Chapter 20: The Choke Point

  Dawn comes slow underground. Not real dawn, just the shift in my body that says the night is over, that ancient rhythm humans and nekojin share regardless of whether we can see the sun. The lamp has burned low but not out, its yellow-orange light mixing with the steady blue-green of the sanctuary symbols. The chamber feels smaller in this half-light, more intimate, more like the home we are about to risk losing.

  Kira shifts on her pallet. She has not been asleep for a while, based on her breathing. She is just lying there, thinking. Her ears twitch occasionally, listening to the same sounds I am. The stream flowing through its channel. The slow pulse of the symbols. The settling sounds of ancient stone far above us.

  "You awake?" Her voice is quiet.

  "Yeah."

  She sits up and wraps the fur around her shoulders against the morning chill. Stone holds cold, and even with the furs we are never quite warm in the lower levels. She pulls her knees up, small in the oversized fur. Her gray eyes reflect what little light there is.

  "Could not sleep."

  "Your watch is not for another hour."

  "I know." She is quiet for a moment. Her tail wraps around her ankles, a self-comfort gesture I have learned to recognize. Then: "Just kept thinking about today."

  I do not ask what specifically. I can guess easily enough. The hunters. The dogs that should be arriving this morning if the timeline holds. What happens when they find the entrance. The same fears that kept me alert during my entire watch.

  I swing my legs off the pallet and stand, rolling the stiffness out of my shoulders. The old scar tissue on my left side protests the way it always does after sleeping on cold stone, a dull ache through the healed wolf bite and the sword wound beneath it. I flex my left hand and the three strong fingers close while the pinky and ring finger curl their familiar halfway. The nerve damage is permanent now, part of me the way the scars are part of me, but it does not slow me down anymore. I have spent weeks training around it, adapting my grip and my draw and my fighting technique until the limitation barely registers.

  "Today might be the day," I say. "We should be ready."

  Kira nods and rises from her pallet, moving through the stretching routine we developed together during our weeks in the upper sanctuary. She is efficient about it now, warming each muscle group, loosening joints, preparing her body for whatever comes. Her scarred feet grip the stone with confidence, the thick scar tissue on her soles giving her traction where bare skin would slip. She moves like someone who has spent weeks learning to trust her own body again.

  I check our supplies. The packs are staged near the passage leading deeper, ready to grab if we have to retreat fast. Bow and quiver leaning against the wall within arm's reach. Twenty-three arrows. Twelve for the quiver, eleven more bundled in reserve. Knives positioned at the entrance where we can reach them in the dark if necessary. Everything arranged with the kind of deliberate precision that only comes from having too much time to prepare and not enough certainty about what you are preparing for.

  "I want to run through the positions one more time," I say. "The choke points. The fallback routes. Where you station if they breach the entrance."

  "I know them."

  "Knowing them and being able to find them in the dark while panicking are different things."

  She does not argue because she knows I am right. We walk through the plan together, moving through the lower sanctuary passages in the blue-green light, confirming sight lines and distances and the exact placement of the supplies we staged at each fallback position. The narrow passage near the emergency stores where a single defender can hold against multiple attackers. The chamber beyond it with two exits. The final deep passage that leads toward the chamber with the unique marker, unexplored but available as a last resort.

  When we return to our chamber, I take the bow from the wall and nock an arrow. Draw back fully, testing the pull against my shoulder.

  Something shifts. My body does something I do not consciously choose. The stance changes. The angle of my elbow, the position of my fingers on the string, the way my breath catches at the perfect moment, all of it different. Better. The form of someone who has trained for years. It happens every time I draw now, this ghost of expertise rising through muscle memory from a life I cannot remember. Whoever I was before, they knew how to shoot.

  I hold for a count of five, then release slowly. Controlled. The shoulder holds. The draw is clean. The aim is steady.

  "Good?" Kira asks, watching my face.

  "Good enough." I set the bow down. "Not full power with the nerve damage, but enough to put an arrow through someone at close range. Enough to make them think twice about coming through that passage."

  She nods, her expression serious. She has stopped being afraid of the idea of violence over these past weeks. Not because she has become violent herself, but because she understands the mathematics of survival. Two nekojin against professional hunters with dogs. The numbers do not favor us. Every advantage matters.

  "My mother used to say nekojin were built for survival," she says quietly. "Faster healing. Sharper senses. Stronger for our size." She pauses. Then: "She said it was because the world was dangerous for our kind. So our bodies adapted."

  First time she has mentioned her mother without prompting. I want to ask more, want to know about her family, her life before the cage. But she is already moving on, checking the placement of the spare arrows, and the moment passes into the focused efficiency of two people preparing for a fight they cannot avoid.

  Right now we focus on survival.

  We eat after that, taking time with it. Not just gulping food down but actually paying attention. Pemmican first. The dried meat and fat mixture is dense, high energy. Tastes of smoke and salt and something herbal. Sage maybe. Or thyme. Hard to tell after so many years in storage.

