POV: Alpha Jackson Reynolds
The air in the Deep Veins didn’t just feel thin; it felt ancient, heavy with the weight of miles of overhead stone and the stagnant breath of things that had never seen the sun. Our torches, infused with Jumanah’s lunar salt, cast long, flickering shadows against the obsidian walls, making the jagged rock formations look like the ribcage of a leviathan.
"Stay tight," I whispered, my voice barely a rasp against the oppressive silence. "The air is changing. Can you smell it?"
Vane Lowe, flanking my right, flared her nostrils. Her silver blades were already unsheathed, glinting with a cold, predatory light. "Sulfur and rot, Alpha. But there’s something else. Something... wet."
We were a strike team of twelve—the best of the Diamond Moon and the Royal Guard. We
