The force in Silas's head tugged him forward until his movements grew smoother, almost human. At first, his limbs jerked and twitched awkwardly, his joints bending at exaggerated angles. The pressure morphed as he moved. It retained complete control over Silas's body, but seemed to gain an understanding of how to pilot its host. He drove forward, faster now, almost running. Those behind him quickened their pace to keep him in sight.

  Silas turned his attention outward, straining to hear the murmured whispers of his pursuers. They followed at a distance, their voices muffled and distorted by the echo in the cave. Were they talking about him? Silas was surprised at how quickly the other Arbiters fell in line, obeying the Archarbiter's order to follow. He wondered how much they knew—how much Malrick Sorne had told them about his situation. About what he could do.

  The murmurs behind Silas became louder and clearer. Silas concentrated on the voices until they were intelligible. Harlowe was arguing with the Archarbiter—demanding answers.

  "What is wrong with you people?" the bargemaster asked. "Why are you so hell-bent on following a possessed boy into unmapped caverns?"

  The Archarbiter began to interject, but Harlowe cut him off, his volume rising.

  "Maybe you Arbiters need a history lesson to remind you how dangerous Coldspire is. This pit may have been built by ancient humans to pump groundwater to the surface—to feed the Great Canals—but the caverns down here are largely uncharted." Harlowe paused to catch his breath. He inhaled deeply. "Countless spelunkers have vanished in these depths. Some wedged themselves into crevices, never to return; others were crushed in cave-ins, their bodies unrecoverable. What are you thinking, following this disturbed child down here? Is this some sort of group suicide attempt?"

  A moment of silence. Then, the Archarbiter said, "As I have repeated several times, Captain, all will be revealed shortly."

  Harlowe swore, his language so vulgar that Silas would have blushed if his body were his own.

  "You have performed your job admirably, Harlowe," said Sorne. "You do not have to follow us if it pains you so. You have free will. You can turn around and wait for us in the cavern."

  "Wait for you to die—you mean?" the bargemaster scoffed. "I might not know these caves, but I know Coldspire better than you. I won't leave you all to perish alone down here."

  The argument ebbed and flowed. The Archarbiter never answered the bargemaster's questions—he always rerouted the conversation or dodged with his usual vague, cryptic statements. Silas ignored them after a while—their words drowned out by the pressure in his head evolving into a feral ferocity. He sped up—his legs blurred. He was sprinting now. His muscles ached, his chest burned—begging for a break. But he was so close, he had to go on. Freedom hovered just out of reach—so near he could almost taste it.

  Whose thoughts are these? Silas wondered. This desire is not my own. Who or what is luring me down here?

  Someone ran up beside him. Silas heard urgent bootsteps and gasping breath as his pursuer hastened to catch up.

  "Silas, are you in there?"

  It was Stroud. Through his peripheral vision, Silas could see her hovering at his left side, her feet barely flying over the cold ground. She carried Silas's lantern; he spotted the crack spidering along its glass. The light bobbed up and down as she ran, projecting a dizzying kaleidoscope against the cave walls.

  I am! he cried out in his mind, but he could do no more than that.

  A hand grabbed his right shoulder. Silas tripped, stumbling forward. His legs regained their balance, and his desperate flight continued.

  "Oscar, don't touch him!" Stroud hissed through her teeth. "Remember what happened when I tried that last?"

  Her words stung, but they rang true. Silas couldn't believe he had lashed out at Stroud like that. What if he had hurt her? What if he had killed her? He needed to learn how to control these abilities. But right now, he couldn't even control himself.

  "I-I just thought maybe he would come back to himself if… if I—" Oscar's voice broke, his breath ragged.

  Stroud interrupted Oscar's fumbling. She inhaled sharply, the words forced from her mouth with a wheeze. "I figured this wouldn't work. Let's leave him be for now." She gulped down several breaths. "We'll try again later. Fall back."

