The dark had weight.
It was not only blackness. It pressed. It crushed breath flat in Mikhailis's chest and filled his mouth with dust and stone grit while the world around him became nothing but violent motion and scraping sound. Something hard slammed into his shoulder. Something sharper raked across his boot. For one sick moment, he could not tell if they were falling, sliding, or being swallowed by some huge throat carved under the dungeon.
There was no up. No down. Only speed.
His lungs burned. His ears rang. The stone around them seemed too close and too fast, like the tunnel itself was trying to peel skin from bone.
Rhaen was still in his arm.
That was the first clear thing he knew.
Not where they were.
Not whether the sweep had thrown them deeper or cut them from the others forever.
Not whether Elowen had made it through the gate.
