“I am yours, Kavir.”
The words, raw and unburdened, scraped against the suffocating dark, piercing the haze of Kavira’s own mounting terror. His hand, so frail against hers, was the only solid thing in the crumbling tomb. The cave groaned around them, schist grinding on granite. Her body heat, shared skin to skin, was a frantic offering, a surrender she swore she would never make again.
A memory, sharp and cold as a shard of ice, cut through her resolve. Her brother, Torvin, lay on a cot in their family estate’s antechamber, his skin growing pale, translucent. Vitreous tendrils, fine as spider silk, crept from beneath his fingernails, up his forearms, across his neck. Their family’s healers, desperate and defeated, spoke in hushed tones of the Glass-Rot. He was fading. Kavira, a girl of ten, had clutched his hand, just as Garek now clutched hers. Torvin’s eyes, clouded with fever and crystallizing film, had found hers. “Don’t leave me, little ash,” he’d whispered, his voice thin, reedy. “I’m scared.” And then, a coughing fit. Not blood, but glistening, rose-tinted crystals, blooming from his throat like deadly flowers. He’d died with her hand in his, a fragile connection severed by the inexorable creep of the blight. Right then, a vow had hardened: never again would she rely on another, never again would she allow herself to be so vulnerable, so utterly helpless in the face of loss. She would stand alone, die alone, a solitary, unyielding pillar against a world that took everything. It was a shield, forged from grief, against the agony of attachment.
Yet here, in the cold, crushing dark, that shield shattered. Garek’s weakening grip, his rasping confession, ignited a panic more profound than any fear for herself. He was dying, and she was powerless to stop it. The thought, stark and dreadful, burned through her. The Glass-Rot had already taken her brother; it would not take this boy, too. Not while she still drew a living breath. Her ribs, so long guarding dead embers, now held an unfamiliar warmth, a fierce fire that defied her very nature. Her own life, her own cure, suddenly seemed secondary to keeping him clinging to this existence.
Then, a faint grating noise. A dull thud. A distant, muffled shout. “Kavir! Garek! Can you hear me?” It was Elian. His voice, small but persistent, a thread of hope woven into the suffocating gloom. He was digging. He was truly digging for them. Kavira grit her teeth, a raw cry tearing from her throat. “Yes! We’re here! Keep going, Elian!”
Minutes stretched into an eternity, each tick of time a fresh agony as Garek’s body grew colder, his movements more sporadic. She pressed her face closer to his, willing her dwindling warmth into him. “Stay with me,” she murmured, repeating the words like an incantation. “Please, Garek. Stay with me.” The air grew thinner, acrid with dust and the scent of crushed rock. Just when she thought her own lungs would give out, a sliver of grey light pierced the darkness, followed by the scrape of stone being pulled away. Elian’s face, streaked with grime and sweat, appeared in the opening, his eyes wide with relief and exhaustion. “By the Ash-Weaver,” he gasped, “You’re alive.”
They emerged into the biting mountain air, blinking against the pale, bruised light of the nearing dusk. Elian, trembling but resolute, helped Kavira pull Garek from the rubble. Garek was pale, his lips blue, his breathing shallow, but he was alive. Kavira didn’t release him until the medics from the Watch, alerted by Elian, had secured him to a stretcher and were carrying him towards the infirmary. Her entire body ached, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion settling in, yet a strange, almost exhilarating energy still coursed through her veins. She had kept him alive.
Hours later, Kavira sat in the mess hall, picking at a bowl of bland gruel, the chill from the caverns still clinging to her bones. Garek had been stabilized, the medics said, but would need several days to recover. Elian, having earned a reprieve from the commander's usual scorn, was huddled over a bowl a few tables away, still looking haunted. The hall buzzed with the usual evening cacophony, but Kavira felt a profound detachment, her thoughts still replaying the desperate hours in the dark.
The mess hall doors swung open with a resounding thud, and the Watchmaster strode in, his gaze sweeping the room with predatory slowness. A hush fell. His eyes, like chips of flint, landed on Kavira. “Kavir,” he barked, his voice carrying an icy edge that cut through the remaining murmurs. “My office. Now.”
Before Kavira could push away from the table, a voice, clearer and stronger than she anticipated, sliced through the tension. “He’ll speak with you after he’s eaten, Commander.”
