Rivin’s quickly becoming exhausted. His legs feel like lead, and yet he stumbles around like a newborn, all wiggle and no structure. He’s removed his sword from his side — keeps it hilted. It makes for a handy walking stick most of the time.

  The walls are still marble but damper now. Moss has returned — stubborn like the girl who patters barefoot through the soft new foliage blooming between cracks in the stone. She hums, swinging her boots.

  Vines twist along the narrowing tunnel, and soon enough the rippled stone begins to ebb away, replaced by reinforced steel and grates oozing with steam. It feels very separate from the golden realm they have just left behind.

  Rivin notices that there are faint dents in the metal tunnel, and when he examines more closely, he realises that they’re familiar markers, a code he still doesn’t understand but certainly recognises. Older than those in the tunnels where he’d run blindly days ago, but certainly produced by the same hand.

  His fingers trace their indent. “Is this your dibber?”

  “Quite the artist, isn’t he?”

  He can see evidence of Roach here too—scraped, drawn and sprayed onto walls beneath prevailing plant life, her signature devoured by a blooming lichen.

  ROACH WAS ERE

  “How long has it been?”

  “At least seven inches,” she tugs on her braid.

  Rivin breathes in and finds that the air is cleaner too. He can inhale easier, even through the burn coiling around his sorest parts. The tunnel grows taller, and a welcome sight forms in the shape of whisperslugs puckering against greenery, glowing bodies twinkling over the ceiling, some murmuring in a language long since lost, others in a familiar gravelly speech.

  “Never alone…”

  “Don’t trust it if it squeaks.”

  “Except me…”

  They continue onward, and Rivin’s side is hurting terribly now, blood beginning to ooze through the sharpie of his shirt. He tries to hide it with his hand, but he notices Roach’s gaze as her eyes flit quickly to all the places he wishes they didn’t.

  “We can rest soon.”

  “I don’t need to rest.”

  “Don’t lie.” She stomps a foot and wags a finger.

  Rivin pauses. Blinks. “Is that supposed to be me?”

  Her smile is sly. “It’s a work in progress.”

  Before he can respond, they continue onward, climbing an increasingly boggy crag. When the high gorge gapes into a wide and dimly lit clearing, the roof tapers off, growing less vast and closer to the path they’re trekking.

  It’s then that Rivin sees their destination: small amidst the size of everything else and tucked into a sinkhole reclaimed by nature is a teal dome dotted with golden constellations. The structure stands fractured and cracked, the once cool grey brick completely overcome by vines. A shattered glass eye looks at a sky no longer known to it, hidden behind ruin and rock and wilder things.

  It’s a celestial observatory, staring forever at the dirt.

  It looks reverent still, like it’s waiting to spy something galivanting across the universe. It reminds Rivin of his moment in the sun, face turned up like he might remember it forever. He’s already forgotten, already struggling to recall the gentle glow of something so unknown to him, something so warm. There’s no warmth here bar the steam from manufactured vents.

  It’s cold and musty, and the smell is deeply earthy and damp. Alive.

  Roach heads quickly towards the trapped monument, whistling again. She stops only to admire a flower that curls in on itself as she approaches, as if it were shy. She ducks down to rip it from the soil, plucking petals and then wrenching free the pale pink tendrils sprouting vulnerably from the centre.

  Pollen puffs around her manhandling, and Rivin is too slow to react — too shocked to say anything as the girl stuffs the threads into her mouth and chews.

  “What on—” he begins, gasping, wounded, appalled.

  Roach swallows thickly before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She reaches one sticky pink finger into her pocket where the solitary pill still rattles. Rivin’s torch catches her amber eyes, and he realises that her pupils have blown huge.

  “Did you just—” He still can’t believe it.

  She brandishes the bottle, unscrews the cap and deposits the rest of the spent flower inside. “Straight from the source,” she explains, licking her lips — her teeth look a fuzzy kind of blush, and then she’s bolting up the rest of the hill before Rivin can think to respond.

  He’s grateful for that because he isn’t sure how he feels about it.

