The door bursts open to wailing, a high-pitched choke of sobs. Abi runs through, shielding her grief with her elbow. Coel doesn't immediately start after her, only sighs heavily and slumps his shoulders.

  Rivin, who's helping Ricket clean his face again, looks up and tilts his head. He sees her shadow move past the open window, the wrong direction for the sound of the pickaxe chiming. He straightens, alarmed, and palms the rag off before stepping towards the door. “She shouldn't be alone.”

  Coel nods, turns away. “I’ll go after her.”

  Rivin follows him out. “What happened?”

  The boy tenses. “She’s just scared.”

  Rivin relaxes. “We got a little carried away in there.”

  Coel smiles then, “No. It was… Nice. In a weird way. Like family.”

  Their eyes follow the fresh trail in the dirt, the dissipating figure of Abi as she stumbles and whimpers into the darkness.

  “She thinks Mama is still waiting.” Coel confesses quietly, his eyes half-lidded and tired now. “She was sick a while before we were taken.”

  Rivin stills, a ringing setting off in his ears. “Sick…?”

  Coel nods. “She thinks she’ll still be there, so she doesn't want to go.” His gaze drops.

  She's getting further and further away.

  The older teen understands, furrowing his brow. “You're going home.”

  “If you can call it that.” The boy murmurs, bitter.

  “You don't want to,” Rivin guesses.

  “I…” He doesn't answer right away, instead biting his bottom lip and pressing down. “I want to die in the sun, too.” His voice is so small.

  Rivin leans against the door, fallen closed behind them now. He's still watching Abi’s silhouette before it disappears, devoured by the dark. “You’ve got to protect her.”

  “I know.” Says Coel.

  Rivin, surprised, lifts a brow. “You don't want to?”

  “It's not that. I’m useless there. We all are.”

  “Not to her.”

  Coel sucks in a breath. “It's my fault we were taken,” he breathes out. “Those Angels said they would help.”

  Rivin’s head turns slowly. His heart a rapid plunging pulse.

  “They said they could cure her if we went with them.”

  It sounds too familiar.

  “I couldn't protect her,” Coel continues, sniffling. “I can't. I'm too weak.” He looks up again through wet lashes. “I want to become strong.”

  “You will.” Rivin touches his shoulder. “We’ll need strong big brothers soon.” Steel eyes float towards the distance again, the outline of a crag in the depths. “I think she needs you now.” He doesn't push any further, doesn't steer. Only waits.

  Coel’s eyes follow his, silent for a moment as the words wash over him. They seem to settle somewhere they’ll stick, for he straightens, fists his hand, and pushes off the step. “I'll go to her.”

  Rivin passes him a rusty lantern by the door and tweaks it to life, and before long, he's alone and watching a second figure disperse into nothing, with little else but the sound of footfalls crunching along the dirt to cushion the quiet.

  He's not alone for too long; the silence is his first clue of a tag-in. Roach, dusty and sweating, slugs the pickaxe over her shoulder as she appears, gaze set, not on Rivin, but rather on the now empty path stretching beyond them.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “That's the wrong way.” She scratches her head.

  Rivin raises a brow. “To where?”

  “Home.”

  “They're not going home.” Rivin responds, and she perks up, her face brightening before Rivin dashes the light in an instant. “Not yet. Abi’s scared.”

  The Queen huffs, wiping away the dampness from her forehead with the back of one filthy hand. “Smart kid,” she mutters.

  She's not wearing her jacket, and he can see the scars on her arms more clearly now than ever, the coiled scream of various beasts twisted into flesh, the oldest stretched out and misshapen now after multiple years of growth.

  “You've been busy.” He tells her, searching her face.

  She doesn't meet his eye, only grins wide and toothy. “I reckon you needed the time to sort yourselves out.”

  Rivin doesn't argue. “We did,” he says. “I'm sure you heard the verdict.”

  Her smile stretches, but her gaze looks heavy and haunted, weighed down by something he can't quite name. “I did.”

  Why does she look so… sad?

  “You got what you wanted.” He crosses his arms.

  Why is he… upset?

  She looks upon him, head tilted and curious. “Do you not want this?”

  That frustrates him. “You could've asked.” He glares. “You could've just asked. Dropping a bomb like that in front of everyone? Do you have any idea how stressful that was? For me? For Ricket? And then just leaving me to sort it all out?”

