Page 3 of On Brutal Thrones

I test its weight in my hand. I've been trying not to think about how much lighter it's become as the fuel burns away. There can't be much left. If we don't find a way out soon, we'll be trapped in this cave in complete darkness.

“Lighter.”

“How much lighter?”

“Talon…”

“That's not an answer.”

“I've never met a vampire who was afraid of the dark,” Fenric says.

He's clearly trying to make light of the situation, but his voice doesn't have its usual strength behind it.

Talon barely spares him a glance before pivoting and heading in the other direction.

Nine steps. Turn.

“I'm not afraid of the dark,” he mutters. “I'm not even afraid. I'm simply certain that when that torch goes out, it'll be symbolic. The last flicker of light. Hope extinguished. Our inevitable descent into madness. That sort of thing.”

“Comforting,” I say.

“I try,” he jokes.

“You could try being silent,” Thorian says, punching a fist lightly into the wall.

“I could. But then we'd be trapped underground and bored.”

The corner of Fenric's mouth twitches, but it disappears almost immediately.

Another grinding noise moves through the cave. This one lasts longer. Talon stops. Nobody jokes.

I look around the space again.

It feels smaller because it is smaller. The ceiling seems lower, the walls close enough that I could stretch out both arms and nearly touch them. Crystal dust hangs in the torchlight, sparkling beautifully as it drifts through air we're slowly using up.

My heart starts beating harder. We still haven't figured it out. And I don't have to be a genius to understand what happens if we don't. Eventually, there won't be eight steps for Talon to pace.

Then there won't be five.

Then there won't be room for four people to stand.

Whether the cave crushes us first or the air runs out, I don't know. I only know the gods want us to die here. They want this to be the end for us, even though as part of the games there has to be a way out.

And we have to find it before this cave becomes our grave.

Leaning back against the wall, I sigh, letting my eyes roam over the space. If it weren’t for the fact that we’re running out of air and this place might very well become our tomb, it would be beautiful down here. Stalagmites rise from the ground in smooth, pale spires, while stalactites descend from the ceiling above them. Some have already been forced together as the ceiling lowers, their tips splintered where they've collided. Along the narrowing walls, other formations grind against the stone, cracking and breaking apart under the pressure. Every few seconds, another sharp snap echoes through the cave, followed by fragments skittering across the ground. In places, the stalactites and stalagmites have already joined into great columns, and I can't help wondering how long they'll hold before the cave crushes those too.

Crystals glitter across the walls in shades of pink and blue, catching the torchlight and scattering it over the cave. As the walls creep closer together, formations of crystal and stone grind against one another. Tiny shards break loose and rain down, crunching beneath our boots. Water slips down the stone between them, leaving behind rippled shelves and curtains of mineral deposits. In the shifting light, the formations almost resemble faces. A hollow becomes an open mouth. A ridge casts the shadow of a nose. Dark pockets turn into eyes that seem to follow us as the flame moves.

Above Fenric, hundreds of tiny stalactites crowd the ceiling, so delicate and densely packed they look like a forest of pale trees growing upside down. Water gathers at their tips, each droplet catching the light before falling with a soft plink to the stone below. The sound should be peaceful. Instead, every drop reminds me that time is passing, the walls are still closing in, and we're still breathing air that isn't being replaced.

“Thorian,” Fenric says, pushing against the wall and rising to his feet, his head nearly grazing the stalactites above him as he does. He pounds his fist against his chest once and says, “Maybe get me angry again. Maybe in my berserker strength, I could get us out of here.”

Talon raises an eyebrow at that, looking curious, but Thorian shakes his head. Fenric is referring to one of the first trials we faced together as a group, trying to get across the bog that drained life force.

But Thorian is skeptical, and he says, “A berserker isn’t stronger than a demi-god, even on our worst days, and the last thing we need is you going berserk in here. You might actually do some damage to all of us in our current states.”

Never mind the fact that Fenric absolutely would be able to kill Talon and me, I have no idea how much control he has over himself in that form, if he’d be able to control the rage. Thorian is the only one who stands a chance against his other form. Fenric going berserk should be our absolute last resort.