  Roach reaches a heavy steel door but doesn’t slow her pace, using all the force in her gait to barrel one shoulder — protected by the back of her other hand — into the surface. The door gives way with less resistance than she’d expected, and the brunette topples right through, squealing into dank darkness. Her landing is accompanied by a heavy thud and the whining of hinges.

  “It’s nothing,” she grunts, struggling to her feet again and rubbing a freshly sore bicep.

  “You expecting it to stick?”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “All my pieces stick. Just not all the time.”

  Rivin steps through the threshold as the girl holds the door, and before it even slots closed, she’s dashed across the complete and total darkness and disappeared into shadow.

  He waits, hears her thunk and thwack something back to life, and light sputters into existence, shaped this time by filthy fluorescent beams strung high upon the ceiling. Roach herself stands by a rusty old generator that rattles and sputters its age and disgruntlement by her side.

  The lights flicker but stay on.

  The rest of the room is quarters of structured clutter, weaponry monuments and abandoned disaster. It’s bunker-like and military, with reinforced walls peppered with tacked blueprints of guns and blades alongside detailed maps of places Rivin doesn’t recognise, many of which are clipped up the height of a sleek spiral staircase curling towards a second floor.

  There’s a round, steel table in the very centre completely covered in schematics and manic planning; many papers have been scrunched up and tossed across the floor, leading towards an overflowing desk stuffed with leather binders; others are scattered around an overflowing bucket catching drips on top of sodden ash.

  One wall is entirely stacked with ornate and unusual weapons. There are several handguns and launchers ribbed with white bone and lovingly crafted into machines alongside a set of long, lithe blades that catch the light like Roach’s teeth.

  At the centre and surrounded by several resting grenades rippled with marble jackets of various tricolours is an enormous battle sword with a foot-wide black blade. It’s intricately webbed with puzzle-fine cracks that seamlessly join into a wide titanium guard infused with cracked diamond. Carved into the grip is an open silver eye with two hollowed pupils.

  Roach darts across the room towards a row of old supplies tucked into shelving; she fills her arms and then skips towards a wet velvet sofa to sink into cushions. She only giggles as it squelches beneath her weight and then sets the items down, revealing them to be more bandages and medical supplies.

  Rivin tightens his fists. He feels small again. Tries to find something to do. Something to distract himself from the lack of space he takes up.

  She pats the other seat. “Let me check your cuts.”

  “We should keep moving.”

  “I’m not carrying you over the threshold, buddy,” she wags her finger, “sit.”

  He’s reluctant when he listens and slowly removes the blade from his hip, resting it atop the table before coming to be seated besides her. He makes sure to linger at the edge — he can feel the wet soaking into his trousers. The girl doesn’t seem to mind, filthy toes curling into mushy cushion fluff like she loves it.

  He can’t bear it. Before she can start, Rivin drags over one of the chairs surrounding the metal table and removes the borrowed shirt, draping it over a smaller stool decorated with cogs and buttons. He sits with his back turned towards her and facing the room, splaying his arms over the top rail where he rests his chin. The trapped bandage has already fallen to the floor, damp and bloodied.

  Roach waits patiently, plays with her hairbone and teases a whistle while he gets comfortable before setting to work, stopping only to prepare a bowl with water from one of their bottles and dump a rag (he approves of) into the fluid.

  Her touch is gentle when she rids him of blood and salt, but Rivin has to bite back every hiss at the sting. “A few of these are open,” she murmurs.

  “It’s fine.”

  She doesn’t argue, merely dabs on disinfectant where she can — minding the burns. They’ve run out of salve, and it doesn’t appear she’s found any on the shelves.

  Rivin distracts himself with the rack of weapons, steel eyes dancing over the craftsmanship in each piece. They linger on the enormous blade with its strange markings and seeing eye.

  He wonders if the others will believe all that he’s seen once he’s home, or if he’ll even be able to find the words to explain it.

  How will he tell Ricket about the sun when he asks?

  How will he describe the ghostly war to Chip?

