YAN

  THEY RAN. FOOTSTEPS POUNDING over stone, breath scraping raw in their throats, the dark closing around them like a living thing.

  Zain led the way, skinny, ghost-quick, his hand flicking sharp gestures at every corner. Ioana followed close behind, steps light and sure. Yanick brought up the rear, one hand firm on Amaia’s elbow, guiding her, steadying her when she faltered.

  Nemeth’s words pulsed in his skull, heavy as a heartbeat he couldn’t slow. They looped back, again and again, thudding beneath his ribs. Why had Nemeth whispered them to him? Why him? There was no reason. No reason to doubt. No reason to believe.

  And beneath that—beneath everything—another absence gnawed.

  The other mind.

  It had always been sharp when danger pressed close—sharp and wild, coiled tight beneath his skin like a snake ready to strike. Every time a threat crept near, it surged up his spine, electric, a flicker of claws and teeth behind his thoughts.

  But now? Now it was quiet. Silent. Dormant.

  Like it had folded itself deeper inside him, curling somewhere out of reach. Waiting. Or watching.

  And somehow, that silence unnerved him more than its hunger ever had. Because it hadn’t stirred. Not even when they’d faced that man. The one they called the angel.

  Yanick knew what he was. Knew it in his bones, without needing a name. One of them. The gods.

  And if that was why the other mind had stayed silent—if its quiet meant deference, or fear, or worse…

  That could be tragic.

  He swallowed hard, guiding Amaia down another step. Felt the weight of her sag against him.

  He had to get her out. Away from here. Even if it meant leaving Ademund behind.

  “Left,” Zain hissed ahead, slicing the air with a hand.

  Yanick snapped back, quickening his pace. Amaia stumbled beside him, breath ragged, and he caught her elbow, kept her moving. The narrow corridor echoed with the wet slap of their boots.

  Somewhere behind, closer than he liked, came the clatter of guards’ footsteps, the bark of voices bouncing off stone.

  They ran.

  They ran past shattered columns and empty alcoves, past hanging tapestries flapping like flayed skin in the draft. A torch guttered low on a bracket, shadows twitching wildly across the walls.

  “Down here,” Ioana whispered sharply, ducking into a side passage.

  Yanick followed, one arm wrapped around Amaia’s waist, pulling her with him.

  She stumbled beside him, breath ragged, her steps growing heavier with every yard. Six months along, and it showed now—the awkwardness in her gait, the way her free hand pressed against her belly as if trying to shield the child inside from the jarring run.

  The hallway narrowed, swallowing them in shadow. They passed an open arch where moonlight spilled pale across broken tiles, silvering the dust and ruin.

  A sharp twang behind them, then a crossbow bolt clattered off the far wall, sparking stone. A shout cracked the night.

  “Faster!” Zain hissed, already darting down a winding stair.

  Yanick tightened his grip on Amaia’s arm.

  “Hold on.”

  She managed a nod, but her lips were pale, her breath trembling. Still she moved, driven by something stubborn in her bones.

  They descended one flight. Then another. The stone slick beneath their hands, the air turning damp, heavy in their lungs. Above them, the city roared. Grinding, clashing, screaming. Bells. Drums.

  The deep groan of siege engines dragging into place.

  But here it was quieter. Not silent. But muffled, like the world above had been plunged underwater.

  Amaia sagged harder against him with each step, sweat shining at her temple despite the chill.

  “I’m fine,” she muttered, though her face betrayed her.

  They spilled into a low tunnel, the ceiling so close Yanick had to duck. Water dripped steadily from the stone, pattering into a thin stream running along the channel floor. Zain’s lantern swung ahead of them, casting narrow light across the slick path.

  Yanick shifted Amaia’s weight against him, his chest tight with worry. She was still breathing hard. Still pressing that hand over her belly like a promise she couldn’t afford to break.

  Stolen story; please report.

  And he wasn’t sure how much farther she could go.

  “Almost there,” Zain said, dropping to a crouch beside a rusted grate wedged into the stone. He ran his fingers along the edge, testing it. Water whispered beneath it, black and slick, sliding toward some unseen place beyond.

  Yanick slowed, chest heaving, Amaia leaning heavy against him.

  And still Nemeth’s words pressed inside him.

  “This is it,” Zain said, voice low. “The culvert.”

  He pried the grate loose with a grunt, metal screeching in protest before it gave. Cool air breathed up from below, damp and foul, threaded with the city’s rot.

  A small boat waited, wedged beneath the tunnel mouth. Barely more than a skiff—wood warped, patched in places, but floating. Enough.

  “Get in.” Zain waved them down. “This’ll take you outside the walls.”

  Yanick helped Amaia lower herself into the boat. She moved slowly, hands gripping the sides, her belly a heavy curve beneath her cloak.

  Zain crouched beside him, eyes darting down the tunnel.

  “There’s a waterfall a few miles out,” he said. “Not high. Won’t kill you. But it’s a drop.”

  He looked over at Amaia, his mouth tightening.

  “She’s not in shape for jumps and falls.”

  Yanick followed his gaze. Amaia sat hunched in the boat, arms wrapped tight around herself, exhaustion carved deep into her face.

  No. She wasn’t.

  And there was no other way.

  Yanick’s pulse thudded harder, a rhythm building in his blood. His mind spun, calculating, gauging, picturing the fall. The rocks. The current.