  Stroud disappeared from Silas's line of sight. Oscar lingered for a moment longer, his arm outstretched, hand grasping for Silas's shoulder. He eventually reeled his arm in and slowed, falling behind until Silas could no longer see him.

  It was silent for a while. Nobody spoke—even the bargemaster ceased his feeble attempts to sway the Archarbiter's opinion. The only thing Silas could hear was the steady tap tap tap of running bootsteps and those chasing him, gasping for breath. Just when Silas thought his legs would finally give out, he stopped suddenly, his boots squealing to a halt. He stood before a solid wall of collapsed stone—a cave-in barring his way. The pressure in his head mounted into intense frustration. He growled low in his throat like an animal, his teeth bared and his eyes wild. His head tilted side-to-side, honing in on something. Renald Drascourt strutted into view. He perspired through his makeup. His skin melted, the foundation dripping off his chin in rivulets.

  "How disturbing," he drawled, crouching in front of Silas. He came within centimeters of Silas's face, so close the boy could smell his pungent cologne.

  Silas wished he could scrunch up his nose in distaste. Drascourt mimicked Silas, flinging his head from shoulder to shoulder. When Silas's head snapped straight up, Drascourt flung himself back, crying out in hyperbolic fear.

  Silas lurched forward, his legs moving faster than the rest of him. Drascourt scurried out of the way before Silas barreled into him. Silas lunged. He soared through the air before landing on the rock wall, poised on all fours. He dug at the stone, pawing at it like he could dig through to the other side. The rock didn’t budge.

  The seams of his new gloves split. Stroud had just given them to him! The sight thrust a bolt of despair through his heart. He watched in horror as his fingernails split and his skin tore. Blood bloomed from his frayed skin as he tore madly at the jagged surface.

  There was movement from behind. Then, someone grabbed him. Strong arms held him by the shoulders and lifted him off his feet. Silas thrashed, his legs kicking, his arms flailing.

  "Oscar, help me!" Stroud breathed into Silas's ear. So it was she who had pulled him from the wall.

  Oscar squatted at Silas's feet and wrapped his arms around the boy's legs. Together, he and Stroud wrestled Silas to the ground. Silas wailed—an inhuman, animalistic sound that tore from his throat. In the narrow tunnel, the sound boomed back, haunting and monstrous. Stroud lay on top of him, pinning his arms to his sides while Oscar did the same to his feet. Stroud lifted her head to address someone in front of her. A bead of sweat fell from her chin and splattered against Silas's cheek.

  "I brought incendiaries. Do we use them?" Her eyes darted around, directing the question at anyone willing to answer.

  "You've lost your wits!" said Harlowe, exasperated. "You'll kill us all! The tunnel will collapse on our heads!"

  Stroud said nothing. She glared at a single spot, her jaw clenched. She held Silas down while he continued to thrash and struggle. His wails had deflated into pathetic mewling. He sounded like a lost kitten.

  The Archarbiter stepped closer. From Silas's perspective on the ground, Sorne loomed above him. He appeared upside-down, like a bat hanging from the ceiling. Sorne's gaze was downcast, staring at Silas listlessly. He looked bored, uninterested. Silas's head lifted up and slammed back down. He bit his cheek. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  "Do it," Sorne said at last. A grin twitched at the corners of his lips.

  "They're in Oscar's backpack," Stroud said, flicking her head at her Warden. "Someone fetch them."

  Ravelin hurried over. She sighed, crouched, and began unfastening Oscar's pack. She pulled several glass phials from its interior, placing them on the ground beside her. Their innards sloshed with a shimmering golden liquid. Wicks of white thread protruded from their corks.

  "Did you bring a fire-starter?" Ravelin asked, her arms digging deeper.

  "Front pocket," Oscar grunted. He straddled Silas's legs with his own. His face was red with the effort of keeping the boy's feet from kicking.

  Ravelin freed a box of matches from the anterior compartment. She then gathered the materials in her arms and disappeared from view. Silas heard a tinkling sound, like glass meeting stone. Then, Ravelin said, "Is everyone ready?"

