The stair sank slowly back into the pantry floor by midmorning, leaving only a smell of old iron. Three cracked streets pointed north from the manor, so the household followed them to the old Flint Deeps.
"The cracks pulse on a slow count, like a sleeper's wrist," Aria said from his shoulder.
"Something's asleep down there?" Hajin asked.
"Something is breathing, and breathing things wake."
A huge man lounged on a throne of stacked ore-crates across the track, chewing a toothpick down to splinters.
"Line forms at the back, Baron," he drawled without standing, "Captain Brond runs this pit, nobody walks through it on a ranking."
"The ground doesn't care about my ranking," he said, nudging a crack with his toe, "it split three streets to bring me here."
"His Majesty asked us privately, Brond, he was not polite about it," Didi added, her coat buttoned to the throat.
"The Duke's bastard doesn't walk through my mine, Highness, with respect."
