It’s all touch now. My world is rope-burn and sweat, the thump of someone’s pulse through my wrist. No light. No horizon. No time—just darkness, pressing in until memory itself feels like a rumor I heard from someone else.

  We move, or so my body tells me. My palm aches where the rope saws a groove, every tug a reminder that Elen and Kraven are out here in the same bottomless black. Sometimes the ground is there, sometimes not. My foot finds a root; I stumble, bark my shin, bite my tongue to keep from yelping. Elen’s hand clamps on my arm—fingernails biting in, close to blood. “Easy, boss,” she breathes, her voice more vibration than sound. “Don’t break now.” Her grip is the only thing that feels real.

  The darkness isn’t empty. It presses, crawls, breathes down my neck, whispering in my ear. Sounds slither around—Lucius’ scream, far off, his voice stripped raw: “Get them off me! Get them off!” Someone else sobs, gasping. The noise is a live wire under my skin. I want to help. I clutch the rope tighter instead. Survival’s selfish. No one tells you that part.

  Elen’s grip on the rope is a death sentence for my circulation. She mutters, “Don’t listen. Not real.” Her shaking travels up the rope, through my wrist, into my chest, like the darkness is using her as a conduit. She tugs twice—our code for “still here.” I tap back, knuckles raw. We’re just animal touch in the void.

  Sleep’s a joke. We rest when our bodies collapse, not because we want to. I don’t know if we’re resting or passing out. Two collapse while the third keeps a hand on the rope, slapping it now and then like we’re keeping time—except time’s been eaten alive.

  My body aches—muscles locked, bruises blooming, every scrape magnified by the dark. Nightmares hunt me anyway. I wake with Elen’s hand finding my face in the dark, thumb tracing circles on my cheek. “You’re here. Breathe.” I shudder, the warmth of her skin proof that I haven’t slipped into the dark entirely. Her touch is real. Everything else is torment.

  Kraven’s not immune. He thrashes in his sleep, his hand jerking the rope so violently I nearly lose my grip. I catch his wrist, pinning it down, feeling the tremor that runs through him. “Stay with us,” I whisper, my lips brushing the back of his hand. He flinches, mumbling names into the void, sweat slick against my fingers. Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m comforting him or myself.

  Hunger chews at my insides. I run my tongue over cracked lips, the taste of blood and old fear. I soak my sleeve in condensation from a wall, wring it out, and pass it along. Elen’s fingers brush mine—rough, shaking, alive. That’s all that matters.

  The ground is an ongoing betrayal. My ankle throbs, swollen and hot. Every misstep sends pain jolting up my leg, and once—just once—I nearly let go. Elen’s grip saves me, nails digging crescent moons into my skin. “Try not to die, Crimson,” she whispers, her breath hot on my ear. “I’m not dragging your ass through this.”

  I snort, almost a laugh, almost a cry. “No promises. I like to keep things dramatic.”

  Meals are a nightmare lottery. Mushrooms squish between my fingers, slimy and cold. Elen’s hand clamps down, nails biting. “Don’t,” she says, voice flat. “Nightmare food.” I trust her. A moment later, someone screams in the dark, and the rope shudders in my grip.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Sometimes, my body betrays me. My hands slip, sweat turning the rope to ice. I nearly drop my shiv—just a snapped bone with a wrap of wire. I tie it to my wrist with a strip of Elen’s shirt, the knot biting into my skin.

  There’s no clock, no calendar—just the raw burn of another body, the tap-tap-tap of our code language. One for “I’m here,” two for “help.” Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps the darkness from prying my fingers off the rope.

  Once, I let go. Just for a heartbeat. Lia’s voice is so close, so real. “Just let go, Aeliana. Come find me.” My grip slips, sweat slick and cold. The void tugs, greedy. Elen’s voice cuts through, sharp as glass. “Don’t you dare, Crimson. Not after everything.” Her hand clamps down, nails digging in. I sob, clutching the rope, fighting to stay.

  We keep moving, though it’s more a pathetic sway, tethered together like the world’s most exhausted marionettes. My mind swims with pain, imagined touches, breath too close. Every so often, I shout into the void, “Anyone else left?” My voice echoes back, warped and thin.

  A moment later, Alaric’s voice—raspy, close. “It’s me. Alaric. And Caden.” We shuffle, hands groping, until shaky fingers knot the ropes together.“He’s tethered to me with scraps. Caden went silent a while back, after Miranda.” Five of us now, maybe. Or four and a half, if you count by sanity.

  The dark smothers us, presses inside our clothes, our skin. We clutch one another for warmth, for proof. Sometimes Elen pukes, and I hold her hair, fingers combing through knots. Sometimes I shake, and she squeezes my hand until the tremors ease.

  Sleep is in pieces—minutes, heartbeats, before screams or shudders rip us awake. Sometimes a hand finds my mouth, stopping the screams before they start. It’s Elen. Always Elen.

  The rope is all that keeps me sane. Its burn, its weight, the certainty that someone’s always there. I tell myself it’s enough. Maybe it is. Maybe it has to be.

  The darkness wants us to break. But I’m still here. Scarred, battered, half-mad, and breathing. As long as I can feel the rope, I’m not done.

  Bring it on.

  Sometimes the dark hits back, hard. My ankle buckles, I slam into rock, pain lighting up my leg. I bite my lip, taste blood. Elen’s hands are ice on my skin as she wraps my ankle, the pressure a small mercy. “Try not to make it a habit, Crimson.”

  “Tell that to the terrain,” I rasp, baring my teeth in something like a smile.

  Sleep is misery. We wedge together, backs pressed, every limb tangled in rope. Nightmares prowl the edges. Elen keeps a hand on me, shaking me when I drift too far.

  My hands shake so badly I drop my knife, nearly lose it to the dark. I lash it to my wrist, just to be safe.

  Elen gets sick again. I hold her hair, whispering, “Not dying, okay? I’ve got dibs on dramatic exits.” She laughs, then pukes. My stomach knots in sympathy.

  We lose Caden. One eternity, his taps just… stop. Alaric’s breath hitches, but he says nothing. None of us do. Mourning is for people with hope.

  Our bodies betray us. I nearly stab myself patching gear. Elen fumbles the rope, and I catch her before she vanishes. Every mistake could be the last.

  Ahead, the darkness pulses—invitation or threat, I can’t tell. I sense the next trial coming, humming through my bones. It’s almost a relief. At least it’ll be a new flavor of misery.

  When the spotlights snap on, light cuts through, burning away the dark. I flinch, blinded, hand still tangled in the rope. If the next trial thinks it can break me, it’s welcome to try. I’m still here—skin raw, heart bruised, rope-burned and half-mad. But not broken. Not yet.

  Alaric squints at me, face gaunt, eyes red-rimmed. “What now?” he croaks, his hand shaking as he brushes sand from his sleeve.

  Elen’s mouth twitches, bone-dry. She nudges me with her elbow, voice soft but edged. “Another trap. Shocking, I know.”

  We shuffle forward—five little spotlights in the void, each of us understanding, without a word, that this is the next round. My ankle throbs, shoulder burns, stomach’s a knot of pain and emptiness, but I’m still moving. I squeeze Elen’s hand, and she squeezes back—a rhythm older than hope.

  The darkness.

  Let’s see who cracks first.