Mira lay on her back, laughing. Leo just breathed.
“I can’t.” She nodded toward the far wall. The phosphorescent thing had arrived, its glow spilling across the chamber. And there, carved into the stone, was an inscription: Into pitch black
“What? No!”
They ran. Not toward the left or right, but straight ahead, where a new fissure had opened—raw, jagged, and above it, a pinprick of genuine, honest twilight. The sky. They climbed. Stones tumbled. Roots gave way. And then, hands bleeding, lungs burning, they spilled out onto the cold grass of a hillside. Mira lay on her back, laughing
The thing raised an arm, pointing past Leo, back toward the fork. “She chose right.” Mira lay on her back