  "This is a terrible idea," Harlowe protested, his voice distant. He must have backed far away to avoid the blast.

  "One moment," Stroud said. She adjusted herself so she was holding Silas down with her knees pressed into his shoulders. She clamped his ears between her palms. "Now!" she yelled, glancing over her shoulder.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Silas heard the sound of a striking match. Then, Ravelin ran past, retreating away from the wall. Nothing happened for a moment. Silas listened to Stroud and Oscar's heavy breathing as he squirmed under their grip.

  Then, a thunderous detonation tore through the tunnel. Stroud's hands did little to dampen the stentorian blow. Sharp points of stone rained down, stinging their skin. Stroud tried to block Silas from the onslaught, but a pebble still struck him on the side of the head. When the dust settled, Ravelin and the others cautiously approached.

  "Is it safe?" Stroud asked, coughing through the dust cloud.

  Ravelin wandered farther in. She poked around, feeling the walls to test their support. She swung her lantern in a wide arc, gauging the stability of the new tunnel.

  "It's safe," she confirmed, stepping away from the opening. She peered down at Silas, her face screwed up in disgust.

  Stroud nodded at Oscar. Simultaneously, they released Silas, scooting away to give him space. Silas scrambled to his feet. He stood there, panting, as the others watched him cautiously. He then reeled forward and quickly broke into a run.

  "Blast it!" shouted Drascourt. "I am tired of running after him."

  "Bear with it for a breath longer, Renald," Sorne said placatingly. "I have a feeling we're almost there."

  "Almost where?" Harlowe asked, low and angry. "Where is he leading us?"

  "The exact location is a mystery even to me, Captain," Sorne responded after a pause. "However, I suspect all of our queries will be addressed shortly."

  Silas heard nondescript mumbling from the bargemaster, but soon all the voices behind him faded into obscurity. He was unsure if he no longer heard them because they were too far away, or if the tugging pressure was blocking out all external stimuli. Silas knew one thing for certain: he would arrive at the source of the pressure soon. His pulse accelerated excitedly, and a laugh bubbled from his chest. Was the laughter of his own volition, or was the pressure directing this giddy sense of glee? What was waiting for him at the other end of these tugging strings? Fear of the unknown fought against the exuberance. The emotions nullified each other, leaving him numb.

  Silas tore through several branching intersections. He rounded each corner, turning left or right seemingly at random without pause for deliberation. He hoped someone behind him was keeping track of their turns. He was running down these bends so quickly he couldn't keep up! Plus, each murky tunnel he turned down looked the same as the last. He feared he was leading everyone to their doom.

  "What are you doing, Elsbeth?" asked the Archarbiter. His voice was closer than Silas had expected.

  There was a scratching sound, grating like nails on a chalkboard. "I'm marking our path," she answered breathlessly. Her voice came between breaths, the scrape of metal against stone punctuating each word. "Nobody else is. I'd rather not die lost and starving down here."

  Silas inwardly sighed with relief.

  "Smart thinking," Stroud called from farther away. "I have a strong suspicion the little mouse isn't taking a mental note of his surroundings. I'm not certain he's aware of what he's doing at all."

  As Silas ran, adjacent tunnels on either side of him converged, funneling into the one he ran down. When the tunnels met, the space widened dramatically—opening into a cavern. Silas saw a light at the end of the tunnel. It was dim at first, but the farther he ran, the brighter it became until its blinding fulgence seared his retinas. He wished he could turn away or close his eyes, but his puppeteer refused him this mercy.

  Silas stopped before a metallic wall. He realized he was wrong about there being a light at the end of the tunnel. The lanterns carried by his pursuers reflected from the polished surface. Silas was reminded of the Archarbiter's pretentious vehicle.