  Kira chews slowly, making it last. "This is good."

  "Better than the fish."

  "Everything is better than the fish." She makes a face, her whiskers pulling back in exaggerated disgust. "The fish tastes like the bottom of someone's boot."

  "At least we'll die with full stomachs," she adds, and there's a ghost of dark humor in her voice.

  I stare at her.

  "What? After the raid, I ate bark and roots for a week. I've eaten things that would make this taste like festival bread." Her whiskers twitch"”the ghost of a smile. "If I'm going to die today, I'm not doing it hungry."

  Eight years old and making death jokes. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. But the humor"”however dark"”is progress. First sign of normal child breaking through the fear and trauma.

  The dried berries come next. Small and wrinkled and hard. We have to suck on them to soften before chewing. Tart and sweet at the same time. Probably juniper berries. High in nutrients. Good for healing.

  Hard travel bread last. More like stone than bread. We have to tear pieces off with our teeth and soak them in water from the stream to make them chewable. But it's sustenance. Grain and honey and something that might be nuts ground fine. Our bodies need the fuel.

  We eat in comfortable silence. The kind that comes from shared hardship. Shared survival. We don't need words. Just presence.

  When we're done, Kira moves to the teaching scroll. It's laid out carefully on a flat section of floor. Ancient parchment covered in symbols. The first one we opened from the sealed box. Instructions for reading their language.

  We've been practicing every day. Sometimes for hours. Learning the symbols slowly. It's harder than any language I've learned before. Each character can mean multiple things depending on context. On what symbols surround it. On small marks that change pronunciation or meaning.

  But we're getting better. Kira especially. She has a gift for it. She can already recognize maybe thirty characters. Basic ones. Common ones. Foundational symbols that appear in compound words.

  "What's that one?" She points.

  I look at the symbol. Curved line with three dots. I've seen it before. It appears frequently. "Water. Or stream. Something about flowing."

  "And that one?" She points to another.

  A circle with a star inside. "Not sure. Star? Light? Something about illumination maybe."

  "The teaching scroll says it means 'guide.' Like a star guiding travelers." She traces the symbol with her finger, learning its shape through touch as much as sight. "It appears in combination with other symbols. 'Star-path' means journey. 'Star-home' means destination."

  She's right. I can see it now. The way the symbols build on each other. Create meaning through combination. It's elegant. Sophisticated. A written language designed for complexity and precision.

  We work through more symbols. Building vocabulary slowly. Learning the grammar rules that seem to shift and change depending on context. It's frustrating. Progress is slow. But we're learning.

  The box yielded six scrolls total. The teaching scroll we're using now. A map of the sanctuary showing multiple levels and chambers. Two scrolls that appear to be historical records. One that might be philosophical or religious texts. And one we haven't fully examined yet, sealed with wax and marked with symbols we don't recognize.

  "Should we try another scroll?" Kira asks. "Now that we know more symbols?"

  I consider it. We've made good progress with the teaching scroll. We can read maybe a third of the basic symbols. Enough to attempt some of the other texts. But which one?

  The map would be most useful. Understanding the full layout of the sanctuary. Where different chambers are. What they contain. Potential exits or defensive positions.

  "The map," I say. "We need to understand this place better."

  Kira retrieves it from where we've stored the scrolls carefully in the sealed box. We treat them like treasure because that's what they are. Knowledge. History. Survival.

  The map is large. Nearly as long as I am tall. Ancient parchment that's somehow remained supple despite the years. The preservation magic or technique used is beyond anything I've seen.

  We unroll it carefully on the floor. Anchor the corners with stones. The glowing symbols on the walls provide enough light to see the intricate details.

  The sanctuary is enormous. I can see it clearly now. Multiple levels descending deep into the mountain. Dozens of chambers. Hundreds of passages connecting them. This place could house thousands. Was designed to house thousands. A city underground. A fortress hidden from the world.

  Our chamber is marked near the top. One of the main living areas. Large and easily accessible. Good for day-to-day living but not the most defensible position.

  Below us are more chambers. Storage rooms marked with symbols we're learning. "Grain-room. Water-room. Medicine-room. Weapon-room." Kira reads them slowly, sounding out the combinations. "They stored everything here. Everything needed for a long siege."

  "Or permanent habitation." I trace the passages with my finger. "This isn't just a hiding place. It's a home. A city. A civilization relocated underground."

  As I study the map, I begin to see the military thinking embedded in its design. Choke points where defenders can hold against many. Vertical shafts that stop humans but not nekojin. Multiple retreat routes that connect in ways attackers don't expect.

  Whoever built this place expected to fight for it.

  "Why?" Kira looks up at me, her ears tilting with curiosity. "Why would anyone build something like this? Why hide underground?"

  "Because above ground wasn't safe." It's obvious now. "The nekojin who built this were running from something. Or hiding from something. Something dangerous enough that they carved an entire city into a mountain."

