Helga and Mira made it out of the tunnel just in time alongside the others.
They burst through the entrance, stumbling into the open air, their lungs burning, their bodies coated in dust and dried ichor. Behind them, the cave groaned one final time—a deep, guttural sound like a wounded animal taking its last breath.
Then it collapsed.
The entrance crumbled. Stone fell. Dust exploded outward in a thick grey cloud that momentarily blotted out the sun. When the rumbling stopped, the tunnel was gone. Sealed and buried.
Helga stared at the rubble. Her chest heaved. Her warhammer hung limp at her side.
"There's no way of telling if the others are alive," she said quietly.
Ylva stood apart from the group, her green eyes fixed on the collapsed entrance. Her claws were extended. Her tail was frozen. Her body was rigid.
She was scared.
