The cave swallowed them in one breath.
Stone closed in from all sides—narrow, ribbed, slick with condensation that caught the faint light from the burning scrap Luke tore from his half-destroyed robe. The air here was colder than it had any right to be, thick enough to cling to their tongues and crawl down their throats. Every sound—the soft drip of unseen water, the slow grind of gravel underfoot—seemed to echo forever, returning to them slightly changed, as if the cave itself was repeating their presence back like a question.
They moved in silence.
Behind them, Vartha lingered just outside the cave mouth. The tiger's eyes glowed faintly gold in the dark, watching, her tail swishing once as if torn between duty and instinct. Luke had crouched by her flank before entering, pressing a hand into the thick fur between her shoulders.
"Stay," he'd murmured. "If we don't come out—run."
The tiger's low growl had sounded almost like a protest, but she obeyed.