All eyes turned to Garek, who stood by the infirmary’s threshold, pale and wobbly, but impossibly upright. A fresh bandage was wrapped around his chest, stark white against his dark tunic. He walked with a determined slowness towards Kavira’s table, the entire hall utterly silent, every initiate and guard watching in stunned disbelief. Garek, the golden prodigy, the meticulous rule-follower, was challenging his superior. For *Kavir*.
The commander's sneer tightened. “Vond. Back to the infirmary before you collapse. This is not your affair.”
Garek reached Kavira’s table, placing a hand on her shoulder. His touch, though weak, was firm, protective. His gaze, however, remained fixed on the commander, blazing with an intensity that belied his physical state. “It is very much my affair, Commander. Kavir saved my life. Twice now. And he suffered a cave-in due to what I strongly suspect was deliberate sabotage. You will not hound him.”
A collective gasp rippled through the mess hall. Garek had not only defended ‘Kavir’ but directly accused the commander of treachery. The audacity was staggering. The commander's face contorted, a dark flush spreading from his neck upwards. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his short sword. “You watch your tongue, boy. You accuse a Watchmaster of treason?”
“I accuse you of abandoning initiates to die for your own gain,” Garek returned, his voice gaining strength with each word. He took a staggering step between Kavira and the Watchmaster, placing his body squarely in the path of the man's wrath. “You wanted the Sun-Ember. You tried to bury us to get it. Kavir saw you do it.”
Kavira met Garek’s gaze, understanding locking between them. He was putting everything on the line. His reputation, his career, his very life. For her. That devotion, offered without condition, settled over her like lead. It shook her to the bone.
The commander's jaw worked in furious disbelief, but before he could respond, a low murmur began to spread among the recruits. Other initiates, those who had seen the commander's callousness, or perhaps witnessed ‘Kavir’s’ unexpected heroics, were beginning to shift, their eyes flicking between the two men. Sensing the shifting tide of loyalty, perhaps even the specter of a mutiny, the commander ground his teeth together. His eyes narrowed into slits of pure venom. “This is not over, Vond,” he spat, then spun on his heel and stormed out of the hall, the doors slamming shut behind him with a resonant boom.
The mess hall erupted. Garek swayed, his strength finally giving out, and Kavira reached out, steadying him. “You fool,” she murmured, exasperation threading through her tone. “You could have ruined everything.”
Garek leaned heavily on her, a faint smile touching his lips. “Perhaps. But you are not alone, Kavir. You never will be, not while I breathe.” He coughed, a soft, wet sound, and she felt a fresh wave of panic. “We need to talk,” he whispered, his eyes, though still weary, holding a spark of their old determination. “About the Sun-Ember. We need a plan.”
They met in the archives that night, under the dim glow of a single tallow lamp. Grit, perched on a dusty shelf, preened grit from his ash-colored feathers. Elian, still pale, stood guard by the door, his newfound courage a fragile shield. Garek, propped up by a stack of ancient scrolls, painstakingly sketched out the cavern system, detailing possible routes, guards’ patrols, and rumored locations of the Sun-Ember. His wounds clearly pained him, but his mind was sharp, focused. Kavira listened, her own thoughts racing, planning, adapting.
“The commander keeps the main vault key on his person,” Garek rasped, tapping a spot on the map. “The Sun-Ember is likely in the inner sanctum. We need to disable the outer wards, distract the guards, and get to that key.”
Kavira nodded, her brain already cataloging the weaknesses in the Karst Watch’s security. “I know a few ways to cause a diversion.” She had a score to settle with the officer, and a cure to retrieve. For herself, yes, but for Garek, too. The thought solidified her resolve, weaving through her like a new, powerful current.
As Garek continued to speak, describing the layout of the inner sanctum, a strange pressure built in Kavira’s chest. A tingling sensation, familiar and sickening. Her vision blurred at the edges, the single lamp light shimmering, distorting the parchment before her. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt constricted, dry. A deep, hacking cough ripped through her, violent and uncontrollable. She stumbled back, clutching her chest, her body convulsing. It wasn’t a usual cough. It was a wrenching, tearing sensation. She opened her palm, bracing herself for blood, for the usual few glass shards.
Instead, a fistful of glittering, crimson-streaked mineral slivers, sharp as razors and dense as gravel, spilled from her mouth onto the stone floor. Her lungs were turning to glass.
She had less than twenty-four hours.