Winter Flint's Arc

Chapter 9 of 18

The stone steps ended in cold dark. Winter's lantern caught the curve of the main tunnel, and the clans spread out behind him, boots scraping grit. Esmerelda moved ahead with her quiet, even tread, one hand brushing the wall. She stopped before he did. "Here," she said. "This wasn't on my map." A narrow branch broke off from the main passage. Its archway was older than the temple stones around it. The carvings cut into its frame were nothing Winter recognized — not gnome, not sprite, not elf. Spirals inside spirals. A door behind them, sealed tight. Durgan came up beside him and held his torch close. "Older than the seal," he said. "Different hand." He did not elaborate. He never did. Liri landed on Winter's shoulder and went very still, her small wings folded flat. "The wood remembers this," she said. "It doesn't want to." Winter felt Madrigal's ghost at his elbow before he saw her. She studied the carvings without expression. "Two days," she said. "Maybe less. Whatever made this was here before the forest was planted to hide it." Amber crouched at the base of the door, fingers tracing a groove. "The pattern repeats," she said. "It's a warning. Or instructions. I can't tell yet." Winter looked back at the clans gathered in the dark behind him — gnome, sprite, elf, the dwarven survivors with their torches steady. They were waiting. Not arguing. Waiting. "Map every line," he said. "Every clan takes a section. We read it together or we don't read it at all." They moved. For the first time, they moved as one.