  “Don't baby them.” She scolds, turning away.

  “I'm being respectful of them. You're not respectful of anyone—”

  “I'm a queen.” She huffs, sticking out her lip.

  “You could be a friend.” Rivin mutters bitterly.

  She turns back and stares at him hard. Her wounded eye is mostly open again, the iris inflamed, the vessels burst in places, but still golden, still bright. “I'd like to be your best friend,” she tells him, earnest and unflinching.

  Rivin’s blood runs cold; his neck prickles. “Y-You—”

  But she's already gone, out of sight behind the tram.

  Rivin throws his head back, frowning up at the cavernous ceiling. His chest a river rapid collecting all the filed-down pieces he'd let overwhelm him. Still, he fists his hands, steels his heart, and follows her around the back.

  “You don't know—” he begins but pauses. Things have been moved around. Buckets of scrap and decoratives shoved aside. There are three more indents in the stone wall and the beginning of a fourth.

  “It's not much yet,” she exhales proudly, smiling again. “But it’ll get there.”

  “Five?” He asks beneath his breath.

  “Well, for now. We can always add to it; this place is all boulder. A city of thrones, ha ha, how ‘bout that?” She touches her palm to the cool stone, running her fingers along the freshest indents. Her face is ever so gently flushed a shy and blooming pink. “There will never be silence again,” she giggles. “Only noise.”

  Rivin feels his lips lift. He can hear the echo of her voice in his head as he says, “Poor thing.”

  She laughs again, tossing him a kind and tender look over one shoulder. “Yeah.”

  He approaches her side, watches her now, not rung by glittering fluttery insects, not breathing life into lungs, not dancing or singing or speaking in riddles, just here and now, dusty and dirty, a girl farewelling her solitude.

  Her hair is pulled from her face, fashioned into a bun with ripped rags, and her accessories, bones and tools bulge messily from within. Her eyelashes are long, and her lips are pale but full save the split scar still healing. There are other scars too, old and faint, freckled across her everywhere. Her body is bony and long; her fingers are too. Everything about her should push him away, should compel him to run—she still stinks of eel, of sweat and dirt and something earthy, maybe forest if it wasn't so buried, if he even knew what that smelt like.

  She looks so… happy.

  She looks…

  His stomach flutters and lifts as warmth rushes to his face. His fingers twitch to join hers on the wall, or perhaps to simply hold her; he doesn't know for sure. He doesn't move; he feels sick, the fear intertwined with everything else. So thickly pasted onto his soul. He swallows the other word still lingering on in his bones, clawing its way into his foolish, frightened core. He won't let it reach him. He won't let it. He won't—

  Pretty. She looks pretty.

  He deflects, forcing out, “I'm still cross with you.” His skin is burning. “If we're going to do this, you have to be honest; you have to tell me—us—everything.”

  He feels her hand before he sees it, gentle over his knuckles, new blisters warm against his skin. He looks up to find her eyes again, her expression soft, like she’s an old stray about to purr for the first time. “You're part of me now.” She tilts her head and dark hair falls across her face, curls heavy where they've come unfurled. “I'll tell you anything.”

  Rivin flinches away. He doesn't mean to, but he does. He finds it strange, strange that she's acting like this when he—

  When he’d jumped away.

  There's no distance.

  Where is the distance?

  He'd walked the right path, right?

  “Roach, about earlier—” he begins, but she doesn't let him finish.

  “I'll wait.” She shrugs, still grinning. “I'm a patient gal.” She spins to the side, beholden, once more, to the barely-there benches of stone, placing one hand on her hip.

  Rivin struggles to find the words. “That's not what I meant. I'm not—”

  “We've got a lot ‘o’ growing to do, Ghost,” she throws back another beaming smile. “The only promise I need tonight is the one where you come with me.”

  The sentence dies on his tongue, his skin flushed with heat, his stomach an aviary flocked with soft wings. He jaw ticks, teeth grinding.

  He's weak. So weak.

  Yet, he reaches out and finds her shoulder.

  And he tells her clearly, hopelessly, “I'm coming with you.”

  Because she’s right.

  There's nothing more to say.

  Not yet.

  Not until they’re grown.