  Silas spotted an orb jutting from the wall at the edge of his peripheral vision. His head swiveled to appraise the round protrusion in more detail. He lumbered closer, his eyes boring into the object. His fingers grasped it and turned. He was met with resistance, the orb refusing to make a complete rotation.

  It's a door handle! Silas finally noticed the door's faint rectangular outline. The door was composed of the same metal as the wall, and it was sealed so snugly it appeared to be melded into the surface.

  Frustration consumed Silas. How dare this door bar his passage? He closed both of his fists over the door handle and pushed with all his might; his foot stamped on the wall for leverage. He ground his teeth, grunting with the effort. Nothing happened. Enraged, he banged his fists on the door. Each knock sent pulses of pain through his raw fingertips.

  "Oh, what fun, we're doing this again," came Stroud's sardonic voice. "Oscar, you know what to do."

  Arms wound around Silas's torso. His feet left the ground. He screamed and thrashed—his head flying back to slam into something hard. There was a sound like an eggshell crunching under a boot. Oscar roared in pain and let go. Silas dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled forward, his trousers tearing as his knees scraped the rough ground. Stroud swore. A heavy boot landed on Silas's back. He flailed like a squashed bug, his fingers and toes curling to dig into the ground.

  "Oscar, are you alright?" Stroud said from above Silas.

  "The brat broke my nose!" Oscar said, his voice nasally like he suffered from a cold.

  Stroud sighed. "Did anyone bring an apothecary box? My Warden's humors are spewing all over the ground."

  "Here, Warden Oscar," Maris said quietly. "Is tissue paper okay for now?"

  This was the first time Maris had spoken since delving into Coldspire. She sounded uncertain of herself, like any words she said would implicate her. She was so vivacious at Crownhold's canteen! Silas pondered whether this morose fa?ade was how she normally acted around her Senior or if the current situation had chastened her.

  "Maris, those are my tissues that I bought with my money for use on my delicate face," Drascourt seethed.

  "I apologize, Senior Arbiter Drascourt," Maris said, her voice cracking. "Allow me to finance a fresh stock of tissue paper later. For now, I believe Oscar's needs are paramount. You wouldn't want to soil your new boots by stepping in his blood, would you?"

  Drascourt grumbled something but relented. Oscar thanked Maris, grateful she stood up to her Senior for him. Silas could see none of this. He turned his face, the ground stabbing into his cheek. He glared at the metal wall, pushing with his palms pressed into the ground in an attempt to throw off the boot that stepped between his shoulder blades. Stroud leaned forward, pushing down with her full body weight. Silas could hardly breathe.

  "Could someone help me with this?" Stroud's tone was clipped, her boot digging into Silas's ribs. "I have a door to kick down."

  Hands grabbed Silas's wrists and ankles. Someone stepped on the back of his head, forcing his cheek deeper into the ground. Stroud's boot lifted from his back. He inhaled deeply, his lungs greedily sucking in air. Silas watched Stroud saunter over to the door. She bent low, then stretched on tip-of-toes, examining every inch at a languid pace.

  "Some haste would do nicely, Vera," Sorne said from somewhere behind Silas.

  Stroud turned, her lips tight with annoyance.

  "You can't rush art, Archarbiter Sorne," she quipped. She turned back around and tilted her hips, balancing on one leg.

  "I didn't know you were an artist," Sorne responded dully.

  "That's because you are not a connoisseur in the art of breaking and entering," Stroud said and thrust her elevated leg forward. Her boot crashed into the door with a percussive thud.

  The rusted hinges splintered. Stroud put her foot down and raised the opposite one. She kicked again; the second blow tore the hinges loose. The door swung inward—flung wide by the force of Stroud's blow. The pressure in Silas's head snapped like a rubber band. His head jerked up as a gasp escaped his throat. Stroud turned at the sound, frowning down at Silas.

  "Alright, let him go," she said, snapping her fingers to emphasize her order.

