We found the second anchor by chance.

  It had been hidden in pin sight in what appeared to be an old pantry. The shelves were half-colpsed, warped by damp and age, and the floor was slick with something tacky that made wet noises against our boots. The circle itself was worked into the stone behind the lowest rack, as if Nyxara had expected us to search only at eye level.

  The third was much worse. It sat at the bottom of a narrow dumbwaiter shaft. The padins had stared down at it in silence until their eyes slid, inevitably, to me and Seraphine.

  I fit—just barely—while she and the others fended off another of Nyxara's constructs.

  By the time we climbed back up to ground level, there was no clean skin left on any of us. Dust caked our sleeves. Old grease bckened our hands. My fnk ached under the bandage where the shard had gone in earlier, and my shoulders had seized into something tight and hot that made lifting my arms feel like an argument.

  Sir Sylvio took one look at me as we emerged, and his expression sharpened.

  "Enough," he said. Not to me alone, but to the whole line. "We should be ashamed to drag Miss Cire any further."

  "I'm fine," I said, voice rough. Talking made my ribs compin.

  Sylvio ignored that. "Rest. All of you."

  A squad of padins passed us, chatting idly. He turned to them and snapped, "You. You. You. Fresh rotation. Get your weapons ready. Double-check your nterns. If one of you comes back with a loose strap, I will make you regret it."

  They straightened as if he had struck them. Then moved at once.

  I tried to step forward and was rewarded with a sharp pain in my side. My face tightened before I could stop it.

  Sylvio's jaw worked.

  "Take a break," he said.

  "I can keep going."

  "You can be carried," he replied, ft, "if you want to test my resolve."

  Tomás hovered near my shoulder, visor up, eyes wide with concern. The priest who had been working on my wound stayed close too, the faintest glow still lingering at his fingertips like he feared I would start leaking again the moment he blinked.

  Seraphine wiped her palms on her skirt and looked at me over the top of the bckened keystone we had hauled up as proof. "We don't need you to go back down."

  My head tilted. "Excuse me?"

  Her mouth twitched like she wanted to say something biting and decided against it. "You've already shown us what to look for. Let us handle the rest."

  "The rest," I repeated, hollow. "There are five more of them."

  "Yes," Seraphine said. "But Sylvio is right. You're hurting worse than you let on. Save your strength for the final battle."

  I stared at her.

  She sighed, then softened it by a fraction. "You've done what you needed to do, Cire. Let me lead the next group while you recover."

  I swallowed. My instinct was to argue. There was a part of me that believed if I stopped moving, everything would catch up. Blood loss, panic, consequences, regret.

  But Seraphine was already turning to the fresher padins, her voice switching into that clipped, efficient cadence she used when she was taking control of a problem. Sylvio was marshaling the injured and the dazed, redistributing them into something like an organized withdrawal.

  She was right. They didn't need me down there.

  Not right now.

  "Just... don't get yourself killed," I said to Seraphine, biting my lip.

  She gave me a sideways look. "How about you take your own advice for once?"

  Then she was gone, descending again with a new shield line and a length of rope looped over her shoulder.

  I turned away before I could change my mind.

  The air shifted the moment I was outside again. It was still cold, still tainted by fungus and stone, but it didn't have the same weight as the lower corridors.

  I drew my arms around my shoulders, trembling slightly. It had only been half a day, and I had already forgotten what open air felt like.

  People looked at me as I passed.

  Priests. Padins. A few of the camp attendants who had been assigned to carrying water and hauling refuse. Their eyes flicked to the grime on my face, the stiff way I held myself, the stain through the side of my shirt.

  I heard murmurs and ignored them, walking straight to the rge tent they'd assigned us.

  Inside, it was warmer. The bedrolls were id out in a tight arrangement. A low travel chest sat near the tent pole, half-open, with spare linens spilling out.

  I set my satchel down with care—I couldn't afford to shatter the few bottles I had left. Then I filled a basin with water and dragged it where the light was better.

  The first pass of the cloth across my forearm left a streak of gray in the water. The second pass did the same.

  I kept scrubbing anyway, methodical. The grime came off in yers. My skin underneath looked too pale, as if the dirt had been providing color my body had lost.

  My shoulders burned when I lifted my arm to reach higher. I hissed under my breath and adjusted, bracing my elbow against my ribs to give myself leverage.

  I was halfway through dabbing my face when I heard a quiet cough behind me.

  My hand froze mid-motion. Then I resumed, slowly, as if I had known he was there all along.

  "Rocher?" I said.

  There was a shift of fabric. A rustle as he moved, then settled again.

  "I'm here," he said, voice rough with sleep.

  I gnced over my shoulder.

