The tunnel stayed tight even when it widened, stayed steep even when the slope eased, and it kept pulling them down in slow, ugly steps that turned into hours. The air got colder the deeper they went, damp enough to cling to skin and make clothes heavy. Water ran down the rock in thin streams that found sleeves and collars and made everyone miserable without giving them anything useful in return.

  Miu kept leading.

  The cat didn’t do it with drama. It paused when it mattered, chirped when the path changed, and moved again. Peter translated the important parts in a voice that got hoarser as time went on, until he stopped trying to explain every sound and just gave them what they needed. Left. Right. Down. Keep going.

  Ilaria didn’t think she could have carried Sarah this long if she’d had room to think properly. Every time her mind drifted toward how heavy Sarah was, or how long they’d been moving, she forced it back to the next step. The next breath. The next patch of ground that wouldn’t slip under her boot.

  Layla stayed close behind her, close enough that Ilaria could feel heat sometimes, not from fire, but from Layla’s presence and tension. Layla had stopped swearing after the first stretch. Not because she’d calmed down, but because she’d gone quiet in that way people did when they were saving breath for something worse. When Peter’s pace faltered, Layla’s hand was already there on his shoulder, steadying him without a word, then pulling away as if she’d never touched him.

  Peter stumbled again and caught himself on the wall. His hands were shaking now, not from cold, from fatigue. He looked at his palms like they’d betrayed him.

  “We can’t stop,” Layla said, and it sounded like she was saying it to herself as much as anyone else.

  Peter’s mouth tightened. “I know. I know.”

  They passed places where the rock looked wrong, darker streaks in the stone, patches where the dampness turned to a thin black sheen. The cat avoided them without hesitation, weaving around every dark patch and never putting a paw on the slick black film. Ilaria didn’t ask how it knew. She didn’t want an answer that made her feel worse. She just stepped where Miu stepped and kept Sarah’s weight pinned tight against her back so it couldn’t shift and throw her balance.

  The deeper they went, the worse the small things got. A boot slipping became a full-body jolt. A handhold that crumbled meant scraping knuckles and biting back a sound. Ilaria stopped feeling her shoulders as separate parts. They were one long ache. Sarah’s head lolled once and bumped against her shoulder, and Ilaria’s stomach dropped.

  “Sarah,” she whispered.

  No answer.

  Peter looked up from ahead, eyes sharp despite everything. “She’s still breathing. Don’t panic.”

  Layla shot him a look. “We’re past panic. We’re in the part where you keep moving because stopping means you finally feel it.”

  Peter didn’t argue. He just kept going.

  At some point the slope changed again and became less of a tunnel and more of a long descent, a rough path carved by time and water rather than tools. It was still narrow, but they could finally walk without having their shoulders scraped raw every few steps.

  Ilaria realised she was crying when a tear hit her lip and tasted like salt. She wiped it away without slowing down. Her arms were burning. Her back felt like it had turned into one solid knot. Sarah’s breathing hitched once, and Ilaria flinched so hard she nearly lost her footing.

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  Peter didn’t look back, but his voice carried anyway. “She’s still here. Keep your feet.”

  Layla muttered, low and vicious. “If we get out of this, I’m going to punch whoever built this mountain.”

  Peter gave a tired, rough sound that might have been agreement.

  When the tunnel finally spat them out, it didn’t feel real at first.

  Wind hit Ilaria’s face, cold and sharp, and she blinked hard because her eyes had forgotten what open space felt like. The sky was grey, thick with cloud, and everything outside looked too wide after stone pressing in for so long. The slope around them had changed as well, less sheer, less jagged, and the air did not bite quite as hard.

  Ahead, tucked into a break in the rock and half concealed by boulders, was an encampment.

  It was not large. It was not comfortable. It was functional. A crude outer line of stacked stone and snapped branches, a narrow entrance marked by a hanging strip of cloth that moved in the wind. No open flames, only a faint red glow hidden behind stone, low enough to keep smoke down and light contained. Two figures stood watch at the entrance with bows raised, silhouettes stiff and ready.