  Will Slink be jealous or relieved?

  Would Mouse have stopped to look at the flower before Roach ate it?

  Rivin pinches the rising tide away with a firm blink and sticks to something tangible. “You live here?”

  “Sometimes. Not lately.”

  “The kids would go insane for this place.”

  “I’m shocked you’ve kept your wits.”

  Rivin's lip twitches. “It’s a lot,” he admits.

  His gaze is tracing over the pommel now, noting the cubed shape and sharp edges. The grip itself is wrapped in fine lines that appear to tuck under the eye; it might be fine leather bindings, but there are deep, thin thread gouges between each wrap, before the ends taper off into the symmetrical arcs of the guard. It’s entirely one piece.

  “You intrigued?” She rolls her tongue for emphasis.

  “A little. Halidom?”

  Roach snickers. “Not anymore.”

  Soon enough, Rivin turns to face her, and she moves aside to allow him free rein of the tools. First, he gets to work unsticking the barely clinging remnants of gauze before unwrapping wet bandages from his torso. Roach has already rinsed out the rag and is handing it over again so Rivin can wipe his front.

  “This is all from your leech friend?”

  “Nah, he was before all this.” She waves her hands to gesture to the room.

  Before. Rivin wonders what that means to girls like Roach. What it means to him. He wipes away the blood gathering at his navel and rimming around his hips.

  “Y’know, I’ve heard about you guys.” Roach rises from the couch and walks over to the desk of leather binders, fingering through a few of the scattered papers.

  “I know. You know everything, remember?”

  “True. I’ll partake in conversation for your benefit, however.”

  Rivin sets the rag down. “They’re good kids. Just trying to eat.”

  “Big dreamers, I see.”

  Rivin thinks of Ricket’s foggy hazel eyes. “The biggest.” Once he’s done replacing the bandages, he turns in his chair. “If they’re not building things, they’re blowing them up.” There’s fondness lacking in his voice but brewing in his heart, pattering there like rain.

  “Only natural,” Roach is standing by the weapon rack now, and her fingers are tracing the teeth of the massive blade, just above the sheening nick of sharp teeth.

  Rivin pulls the shirt back over his head, watching the path of her fingertips until it blocks his view. “I guess.”

  “I’ll change it.” When he can see her again, she’s grinning and shrugging her shoulders like it’s nothing. Like, the feat is not immeasurable.

  He comes to stand at her side. “Change what?”

  “I’ll create things too cool to destroy.” As simple as that.

  Rivin’s fingers come to reflect her own, merely hovering over black metal — not quite committing to touch. His eyes, however, watch the twinkle in his amber iris as though locked there, as though that’s where the last of the warmth is.

  “Hey, gimme that drone heart in your pocket!”

  He blinks. Tilts his head. Furrows his brow.

  He’d almost forgotten. Yet all at once his trousers felt ten times heavier, for besides the core he’d wrenched from the spectator droid days ago also sits a cold necklace with a snapped string. Rivin swallows audibly, like his throat is suddenly parched or sticky. He hesitates, swears his fingers tremble only because he’s tired and not because his pocket seems to him — in that moment — a terrible, dark place to put his hand.

  He hadn’t even cleaned the blood from it. It’s still nestled in the grooves.

  The teen finds his breath to stall. “How did you know?”

  Roach only smirks coyly. If she’s seen his delay, she doesn’t comment on it, only drops her voice to say, “I’m merely a curious cat.”

  Rivin scowls. “You were going to rob me, weren’t you?”

  “Repurpose,” unapologetic and beaming. “C’mon now! Gimme—”

  Rivin holds his breath as he reaches in, hand like the snap of a whip as it dives into fabric to present the yellow opal. His knuckles feel icy where they’d brushed the pendant; there’s something gurgling in his ear again. He focuses on the drip instead.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  “A beauty. Let’s make magic.” Roach plucks it from his palm and holds it up.

  Remarkably, the magic she speaks of is immediate, for the enormous battle blade settled before them begins to hum and glow.