The air had grown colder.
Nearly an hour had passed since they had crashed into the dark, damp unknown. Jiang Fei was upright now, walking beside Huang, one arm slung over the other boy's shoulder. His breaths came evenly, and his gait was steady — but Huang could feel the truth in every tremble of Fei's weight.
"You don't need to carry me," Fei muttered, voice low.
"You're not exactly light," Huang replied, not unkindly. "But if I let go, you fall flat on your noble face. Then we both get crushed in a tomb no one even remembers."
Fei huffed a humorless breath. "Fine. Carry on, loyal subject."
The narrow passage they followed was barely wide enough for them to walk side by side, hunched low. The stone underfoot was slick, and the ceiling pressed close, held up by half-rotted wooden beams that moaned with age.
Roots dangled like fingers from above. Every few steps, one would brush their heads, cold and wet. The glow from the bioluminescent moss along the cracks barely reached far ahead.
Huang stopped at a split in the tunnel — a jagged opening on the left where old water had carved a path, and a narrower crawl space to the right.
"No markings," he murmured.
"No formations either," Fei said. "But the air pulls that way." He nodded left.
"You sure?" Huang asked.
Fei hesitated — then smiled faintly. "No. But it smells less like death."
They moved left.
Each step came slower. The silence between them wasn't awkward — more like a hush that the earth itself demanded. After a while, Fei spoke again, voice barely more than breath.
"They wanted me dead."
Huang didn't answer.
"I knew I was inconvenient. But… Wei and the others were always smiling. Always laughing."
"Smiling doesn't mean they don't hate you," Huang replied quietly. "Slaves know that better than anyone."
Fei winced — not from the words, but from a jolt of pain inside him. His hand brushed his chest. His core still bled qi like a cracked vessel. Worse, the talisman hadn't just drained his strength — it had cut into him, lacerating the outer sheath of his soul. If left untreated, it would rot him from the inside.
"I shouldn't be walking," he admitted finally. "What that talisman did… it wounded my soul. That's why I was nearly unconscious."
Huang glanced at him, surprised by the honesty.
Fei chuckled weakly. "Didn't think I'd say it, huh?"
"I didn't think nobles could even admit weakness."
Fei's smile turned bitter. "That's why we die so easily. Because we pretend we can't bleed."
They ducked under a beam and entered a stretch of tunnel where water dripped in steady rhythm. A breeze stirred faintly ahead — the first sign of open space.
"We'll need to find you a healer," Huang said.
Fei laughed, then winced again. "You say that like there's a door back to the surface somewhere around the next bend."
"We'll find one," Huang said simply. "Or I'll carry you until we do."
Fei turned his head slightly to look at him. "You really are nothing like a slave."
Huang didn't answer.
The silence returned. But it felt different now — warmer. Shared.
At length, Fei spoke again, softer this time. "My father had three sons. One vanished. One inherited the sword. I was… the quiet one. Too slow with the blade. Too curious about things that didn't matter."
"Sounds like you didn't belong," Huang said.
Fei gave a tired nod. "But I think I'd rather not belong than live like them."
Huang reached out to steady them both as the tunnel dipped suddenly downward, slick with algae.
Fei leaned into him. "I meant what I said earlier… about you being the reason I'm still alive. You didn't have to do anything. You could've run."
"Couldn't," Huang said. "You would've slowed them down."
Fei laughed again. It hurt. "Still pretending to be selfish?"
"I'm not pretending."
This time, Fei said nothing. But he didn't let go of Huang's shoulder either.
They moved forward, step by slow step, two figures pressed together by stone, pain, and betrayal — yet somehow, walking toward something neither of them had ever known: trust.
And somewhere beyond the damp and the dark, the tomb listened.