  Miu didn’t slow. The cat walked straight toward them like this was where it had been heading the whole time.

  The watchers stiffened. One raised their bow higher, arrow drawn. The other leaned forward, eyes narrowing, ready to decide whether this was trouble.

  Then Miu chirped.

  Sharp. Familiar.

  The tension didn’t vanish, but it shifted, redirected. A voice called from inside, low and rough. “You’re back.”

  Peter exhaled so hard it nearly turned into a laugh, then swallowed it and lifted one hand. “We’re not alone.”

  Ilaria stepped into view with Sarah on her back and felt every gaze hit her at once. Hands went to weapons. A bowstring creaked. Someone inside the camp muttered a curse.

  Layla stepped forward, shoulders squared, eyes hard. “She’s hurt. We ran. We didn’t bring them.”

  The watcher with the bow hesitated, then lowered the arrow a fraction and jerked their head toward the entrance. “Move,” they said. “Fast.”

  They were through the perimeter in seconds. The inside of the encampment was a series of small shelters pressed into rock, cloth rigged low, everything designed to be hard to spot from a distance. A handful of people watched them with hollow eyes and tight mouths. No crowd, no welcome, only attention that measured risk and decided whether you were worth the trouble.

  Miu padded ahead and stopped beside one shelter, then looked back once as if to say this one.

  Peter followed it, then turned to Ilaria with a grimace and reached up to help. His hands trembled, but he took Sarah’s weight where he could, easing pressure off Ilaria’s shoulder for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. Ilaria almost sagged, caught herself before she did, and lowered Sarah onto a bedroll inside the shelter with careful control.

  The moment Sarah’s weight left her back, Ilaria’s arms shook with delayed strain and she flexed her fingers once and felt them burn.

  Layla crouched on the other side, eyes flicking over the bandage and Sarah’s colour. “She’s still pale.”

  Peter swallowed hard and sat back on his heels, eyes dropping to his hands like he was bracing himself for the moment he failed. He looked exhausted in a way that went beyond running, drained tightness carved into his face, and Ilaria saw the hesitation for what it was without needing it named.

  Layla didn’t give him room to spiral. “Do it,” she said. “If you can.”

  Peter’s throat bobbed. He glanced once at Miu.

  The cat chirped, low and steady.

  Peter nodded to nobody in particular, placed his hands near Sarah’s chest without touching, fingers spread, palms hovering, and forced his breathing into something slow enough to hold.

  Nothing dramatic happened. No flood of light. No heat wave. The air near his hands warmed by a fraction, subtle enough that Ilaria would have doubted it if she wasn’t watching Sarah’s breath. The shallow catch eased. The rhythm steadied. Colour didn’t return in a rush, but the grey pallor on Sarah’s lips softened into something less alarming.

  Peter’s face tightened like the effort scraped him raw. Sweat beaded at his hairline. His fingers trembled harder.

  He held it a few more seconds, then stopped sharply and drew his hands back like he’d touched a stove.

  He sat there breathing hard, eyes unfocused for a moment, then forced them to settle.

  Layla stared at him, and surprise slipped through her control. “You can do that.”

  “Not much,” Peter managed, wiping his palm on his trousers with a shaky movement. “It’s small. It helps.”

  Ilaria watched Sarah’s face and felt something unclench in her chest that she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, and then Sarah’s fingers twitched.

  Ilaria leaned forward instantly, blade hand shifting without thought even though there was nothing to fight inside the shelter. Layla’s posture tightened, fire gathering by reflex before she forced it down. Peter froze, eyes widening.

  Sarah inhaled sharply, like she’d been underwater. Her eyes snapped open, unfocused and wild, then tried to settle on the shapes above her. Her lips parted.

  “Ray…” she rasped, the name barely a sound, and it landed in the shelter like a dropped blade.