The canyons are more unsettling than the tunnels, frankly—the darkness stretching on forever and holding all manner of unknown horrors spun entirely by mind. My thief-brain screams that we could be attacked from any angle, at any time, and the brightmoss torches the battalions bear would detect such an attack far too late. But I suppose that’s why beneathers developed such good hearing in the first place.

And I’m not the only one worried—everyone is on edge in the canyons, Malachite walking with his sword drawn, Fione with her crossbow unfolded. Yorl holds a handkerchief up to his nose, blinking away dust and stale air as he desperately darts his low-light vision in every direction, the matronic thumping after him mindlessly. Even the battalions seem on edge this deep down—beneathers twitching in their armor at the faintest sounds I can’t hear.

Lucien seems to, irritatingly and wonderfully and as always, know how I feel. He walks beside me, close, his body heat a welcome thing in the clammy cold of the Dark Below. He must be even more nervous than I am, considering magic becomes more difficult the farther down into the Dark Below a witch goes. One of his defenses, gone. And one of mine, too. If his magic is weak, he can’t heal me as quickly if I get injured. But I know he’ll try anyway, to his detriment. He smiles sideways at me, his working hand sputtering with witchfire—not strong, but enough to contribute light to the path.

“It’s good news,” he assures me when he catches me staring at the weak fire. “It means that Varia might not be as strong as I thought, either.”

“But stronger than you,” I say. “Because of the Bone Tree.”

“I wouldn’t count me out just yet.” He makes that cocky smirk I love, but it pulls at deeper heartstrings. Worried ones. He’ll have to struggle, to pour so much magic into just fighting her. If I’m not fast enough in my own plan, I could lose him. He could do something brave and foolish and noble and—

I suck in a breath, then let it out slowly. The must of ancient things cloys my lungs and helps none.

“Don’t look so worried,” Lucien assures me, a playful, Whisper-esque edge to it. It almost riles me, how hard he’s trying to be casual about this, but it fades quickly when I hear a popping sound, and feel something solid appear in my fingers.

I look down to see something blue. A gorgeous blue, deep and vivid and familiar. The shell. The little shell he took from me when we landed off the coast. It’s hard to see in the brightmoss, but he moves his witchfire closer to reveal ridges. It’s been carved with the most delicate touch into an iridescent blue rose, now peeking off a silver band.