Definitely from below. Quinn kneels. Trust’s coat suffuses half of the room, but the surface of the pit hangs in vague shadow. It takes the two of you a minute to locate the source of the voice. Just a mouth and a nose and a pair of eyes.

“Please,” it says. “Please help me.”

For the first time, you recognize the person the voice belongs to. “Etzli?”

She tries to answer, but all you hear is a nasty gurgle. You watch the mouth spit and gasp, barely holding above the surface. “Please. Please help me.”

“What happened?” you ask.

“Didn’t see this. My phoenix is dead. The ashes are gone. Gregor too. My…my spirit…he saved me by sacrificing himself. Please, don’t leave me.”

You feel a flicker of heartbreak. You confuse it for your own emotion until Quinn’s voice trembles out, full of pain. “Gregor?” she asks. “Gregor was with you?”

“Yes.” Etzli spits out bubbling mud. “Gregor. I’m so sorry. He’s dead. I thought no one would ever come. I thought—”

For a long time, the spirit just stares. You watch her, but a range of deep emotions flicker past in quick succession. It’s staggering to feel someone else’s heart break. You realize that’s what Quinn must have been feeling from you after Bravos’s betrayal.

She turns to you. “Do you have rope? In your bag?”

“Of course I have rope.” But you don’t move. “We don’t have time, Quinn.”

The two of you stare at one another in the half dark. All the connection, the back-and-forth emotion, vanishes. You have no idea what the girl’s thinking, or what she expects. You don’t want Etzli to die, but this is not your fault and it’s not your problem, either. You have a competition to win. “If we don’t get out of the cave by the next sunrise, we lose.”

“If we don’t help her, she dies. This is more important than a race.”

“Quinn. I get it. You want to help, but we have to go. I’ve made my choice.”

“And I’ve made mine,” Quinn says. “Leave me the rope. Go on. Win your race.”

“We had a deal.”

Quinn’s shoulders are set, though. You hiss in frustration. She’s clearly not going to change her mind. Annoyed, you dig through a saddlebag and toss her the rope.

“Have it your way.”

Without another word, you turn. Trust snorts uncomfortably before easing back into motion. You slide along the wall, a soft glow marking your progress. Quinn follows, but only so she can get in position above Etzli’s floating head. You hear the shallow and desperate breaths, but you ignore them because you have to ignore them. This is the Races. It’s not a charity event.

“Hello?” Etzli calls up. “It’s getting warmer. Please help me!”