The lair mother's corpse lay still, grotesque and bloated, its two slack jaws sagging open in death. Blood seeped between the tangled roots beneath her, and a foul heat still lingered in the chamber, fed by the smouldering remnants of fire.

  Del stood motionless, the weight of adrenaline still clenching his muscles, breath ragged in his throat. Around them, the chamber was a ruin of blackened vines, scorched nests, and shattered bone. He wiped his blade clean on the torn hide of a fallen skep, then sheathed it with a hiss of pain from his side.

  Elara’s voice broke the silence, low and flat. “We did it.”

  She slumped back against a warped wall of roots, her bow across her lap, knuckles white on the grip. Her entire body trembled with exhaustion.

  Misty sat beside her, no longer the monstrous hellcat—just a blood-slicked ginger cat, hunched and sullen. Her fur was spiked with gore and soot, and she licked one paw with slow, mechanical precision.

  Del managed a wry grunt. “Speak for yourself. I feel like I got trampled by a dosha wearing skep hides.”

  His ribs flared in protest as he bent to retrieve a fallen satchel. ‘Definitely cracked. Maybe worse.’

  Misty’s tail flicked without amusement. ‘You’ll live. Probably. If you don’t try anything stupid like breathing too hard.’

  “Noted,” Del muttered. He turned to Elara. “You holding up?”

  She nodded once, pale and shaking. “Drained, but I’ll manage. We… need to put out this fire. Then rest. If the roots catch, the whole cavern system could go up.”

  Del looked around—flames still licked at some of the singed vines, fed by tangled detritus. But already, they were dying back, starved of fresh fuel.

  “I can help,” Elara said quietly, already lifting a hand. She closed her eyes, brow furrowing, and the vines began to shift—dry, blackened strands retreating into the earth as if swallowed. The fire withered with them, collapsing into sullen embers.

  “Nice trick,” Del said, watching the smoke curl into the high ceiling.

  “Not a trick,” she murmured. “A favour. The roots are scorched. They’re returning to the soil.”

  Misty let out a low, tired sound. ‘Del, if you're done admiring the botany, I suggest you get your ribs sorted before you start leaking again.’

  “Yeah. Alright.” Del dropped to one knee and rummaged through the supply pouch they’d taken from Stonebridge. “Let’s see… feldspar for bruising, siverbloom for the deeper stuff…”

  He uncorked a pot and smeared a thick line of feldspar salve across his ribs. The cool burn lanced through him like iced nettles. He hissed between his teeth and pressed a hand to the treated skin, waiting for the sting to fade. Then came the siverbloom—crushed leaves and dewberry moss, pungent and sticky—pressed carefully into the long gash on his thigh. He wrapped it tight with a strip of cloth, not elegant, but firm.

  The pain dulled almost at once. Not gone, but quieter. Endurable.

  Beside him, Elara had sunk cross-legged onto the stone, her movements slow and precise. She peeled the edge of her sleeve back from a blood-slicked cut on her forearm, wincing as she cleaned it. Her fingers trembled slightly as she uncorked her own salve pot.

  A little way off, Misty gave herself one final, desultory lick, then staggered upright with a sound that was equal parts groan and growl. Her legs shook with the effort. She paused, head low, then hobbled a few steps toward them.

  ‘This is indignity made flesh,’ she muttered. ‘And I’m the one bleeding on all the good bits of floor.’

  Del watched as she flopped down between them with an exaggerated thud, legs sticking out awkwardly to one side. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

  “Misty?”

  She opened one eye halfway. ‘I just turned into a six-stone murder machine and back again. No, I am not “okay.”’ Her voice was hoarse and edged with resentment. ‘I need a nap. A hot bath. Possibly incense. And someone to carry me in a basket lined with velvet.’

  She stretched out a foreleg and sniffed it, then sneezed once and narrowed her eyes at the dried blood crusting her paw. ‘Is that… mine? Please don’t be mine.’

  “Not sure anyone’s in shape to carry you,” Del said.

