133. The Brother Above
Chapter 133: The Brother Above
Lashley stared at the hole in the floor.
One moment, they had been there. Kaizen, a blur of motion, shoving Neralia out of the path of the bolts. The next, the floor had groaned, given way, and swallowed them whole. He had lunged, his fingers scraping against rough stone as the trapdoor, or whatever it was, slammed shut with a final, echoing *thud* that seemed to shake the very dust from the air.
Now, there was just a gaping, dark rectangle in the study floor, edged with jagged stone teeth. No sound came from below. No scream, no call for help. Just silence.
"Neralia!" His shout bounced off the broken walls of the study, mocking him with its own echo. "KAIZEN!"
Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through his gut, burning away the last dregs of noble poise. He dropped to his knees at the edge, peering into the blackness. He could see nothing. It was a void.
He fumbled at his belt, his hands trembling. He had a tinderbox. He struck a spark, caught a twist of dry parchment from the desk debris alight, and dropped the tiny flame into the hole.
It fell, illuminating smooth, sheer stone walls for a dozen feet before sputtering out against dampness far below. It was a drop shaft. A dead fall.
His mind spun, a whirlwind of useless thoughts. ‘Protocol. Father's disappointment. The Duchess's failed mission. Freya's scorn.’ They were crushed under the sheer, primal weight of the image burned behind his eyes: Neralia’s terrified face as the floor vanished from beneath her.
He was alone.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. He was alone in the cursed ruins of Fort Defal, his sister and the only competent fighter gone, swallowed by the very stones. The map and compass were gone with them. He had his sword, his wits, and a crushing, deafening silence.
He pushed himself back from the edge, breathing hard. He had to think. He was a Henrickson. He was trained for command, for crisis.
‘Step one: Assess the situation.’ His sister and the adventurer were lost below. The immediate area was hostile, trapped. The primary objective, the Stone, was now unreachable.
‘Step two: Secure the immediate area.’ He rose, sword in hand, and backed away from the treacherous floor. He scanned the study with new, paranoid eyes. Every shadow, every piece of fallen rubble, could hide another trigger. The room felt like a giant, dead beast with a poisoned maw.
‘Step three: Locate an exit or a path to the objective.’ The objective was now two-fold: survive, and find a way down to Neralia.
He could not go back the way they came. The memory of the pendulum blade, the acid mist, the net, they were a gauntlet he was not sure he could run alone, especially not panicked. He had to find another way.
He began to search the study again, but this time with frantic, hurried movements, kicking aside books and debris, his eyes darting to the floor, the walls, the ceiling. He was not looking for the Stone. He was looking for a door, a hatch, a crack. Anything.
He found it behind the collapsed bookshelf. As he shoved a mildewed volume aside, a section of the wall behind it felt… hollow. The stones were different here, smaller, set in a deliberate pattern that mimicked the rest but didn't quite match. He pressed his hand against it.
A section, about the size of a man, sank inward with a soft *click* and then slid sideways, revealing a narrow, dark passage sloping downward.
A servant's passage. A hidden route for the lord of the manor to come and go from his study unseen. Or for guards.
This was it. This had to lead down. Toward the dungeons. Toward them.
He hesitated at the threshold, staring into the dark. The passage smelled of dust and dry rot. It was pitch black.
He had no light. The brief parchment torch was gone. He had no map. No compass. No guide but his own fear and a desperate hope.
He thought of Neralia, down in the dark. He thought of her scoffing at his courtly manners, her eyes lighting up over a historical text, her terrified grip on his arm in the forest. His little sister.
He thought of Kaizen, the infuriating, common-born nobody who moved like a shadow and fought like a cornered wolf. The man who had saved his life from the pendulum blade. The man who was now down there with her.
A complex, sour knot of gratitude, jealousy, and responsibility tightened in his chest.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, tightened his grip on his sword, and stepped into the passage.
The darkness swallowed him whole. He moved by feel, one hand on the cold, rough stone wall, the other holding his sword before him like a blind man's cane. Every step was a prayer. Every whisper of air was a threat. The passage twisted, turned, descended in a tight spiral. The air grew colder, damper.
He walked for an eternity in the black, his heart a frantic drum in his ears. Then, the wall under his hand ended. He stumbled forward into a slightly larger space. A faint, greenish glow reached his eyes. Bioluminescent lichen, like in the tales of deep caves.
He was in a low tunnel. Water dripped. It smelled foul. It looked like… a sewer.
He had found the lower levels. But which way? Left or right? The tunnels were identical, a labyrinth of wet stone and echoing drip sounds.
"Neralia!" he called again, his voice thin and desperate in the confined space. "Kaizen!"
His voice echoed, died. No answer.
He was lost. He had chosen a path, but it was the wrong one. He was in the maze, and he had no thread. The panic, held at bay by motion, surged back, colder and heavier. He was a knight without a squire, a noble without a guide, a brother without a sister. He was alone in the gut of a nightmare, and the walls of sameness were closing in.
He sank to his haunches, his back against the slimy wall, his fine clothes soaked through with cold water and fear. He dropped his head into his hands.
For the first time in his privileged, planned life, Lashley Henrickson was truly, utterly, and completely lost.