The basalt shelf was gone, and the rock tunnel beneath our boots was breathing.
Climbing back up to the shattered ledge where the Dragon of Thorns had died was out of the question. That entire slab of the chasm wall had sheared off into the black abyss behind us, and all that remained was the Throat, a jagged spiral crevice corkscrewing down through the meat of the mountain toward the bottom of the world.
Every ten seconds, the air inside the spiral pulled downward.
The pull came as one long in-breath, heavy enough to tug at the hem of my Dark Mantle and drag loose volcanic gravel skittering past my heels toward the dark. Three seconds of dead stillness followed. Then the out-breath came rushing back up the spiral, a wall of hot, damp air that smelled of old brine, scorched iron and wet stone.
