Trevor hitched James higher across his shoulders, grunting at the dead weight. Oren steadied James's legs, the pair of them stumbling in loose synchrony while Anne guided their path with a wavering globe of pale light, her F-Rank spell.
Richard led, eyes darting between the dark.
Nadia pressed close behind him, a hand on the small of his back as though the contact alone might anchor her to the world. Every so often, she couldn't help but glance back, as if expecting the Sovereign to knit himself together and come looking.
Richard's voice sounded oddly small in the echoing dark. "Stay sharp—if anything else moves, shout."
Trevor managed a weak laugh. "Mate, shouting's about all I've got left."
The joke drew a ripple of brittle relief; even Oren's knuckles eased on James's boots.
The corridor narrowed; the stale air thinned. In the hush, James's shallow breathing sounded like a saw through soft pine.