  Silas's captors released him. He leapt to his feet and sprang forward. Before he could cross the threshold, hands clamped on his arms from behind. His momentum—and the powerful grip of whoever had grabbed him—spun him around to face the Arbiters. Silas bared his teeth and growled. He hissed, thrashing and flailing with all his might. The Arbiters watched him, their faces bearing varying degrees of disgust and exhaustion. Oscar leaned against the cave wall, pressing a blood-soaked tissue to his swollen schnozz. Stroud alternated glances between Silas and the person behind him. Her mouth opened and closed, words dying before they formed. Silas noticed the only person missing from his line of sight was the bargemaster.

  "Nobody moves until someone tells me what's in there," Harlowe said. As he spoke, his beard tickled the back of Silas's neck.

  A sound emanated from the room behind Silas. It was so quiet he wondered if he imagined it. The bargemaster didn't seem to notice. His iron fingers locked around Silas's arms. Silas marveled at how strong the bargemaster was. His hands were unyielding like metal brackets.

  The Archarbiter stepped forward. He walked to the center of the tunnel, unsheathing his sword as he did so. Its blade caught stray beams of lantern light, glinting incandescence like it had been baking in a furnace. Sorne stopped in front of Silas and Harlowe. He extended his sword arm until the tip of his blade came to rest inches from the bargemaster's throat. As Silas continued to shift in Harlowe's grip, slivers of his hair rained down, severed from his scalp by the sharp blade that hovered above his head.

  "Release him," Sorne said with an unmodulated tone. "Now." The blade advanced an inch. Harlowe released Silas, his body still while his fingers relaxed.

  Silas lunged through the dark doorway and rushed inside.

  He couldn't see, but his legs knew where to carry him. Silas's nose was accosted with a putrid stench. The harsh tang of concentrated ammonia brought tears to his eyes. His stomach rose in his throat, rebelling against the odor of manure and feces. There was movement all around him. He felt eyes watching him from the darkness. His skin prickled with gooseflesh.

  He reached the center of the room when the strings were cut. Sensation flooded back into his limbs. He sank to the floor, his knees buckling. His muscles trembled and his lungs ached from running for so long. Throbbing pain crept up his fingers, reminding him of his shredded gloves.

  His body was his own again, but the pressure in his head remained. Forces pushed and prodded at it like its integrity was being tested.

  I am not alone, Silas thought, straining his eyes against the encompassing darkness.

  Bootsteps approached from behind. Silas turned to watch Stroud enter the room. She held her lantern at arm's length, using its light to guide her way. Her other hand pinched her nostrils shut against the stench. She spotted Silas and her eyes widened. She jogged over to him.

  She crouched beside him. "Silas, have you come back to yourself?"

  Silas shook with fear. He tried to form his clumsy fingers into the sign for "danger," but they were shaking so badly he failed to get the message across.

  Stroud furrowed her brow and scanned the darkness. Did she understand what he was trying to say?

  Silas climbed to his feet—his heart beating so hard he feared whatever stalked from the shadows could hear it. Silas grabbed Stroud's hand and pulled her toward the doorway. She stared at him, her lips parted. The Archarbiter idled outside. He then stepped through and groped along the wall. There was a click, and harsh light flooded the room.

  Silas forced his eyes shut, wincing against the sudden brightness. Stroud's hand squeezed Silas's so hard his bones ground together. Silas peeked open his eyes, peering up at Stroud in confusion. Her jaw was clenched, and a vein pulsed at her temple. Silas followed her gaze.

  A horde of starved animals stood before them. Silas's eyes darted around, taking everything in. Birds wheeled madly overhead, wings beating the air into chaos. Deer, coyotes, cows, pigs, monkeys, big cats, and animals Silas could not name watched them. A skeletal panther crept forward, its long claws clacking against the tile floor. It snarled and drooled, sticky saliva dripping from its jowls. Silas felt the pressure in his head shift. Was this panther the one that led him here?

  Before he could contemplate this further, the panther pounced. All at once, the other animals followed suit, charging forward as a stampede.