South Gate comes into view sooner than I ever thought possible, and I leap out of the carriage before it even begins to slow down alongside the curb. Malachite tumbles out after me, regaining his footing far faster. I point to the door in the high white wall, and together we dash for it. The guards are still here, but they look rattled, their gazes needling out from beneath their helmets, and even when I give the password, they don’t relax a single inch. Yorl is waiting for us inside by the door down to the arena, his claws clicking over the grating as he paces anxiously, his tail thrashing. He glances up when he hears us coming, his green eyes going from frantic and searching to flat and annoyed.

“Where is Varia?” he snaps.

“Held up.” I waste no time offering my hand to Malachite. “This is Malachite. Where did Evlorasin run off to?”

Yorl looks Malachite up and down, and, obviously realizing he’s a beneather, the displeased thrash of his tail dies down slightly. But only slightly. Malachite just gives Yorl a cheeky wink as the celeon stares at him, and I press past the two boys and head for the door.

“Are you going to make a lady capture an escaped valkerax all by herself?” I call. Yorl and Malachite follow quickly and easily, their dark-vision impeccable. Yorl offers me his hand, and I take it. I can practically feel Malachite staring at it.

“Gave up on your friends up above and made some down here in the dark, huh?” the beneather scoffs. I flinch, my hand squeezing Yorl’s harder.

Surprisingly, the celeon snarls. “You talk exceedingly much for one whose job is only to guard.”

“And you use too many big words for somebody who smells like cat piss,” Malachite fires back.

“You can be nasty to each other when the valkerax is secure. Yorl,” I insist, “what happened? How did it get out? I thought you had this place under control?”

“I did,” Yorl argues. “But a few minutes ago, there was a localized quake—it cracked all the beneather runes on the walls of the arena.”

Malachite whistles. “And cracked runes can’t hold a valkerax in, or out, anymore.”

Yorl presses on. “The valkerax sensed a fissure made by the quake behind the arena wall and burst through.”

“Sounds like your security stinks,” Malachite drawls. “I offer my consultations for free, you know.”

“I checked with the Crimson Lady.” Yorl ignores him with a snarl in his voice. “And the readings confirm it—there was suspicious magical activity the very moment before the tremor struck.”

“A witch?” I ask.