  ‘Then I’ll settle for silence and mild reverence. And water. I stink like skep rot and shame.’

  Despite everything, Del snorted. “Noted. We can see if we can find any water.”

  Misty gave him a sour look and began the slow, disgruntled process of grooming herself, starting with her ears. Each lick was sharp and deliberate, as though she were personally offended by every speck of soot or drop of gore.

  Elara, dabbing salve onto her arm, managed a faint smile. “You should be proud,” she said quietly. “You saved our lives.”

  Misty paused mid-lick. ‘Yes. And in return, I’d like to never do that again.’

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  Elara gave him a small, crooked smile. “We should search the chamber before we move on. There might be supplies, or clues. Or… something.”

  Del nodded, pulling himself upright with a grimace. “Yeah. If we came all this way, we might as well check the place.”

  The smell hit him harder than before—thick, oily air laced with scorched skep flesh, dried blood, and the deeper, cloying stink of ancient decay. He wrapped his sleeve across his face and stepped forward into the wreckage, each crunch of bone underfoot adding to the nausea churning in his gut.

  The lair mother’s hoard was a chaotic sprawl of nests, bone piles, and shattered detritus. Everything was filthy, tangled in coils of root and scorched sinew.

  “Mostly animal bones here,” he said after a minute, nudging aside a charred ribcage with his boot. “But some… not.”

  Elara crouched nearby, brushing soot and moss from a partially buried object. She held up a tarnished metal buckle, the design barely visible beneath the grime. “Old craftsmanship,” she murmured. “Could be worth something. Or at least give us a date on how long this place has been raided.”

  Misty, still sprawled near the fading firelight, flicked one ear without lifting her head. ‘I told you. Scavengers never clean. But they hoard like mad. There's always something buried if you're willing to get your paws dirty.’

  Del grunted. “Great. Let’s loot the corpse pile and—”

  He paused as Misty’s head shot up, nose twitching. She turned sharply toward the far side of the chamber, ears perked.

  ‘Wait.’ Her tail flicked once, sharply. ‘I smell water.’

  Del looked towards the spot she indicated, "Misty has found water," he said

  Elara rose, brushing soot from her knees. “Water? Here?”

  ‘Not much. But it’s fresh. And moving.’

  Misty pushed herself upright, legs stiff, and limped toward a dark crevice near the wall, her nose practically pressed to the stone. She circled a protruding root, then pawed at the dirt beside it.

  Del followed, curiosity piqued. Behind a tangle of half-burned detritus and roots, a trickle of clear water ran down the rock face, collecting in a shallow basin barely wider than a kitchen sink. From there, it vanished into a narrow crack in the floor, lost to shadow.

  Elara joined them, crouching beside the basin. She dipped her fingers in, eyes widening slightly. “It’s clean. Cold, too.”

  Del knelt and cupped his hands, scooping a palmful to his lips. It was sharp and sweet and tasted of nothing but stone and cold. His cracked lips stung, but the water went down like balm.

  Misty, meanwhile, had climbed delicately onto the edge of the basin and was now washing her paws with single-minded focus, ears pinned back.

  ‘This is the only thing keeping me from suggesting setting this entire pit on fire again.’

  ‘It’s good to hear you so magnanimous’ Del shot back, wiping his face with the damp cloth from earlier.

  Misty didn’t dignify that with a reply. She had one paw braced on the rock while the other received an increasingly aggressive tongue-lashing.

  Elara leaned back on her heels, letting the cool air rising off the water wash over her face. “This feels like a gift,” she murmured. “After everything.”

  Del nodded, his voice quiet. “Yeah. Like the place hasn’t completely forgotten mercy.”

  For a moment, none of them moved. The water trickled on, soft and steady, a rare sound of peace in a place built for death.

  Elara ran a damp cloth down her arm, wiping away the last of the ash. Misty, finally finished with her own furious cleaning, gave one last shake and dropped to her haunches.

