POV: Queen Amethyst Walker Reynolds
The southern tunnel was a throat of ancient stone, cold and damp, that seemed to swallow the light of Jackson’s golden eyes. We had been running for what felt like hours, the rhythmic thud of our boots the only sound in the oppressive gloom. Behind us, the "Killing Box" was a memory of fire and sulfur, but the silence here was, in many ways, more unsettling than the screams of the Void-Wraiths. The mountain’s marrow was dense, pressing against my senses, but beneath the stone, I felt a different vibration—not the rot of Gretchen, but a sharp, stinging magic that tasted like wild honey and winter air.
"Jackson, wait," I whispered, my voice hitching.
He stopped instantly, his hand going to the hilt of his Star-Iron dagger. Behind us, Vane Lowe went into