  He was lying on his bedroll, far from the others, propped slightly on one elbow. His hair was damp at the temples. His breathing looked a little too deliberate, like he was managing it.

  "What are you doing back here?" I asked.

  He cleared his throat. His eyes flicked to the basin and then away, as if he had only just realized what I was doing. "Evelyn and Lumiere told me to stop and go back. They said I was overdoing it."

  I resumed wiping. "With the magic, you mean."

  "Yes," he admitted, and there was a note of frustration under it. "I thought I had it. I thought if I pushed myself hard enough, things would settle."

  "It doesn't work like that," I said. I dipped the cloth in the basin, watching the water darken further. "It's a tool like anything else. If you let it do too much, you don't build the strength you need to support it. Too little, and you overexert. Cramps. Soreness. Sometimes worse."

  "Yeah," he said. "I'm definitely feeling that now."

  I set the cloth down and reached for the hem of my outer shirt. It was stiff with sweat and dirt. Pulling it up made my shoulders protest hard enough that my eyes watered.

  I had just managed to get it over my head when I heard Rocher shift again. I gnced at him.

  His gaze fixed on a corner of the tent, determinedly looking away. His ears were red.

  I was too tired to care.

  I turned my back to him and dipped the cloth again, then tried to reach the grime along my upper back.

  My right shoulder refused. My left shoulder tried, then locked halfway through the motion.

  I hissed again, more sharply.

  "Here," Rocher said. "Let me."

  I paused. "You don't have to."

  "But I should," he said. "You're having a lot of trouble with it."

  He was already pushing himself up. He grunted as he moved to his knees and stood. His footsteps sounded heavy.

  I stared at the cloth in my p until I felt his thumb brush my shoulder.

  "Okay," I said finally.

  He lifted the cloth gently from my fingers and began wiping the grime from my upper back, careful around the edge of my chemise. The sensation was cool and strange. My skin was sensitive from dust and sweat and stress, and every pass of the cloth registered too clearly.

  His hand slowed near my side.

  "You're bleeding," he said, breathless.

  I gnced down. The fabric at my fnk had gone dark and stiff.

  "It's old," I said quickly. "A priest already looked at it."

  "Still, we'd better get it clean."

  I let out a breath. Reaching it myself had been an exercise in frustration.

  "I'll manage," I said weakly.

  He didn't argue. He waited.

  The silence stretched.

  I exhaled, tilting my chin toward the linen. "Fine. Help me change the bandage."

  I turned my back to him and pulled the chemise loose, baring the wound at my side.

  He soaked the cloth and worked carefully along its edge. The fabric peeled away with a damp sound.

  I held still.

  "Just tell me if it hurts," he said.

  He didn't rush. He cleaned in patient strokes, careful not to press too hard. When he reached the torn skin, his movements slowed further, precise to the point of hesitation.

  It stung. I breathed through it and said nothing. His hand held more firmly to my shoulder anyway, grounding me.

  When the st of the dirt was gone, he wrapped the fresh bandage snug and secure, fingers steady as he tied it off.

  "Rocher," I said, because my mind needed somewhere else to stand. "How were things on your end?"

  He hesitated. "No issues. Other than me being an idiot."

  I gnced over my shoulder. "None at all?"

  "There were monsters." His mouth twitched. "But we've secured the western battlements. Cleared the path like you said."

  "What kind of resistance?"

  "Surprisingly not much," he said. "It appears most of them prefer to stay low to the ground."

  I nodded. "It's where most of the food is concentrated. Fungus and fauna."

  Rocher returned the cloth to the basin. "Anyway. Want me to do something about your shoulders?"

  I opened my mouth, but he continued before I could respond.

  "Just to loosen it up a bit," he said. "Might help."

  I rolled my shoulders experimentally and regretted it. "Sure," I said slowly. "Why not?"

  His hands settled there, warm and steady, and he began to work his thumbs into the tight bands along the top. He was careful at first, like he expected me to flinch or pull away. When I didn't, he applied more pressure, gently testing what my body would tolerate.

  It helped. Too much.

  I hadn't realized how hard I was holding myself together until his hands gave me permission to stop.

  A sigh left me, long and unguarded.

  His hands paused.

  "Rocher?" I said, half turning. "What is it?"

  He clicked his tongue, annoyed. "Nothing. It's my fingers again. They locked up on me."

  I turned fully then, ignoring the protest in my shoulders, and caught his forearm in my hands before he could hide it.

  His skin was warm. The muscle under it was tight.

  "That won't do," I said, more sharply than I intended. "What if you drop your spear mid-combat?"

  His face went red again, but this time it was not embarrassment. It was irritation at himself. "I wouldn't let it get to that."

  "You don't always have a choice," I said firmly. "Show me."