  They’d come so far. They were so close.

  But close wasn’t safe. Close didn’t mean free.

  So Yanick stepped into the boat beside her, bracing Amaia’s arm as she eased down, steadying them both as the little vessel rocked beneath their weight. Her breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping as she shifted, hand pressed firm against her belly.

  Because they had no choice.

  Zain crouched at the bank, his hands pushing hard against the prow. “Go!” he hissed, voice sharp and urgent.

  Yanick met his eyes for a fleeting second. Then Zain shoved them off with a final shove, and the boat slid into the black.

  The current caught them fast.

  Cold water slapped the sides. The boat jerked, veering into the channel’s flow, slipping away from the faint glow of Zain’s lantern still burning on the shore.

  Yanick watched them shrink. Zain and Ioana, two small silhouettes standing in the dark mouth of the culvert, fading as the river swallowed the light.

  And then they were gone.

  Left behind. Left to whatever fate waited for them in that hollow maze of tunnels and collapsing walls.

  As if they didn’t matter. As if none of it mattered. As if—for some unfathomable reason—it was only him and Amaia who mattered. As if they were the important ones.

  The chosen ones.

  As if they were divine.

  Yan, the Divine Wolf and the Holy Virgin Mother.

  Nemeth’s words came back to him again.

  It all together struck him like a lash, and anger welled, sudden and blinding. His hand clenched hard around the wooden side of the boat, so tight the old pain flared awake in his palm. That deep, gnawing ache. The ache that wasn’t entirely his.

  The ache that always came before the other mind stirred.

  A warning. A ripple under the skin.

  He ground his teeth, forcing the fist open, but the burn lingered, crawling up his arm.

  The boat surged faster. The culvert walls narrowed, stone arching over them like a throat. Water foamed beneath, rushing strong, tugging them through the dark.

  And then—sudden light. Fading moonlight spilling from the end of the tunnel into the shy rays of rising sun. The river spilled them out beneath the city walls. Beyond the siege.

  Yanick’s breath caught. On either side of the water, the world stretched into jagged silhouettes. Siege towers. War engines. Spiked barricades gleaming wet under the moon. And rising behind it all, impossible cliffs, torn and black, leaning close like the jaws of some ancient beast.

  The river dragged them past it all—past the burning camps, past the armies massed like shadows at the gates, past the impossible rocks that hemmed the valley like the bones of forgotten gods.

  And still the power of the current pulled them forward.

  Farther.

  Deeper.

  Toward whatever waited beyond.

  The water hissed and churned around the boat, faster now, the banks tightening on either side. Black stone loomed close, slick and glistening in the half-light.

  Yanick felt Amaia’s grip on his arm tighten. Her breath came faster, short and shallow, her free hand pressed protectively to her swollen belly.

  “Yanick,” she whispered, her voice brittle with something that wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite resignation. “Where… where are we going?”

  He didn’t answer. Because ahead, the sound had changed.

  It wasn’t the hush of rushing water anymore. It wasn’t the gurgle or the splash.

  It was a roar.

  Low at first. But swelling. Growing louder, deeper, heavier, until it filled the air, vibrating in his chest, rattling through the hollow bones of the boat.

  Yanick’s stomach turned to stone.

  “No,” he breathed.

  The walls around them opened suddenly, the channel spilling out into a broader, moonlit expanse. And there it was.

  The edge.

  A jagged black line across the water, shimmering silver at its lip. Beyond it—a void. A chasm swallowing the river whole.

  A waterfall.

  Amaia saw it the same moment he did. She sat up straighter, her hands gripping the sides of the boat, eyes wide and wild in the dark.

  “Yanick—”

  He scrambled forward, grabbing at the oar, at the sides, at anything. But the current was too strong. It pulled them inexorably closer, dragging them like a hand around their throats.

  “No, no, no—”

  Amaia’s breathing turned ragged, panic breaking loose in her voice.

  “We can’t—”

  The boat lurched, spinning sideways. Foam crested around them. Spray lashed his face.

  And somewhere deep inside a flicker. A curl of heat. The other mind. Waking.

  It slid up his spine like smoke. Coiled behind his eyes. Filling his mouth with a taste like metal, like ash, like blood.

  And with it came the first thought, not entirely his own.

  Jump.

  The boat surged toward the edge. Yanick’s heart slammed against his ribs. The roar swallowed every other sound.

  And the other mind unfurled inside him, full and fierce and ancient, whispering, urging, commanding.

  He turned and looked at her.

  Amaia’s eyes met his in the half light, wide and dark and shining with a terror that wasn’t for herself, but for something deeper. Her hands pressed to her belly, as if holding the child inside against the force of the river. Her lips parted, but no sound came out, only breath. Only the shape of his name.

  And in that look, Yanick saw it all.

  Jump.

  She wasn’t strong enough. Not for a fall like this. Not now. Even if she survived the leap, the river, the rocks—would the child?

  A flicker of pain cut through him, sharper than the wind whipping off the water.

  The other mind surged again, insistent, wild, wrapping around his thoughts like a snake around prey.

  But Yanick stayed frozen, his fingers clenching the edge of the boat, torn between the call in his blood and the weight of her gaze.

  The roar deepened. Foam boiled around them. Spray blinded him.

  The lip of the waterfall rushed closer.

  And the other mind roared with it, flooding his chest, his limbs, his skull.

  JUMP.