Rhea steadied herself once more. “I’m fine. Probably still shaky from transport sickness. Bullet crafts are unpleasant.”

Eris didn’t believe her. Rhea’s expression went blank when Eris studied her closely, but her shoulders remained slightly hunched. Her body swayed. She held up a hand, eyes pleading. A clear Don’t ask. Not right now.

Eris nodded once and continued down the passage. Who was she to demand someone’s secrets? She still kept her own.

As they descended farther into the earth, the air grew musty and cold. The tunnel bent, and Nyx’s light showed a gray door with a panel to the right. A slim shaft of light filtered from the bottom of the door, catching on the glittering colors of the surrounding ichor.

Nyx handed Ariadne the tablet and raised her Mors. Eris did the same and eased her body in front of Ariadne and Clo. If someone came out shooting, she would not have the others go in first. They weren’t soldiers trained for a potential ambush.

Ariadne went to work on the panel, tapping a few commands into her tablet. Within a few minutes, the door slid open.

Nyx and Eris met gazes. Nyx tapped her finger once to the side of her helmet just over her ear, then to the glass by her eye, and gestured to the other women. Eris understood why Nyx didn’t say anything over the Pathos: she would go in first, and if anything happened to her, Eris would lead everyone out. She’d sacrifice herself and stay behind.

Eris bristled at the idea, but Nyx made the motion again. A clear indication to stick with her plan. Before Eris could silently argue further, Nyx pushed open the door and went in, Mors at the ready.

And froze just a single step inside, a choked gasp wrenched from her throat.

“Nyx?” Eris shoved the door wide and went in. “What—” She made some strangled noise at the sight before her.

Not all of the miners had left Ismara.

Behind her, a retch echoed through the clinically bright room. Eris couldn’t tear her eyes away from what she saw in that medical wing, hidden away for a damn good reason.

In the middle of the room was a quarantine enclosure—no, that was too generous.

It was an airtight glass prison.

And in that cell were dozens of corpses.

Gods of Avern. These people had been executed, and not recently. Their skin was gray, puckered, stretched tight and making its slow way to bone. About thirty in all, with most wearing the rough clothes of their trade. There were a few minor Tholosian soldiers. Their skin was pale and waxy, partially preserved only due to the temperature in the room. Decay had begun to set in.

“Who did this?” Clo asked softly. “And why? Why would they . . .”