  He held out his forearm reluctantly. His fingers flexed, then stalled, like the signal from his mind was getting lost halfway down the line.

  I pressed my thumbs into the muscle along the inside of his forearm. "These control the fingers. Here. Feel that?"

  He sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Yes."

  "Is it here," I asked, shifting my hands lower, closer to the wrist, "or more the tendons here?" I pressed closer to the meaty part at the base of his thumb, where tension often hid.

  "I'm not sure," he admitted. Then, quieter: "But keep doing whatever you're doing. It's working."

  I nodded at that.

  I kneaded slowly, thumbs digging in. Rocher sat very still, jaw set, eyes fixed on the tent wall like it was the safest pce to look.

  After a minute, his fingers flexed more smoothly.

  "Better?" I asked.

  "Much," he said, and the relief in his voice made something in my chest loosen.

  I released him and sat back on my heels. "Wait here a moment. I might have a solution."

  He blinked. "Solution?"

  "Yes," I said. I reached for my shirt and wrestled it back on, smoothing down the wrinkles. "I won't be gone long."

  He watched me with wary confusion as I stepped out of the tent.

  When I returned, carrying a small tub under my arm, Rocher was back in his bedroll. He bolted upright.

  "What is that?" he asked.

  "An ointment," I said. "I mixed it from the apothecary stock. To promote circution. And help healing."

  I unlidded it. The scent was clean and herbal, with a faint sharpness underneath.

  Rocher leaned forward a fraction. "It smells nice."

  "Juniper and camphor," I said absently. "And something else that I'm not sure I was allowed to take."

  His mouth twitched.

  "Show me your forearm again," I said.

  He obeyed, holding it out. I scooped a small amount and rubbed it in, working along the muscle and down toward the wrist. The ointment warmed quickly under my palms.

  "How is that now?" I asked.

  He flexed his fingers. "I don't know. It's not cramping anymore. You fixed it before."

  My brow furrowed. "Where else does it hurt?"

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  "Rocher," I said, ft.

  He exhaled. "Kind of... all over."

  I stared at him for a beat. "Get on your stomach."

  He blinked. "What."

  "Lie down," I repeated. "If you're cramping all over, we'll treat it all over."

  He hesitated, then turned and lowered himself onto his bedroll. His shoulders were broad enough that he made the thin padding look small. He settled with his head turned to the side, cheek pressed into his folded arms.

  I sat near his legs and rolled up one pant leg, exposing his calf and ankle.

  His muscles were taut, cords standing out under skin. I rubbed ointment between my palms to warm it, then pressed in with my thumbs.

  Rocher let out a long, audible sigh that sounded like his entire body had been waiting for permission to stop fighting itself.

  I worked the calf carefully, then down into the ankle, easing the tightness along the tendon. When I switched to the other leg, his breathing slowed further, the tension in his shoulders easing in small increments.

  Then my fingers tugged on the edge of his shirt where it was tucked into his trousers.

  Rocher went rigid.

  "Wait," he said. "I'll do it."

  He reached back and pulled it over his head in one swift motion. He dropped it beside the bedroll and kept his face turned away, his neck faintly flushed.

  I looked him over once, not lingering, but noticing. It was impossible not to. His back was mapped with muscle, each ridge and pne tensing and rexing with his breath. The pattern of old scars and new bruises told the story of a man who kept trying to use his body as a shield.

  I scooped a dollop of ointment and pressed it to his lower back.

  "How is the temperature?" I asked.

  He mumbled something unintelligible, voice muffled against his arm.

  I worked the ointment in along the lower back first, then higher, thumbs pressing into the muscles that ran alongside his spine. The tension there was dense, like he had been holding himself upright through sheer force of will.

  Gradually, it began to give under my hands. His breathing slowed.

  "How is it?" I asked. "Does it feel okay?"

  No answer.

  I leaned in closer, checking.

  Rocher was fast asleep, his face tucked into his arms like a child who had fought sleep and lost.

  I stared at him for a moment, then let out a quiet breath. I ughed for the first time all day.

  "That good, huh?" I murmured, mostly to myself.

  The camp noises outside blurred into something distant. The tent felt warmer than it had before, or maybe that was just the exhaustion settling in.

  My eyelids felt suddenly heavy. My shoulders sagged. The tightness in my fnk pulled when I shifted, reminding me I was still injured, still stubborn, still running on borrowed time.

  I leaned forward, meaning to go toward my own bedroll.

  Instead, I folded over him, forehead resting lightly between his shoulder bdes. The warmth of his skin seeped through the thin yer of air and ointment scent. My breath hitched once, then smoothed.

  I should have moved.

  I didn't.

  Sleep took me before I could think on it further.