Varek is the last.
The ladder complains quietly under his weight, and when he reaches the bottom, he has to duck slightly to keep his horns from scraping the ceiling.
The trapdoor closes above us with a muffled thud, and for a moment, we stand in silence.
The lantern casts warm light. Water drips somewhere deeper in the tunnel system, a slow, steady rhythm echoing faintly through the stone. Then I turn and start walking.
The first stretch of tunnel slopes downward, worn smooth by years of water flow. The stone underfoot is slick but familiar, every uneven patch already mapped in my memory.
“Step where I step,” I say quietly over my shoulder. “And stay close.”
Behind me I hear soft footsteps fall into rhythm.
The Strizter male brings up the rear, while Varek walks behind the children. He’s a shadow large enough that nothing unpleasant could reasonably approach without noticing him first.
I pretend not to pay attention to how carefully he adjusts his pace to match theirs.
The tunnel forks after the first bend—two narrow passages splitting around an ancient drainage arch. I take the right-hand path without slowing. Behind me Varek murmurs something to the parents in a low voice.
His tone is calm and steady with the kind of reassurance that settles nerves without drawing attention to itself.
The bond between us stirs faintly in response. Not painful this time. Just aware. Almost like it’s listening.
We move deeper beneath the city.
The air cools as the tunnel dips below the old canal line, and patches of luminescent moss begin to glow along the walls. The greenish light blends with the lantern’s amber glow, painting the stone in shifting colours that make the corridor feel almost alive.
The boy whispers behind me. “This place is cool.”
“You see, nothing to be frightened about,” his human mother murmurs.
I smile to myself as we continue walking.
A few minutes later, we reach the eastern gate. The repair holds.
The iron hinge sits firmly in its reinforced bracket, the wire bindings I installed yesterday gripping the stone frame like a cage of metal veins. I briefly run my hand along the hinge, feeling the tension in the metal.
Solid.
I push the gate slowly, and it swings open without a sound. I feel Varek’s attention focus in approval behind me. Which, annoyingly, feels good.
We continue.
The tunnel beyond narrows into a channel where a shallow stream of canal water runs along one side of the floor. The stone here slopes slightly toward the water, worn smooth by decades of slow current, which means every step has to be placed carefully unless you want to end up on your back in cold canal sludge.
“Careful,” I say quietly. “It’s slippery.”
Which is apparently the universe’s cue to prove my point.
The boy’s boot skids sideways. He windmills for a second, trying to catch his balance, and I instinctively reach back?—
Only to step directly into the shallow water myself.
My foot shoots forward. There’s a brief, deeply undignified moment where I consider the possibility that I’m about to demonstrate exactly what not to do.
Behind me Varek’s hand moves fast—pure instinct—but stops short of my arm.
Hovering.