  ‘Alright,’ she muttered, ears flicking. ‘I suppose if I don’t help, you two will miss anything not labelled “worth it” in big glowing letters.’

  She sniffed the air, her whiskers twitching. Then she froze.

  Her nose wrinkled. ‘There’s something under this heap,’ she said, already stalking back toward a mound of half-charred debris and pawing at it with sudden purpose.

  Del moved to join her, crouching beside the pile. The mix of bone shards, old cloth, and slick roots gave way under Misty’s claws, revealing the curve of something buried deep. Brushing the rest clear with one hand, Del uncovered a leather bag—half-rotted and gnawed around the edges, but still intact. He eased it out gently, careful not to jostle whatever it contained.

  Elara stepped over, her light casting long shadows across the muck. “What’ve you got?”

  Del unfastened the flap. Inside, nestled in padded pockets, were a half-dozen small glass vials—most shattered, their contents dried to sticky residue. But three remained sealed and intact: one deep crimson, likely a healing draught; one iridescent blue that shimmered like oil in water; and one thin and silver, marked with runes he couldn’t read.

  “Huh.” He held them up one at a time. “Any guesses?”

  Elara tilted her head. “The red’s obvious. The blue could be stamina or resistance… maybe elemental protection. That silver one? No idea.”

  Del tucked them carefully into his own pouch. “We’ll test it when we’re not covered in skep innards.”

  Misty, now thoroughly filthy, sneezed once and turned her attention back to the pit. ‘There’s more. Not as interesting, but still.’

  What she unearthed next was less dramatic—a rusted buckle, a bone-handled knife with a notched blade, and a small wooden box tied shut with twine. Del opened it cautiously, half-expecting a trap. Inside were seven smooth stones, each etched with faint runes.

  “Rune tokens,” Elara said softly. “For good luck. Traders carry them. Not magical… just tradition.”

  Del ran his thumb over one. The grooves were shallow but deliberate. “Feels like something worth keeping.”

  Finally, Misty stopped digging and gave a faint, tired ‘Mrrp.’ Her paw nudged something small and oddly clean amid the grime. Del knelt to retrieve it—his fingers closed around a carved figurine, cool and smooth to the touch.

  It was small, no bigger than his palm, but exquisitely detailed. A warrior stood carved in dark, weathered wood, armour crisply defined, a spear held vertical at his side. Despite the dirt, it felt… solemn.

  Elara moved to his shoulder. “That’s Thaldris,” she said softly. “God of war and honour. It’s old—very old.”

  Del turned it over in his hand. “What’s it doing here?” The figure seemed untouched by time, untouched by the filth surrounding it, as though it had simply waited.

  Misty eyed it warily. ‘If it starts glowing or starts whispering, either one. I’m leaving.’

  Del snorted, slipping the figurine into his pack. “Fair enough.”

  They searched a while longer, but the rest of the chamber yielded only detritus—rusted tools, splintered pottery, bones too large to contemplate. Misty briefly investigated a lone, intact boot before turning away in disdain. ‘Unworthy.’

  Eventually they gathered near the spring again, their packs a little fuller, their shoulders a little less heavy.

  Del sat back, staring at the dark ceiling. “You think that was the only lair mother?”

  Elara didn’t answer right away. “I hope so.”

  Misty, now curled with her tail wrapped neatly around herself, yawned. ‘Even if she wasn’t, we’re in no shape to go sniffing around the next one. We rest. Then we decide.’

  Del exhaled slowly. She was right. His whole body ached. The glow of victory had already dulled, replaced with a grinding weariness.

  He leaned back against the wall, the damp stone cool against his spine. The flickering remnants of light cast soft shadows around them. It almost felt peaceful—if he ignored the smell.

  ‘We’ll give it a few hours,’ he thought. ‘We made it through. That’s enough for today.’

  He glanced at Elara. She’d closed her eyes, still upright but quiet. Misty was silent too, tail flicking once, then still.

  They didn’t need to speak.

  For the first time in what felt like days, Del allowed himself to rest.