side to escape into, I risk feeding a little more energy into the spell. Sweat beads on my face and arms as heat radiates more and more intensely off the metal, until finally the opening peels into something wide enough to step through.
I exhale a weary breath, closing my eyes and silently thanking Sesca for her help. I hear her wings fluttering in response—obviously preening and pleased with herself.
Briar cautiously makes her way back down the steps, studying the opening I’ve created. “That’s going to be a useful trick for us going forward, isn’t it?”
Together, we pass through the ruined door and into a pitch-black tunnel.
It’s low and narrow enough that we have to walk single-file in some places, and it smells ancient and forgotten about, as if the dirt and stone haven’t absorbed any fresh air in a long time. I keep a flame cupped in my palm to light the way, throwing out just enough of a glow to see a few feet ahead.
I try not to think about how far I’m getting from Sesca; will I be able to channel her firelight if I go too far? She can fly overhead and follow us, maybe, but we’re moving deeper, too; the tunnel is sloping gently downward, a subtle grade that I only notice because of the steadiness of it—it’s too even to be natural, too deliberate. Someone obviously carved this route, and they spent a lot of time and effort planning it out.
The fire in my hand gutters suddenly, though there's no wind.
I stop, and Briar nearly collides with me.
Sesca's presence nudges against the edges of my mind, anxious and unsure. After taking a moment to collect myself, I send back a thought.
Still here,I tell her.
Not quite reassurance. I can’t manage that. But I reach out with enough confidence that her panic ebbs somewhat. More warmth pushes into me. More muted than before, but it’s able to rekindle the makeshift torch in my palm, to keep it burning as long as I stay focused.
We keep walking.
Minutes later, the tunnel ends at what looks like a wall of stone, at first—until we notice hinges, nearly rusted to nothing, and a seam. Whatever mechanism once controlled it appears broken; the door hangs, warped on its frame, permanently open by the width of a few fingers.
I work my hand into the gap and pull. It creaks entirely too loudly—like the wail of some undead monster as I pry open its coffin—and both Briar and I go very still, listening.
Nothing happens.
I pull it the rest of the way open.
The chamber beyond is enormous. Even with nothing more than the dim light in my palm, the size is obvious by the way our steps and breaths suddenly echo endlessly in every direction.
For a long moment, my mind simply refuses to take in the full vastness of it, too used to the cramped press of the tunnel.
I step further inside and raise my flame and it barely reaches the ceiling, which arches far above us. The wallsclosest to me are roughly carved, pitted rock interrupted by occasional spans of weathered wood and fitted with countless shelves. It’s too dark to clearly make out anything that might be resting on those shelves, but they’re full of…something.
Iron receptacles jut out from the walls at even intervals; I imagine they might have held torches at one point. The floor is stone as well, but smoother than the walls and engraved with so many lines that it takes me a minute to understand I'm looking at a deliberate pattern—a diagram, I think.
“Owyn.” Briar's voice is quiet and careful, which is how I know she's frightened; Briar is almost never quiet and careful. “Look at this.”
I move toward her, examining the iron vessel she stands before. It looks like a larger version of the ones along the walls, except this one juts up from the floor and is held by two hands of carved marble. There’s a flame symbol on the back of each hand, and shiny black stones at the bottom of the vessel itself.
On a whim, I flick a bit of my dragon-fire onto the stones—just a few embers.
That’s all it takes.
They catch almost instantly, purplish-gold flames shooting up so suddenly that I nearly trip as I’m backing away. The receptacles along the walls slowly light up as well, a circle of violet-tinged fire igniting bit by bit until we’re surrounded by it.
The space is still not particularly bright, but I can gage the true, massive span of it now.
And I can see the pattern on the floor more clearly.
Collectively, it looks like a massive representation of a dragon that stretches across the entire room. Each part—from its wings to its tail to its glaring eyes—is rendered in a series of intricate, etched lines, like thousands of individual threads coming together to form what probably looks like a solid image from further away and higher up.