  "Humans?"

  "Maybe. Or something else. Something that made the surface world too dangerous to remain." I study the lower levels. They're marked with different symbols. Ones that suggest fortification. Defense. "These lower chambers are defensive positions. Choke points where few could hold against many. Barriers that can be sealed. This was designed for war."

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  Kira is quiet, processing. Then: "Do you think they survived? The people who built this?"

  "I don't know." I look at the map. At the careful planning. The detail. The sophistication. "But they lasted long enough to leave us instructions. To leave us supplies. To give us a chance."

  We study the map for hours. Learning the layout. Memorizing passages. Understanding the defensive structure the ancient builders created. This sanctuary is a maze. Deliberately. Multiple routes to every major chamber. Dead ends that could trap invaders. Narrow passages that negate numerical advantage. Vertical shafts that require climbing skill to navigate.

  "They thought of everything," Kira says. Her tail sways with wonder.

  "They had to. This was their last refuge." I point to the lower levels. "And if we have to, we can retreat deeper. Chamber by chamber. Making them fight for every inch."

  "The hunters have equipment coming. Rope and ladders."

  "Which will help them get up the cliff. But inside?" I tap the map. "Inside they're in our territory. Fighting on our terms. In passages designed to favor the defenders."

  She nods slowly, understanding the implications. "We need to explore. Learn the layout ourselves. Know every passage and chamber."

  "Exactly. Starting tomorrow. We'll map it all out. Find the best defensive positions. The places we can hold if they get past the entrance."

  "If?"

  "When." I'm being realistic. "Master Kravik will find a way eventually. He's too smart, too well-equipped, too determined. But we can make it costly. We can make him work for every inch. And maybe..." I trail off.

  "Maybe what?"

  "Maybe we find another way out. Look." I point to marks at the edges of the map. Other locations marked with the crescent moon and star symbol. "These could be other sanctuaries. Connected by passages. Or at least marked as safe refuges."

  "You think we could reach them?"

  "I don't know. But it's an option. If we're trapped here, if the hunters get past all our defenses, we need an escape route." I meet her eyes. "We're not merchandise. We're not going back. Whatever it takes."

  She touches the pendant at her neck. The crescent moon and star. "Whatever it takes."

  The hours pass. We study the map until our eyes ache. Until we've memorized the major passages and chambers. Until we understand the layout well enough to navigate without constant reference.

  The sanctuary is huge. It would take days to explore fully. But we have time. Three days until the hunters return with equipment. Three days to learn this place. To turn it from refuge into fortress.

  By midday we're hungry again. Growing bodies and healing wounds demand fuel. We eat more pemmican, more dried fruit, more hard bread softened in water. Not varied or particularly tasty but it's sustenance.

  Something changes in the afternoon. Subtle at first. So subtle I almost miss it.

  The forest goes quiet outside.

  Not silent. Just quieter. The normal afternoon sounds of birds and wind and rustling leaves fade. Dampened. Like the forest is holding its breath. Waiting.

  Kira notices too. Her ears perk up, rotating and searching for the sound that isn't there. The absence that feels wrong.

  "Something's coming," she whispers.

  I freeze. Listening carefully. She's right. Something is out there. Something that makes the birds go quiet. That makes the small animals go still.

  And we're prey too. Despite our claws. Despite our teeth. In this world, nekojin are prey.

  I rise slowly. My hand goes to my bow. Kira's eyes are wide, pupils dilated. She feels it too. That predator sense that something dangerous is coming. Something that hunts.

  We wait. Barely breathing. Listening.

  At first there's nothing. Just that unnatural quiet. The forest holding its breath. Even the wind seems to have stopped. The leaves don't rustle. Nothing moves.

  Then. Faint. So faint I almost miss it. Distant.

  Barking.

  My blood goes cold. Ice floods through my veins. Every hair on my body stands up. My fur bristles along my spine, an instinct older than thought.

  Multiple dogs. Far away still. Maybe a mile. Maybe more. But getting closer. That distinctive baying sound of hounds on a scent trail. Trained hunting dogs that have found something. That excited howl that means prey ahead. Prey cornered. Prey close.

  "How many?" Kira's voice is barely audible.

  I listen carefully. Counting. It's hard to tell at this distance but there are at least three. Maybe five. Like they said. Like we overheard. Five tracking hounds. Best in three provinces. Able to follow old trails. Able to track through water. Able to find what humans cannot.

  We move fast now. No more practicing. No more learning symbols. Survival mode. I grab the packs we prepared days ago. Essential supplies already sorted. Tested. Ready.

  Waterskins full. Food wrapped tight. Weapons clean and sharp. The teaching scroll carefully rolled. The map. Medicine. Fire striker. Everything we need to survive deeper in the sanctuary.

  I douse what's left of the lamp. No light. No smoke. Nothing to give us away. The glow from the wall symbols is enough. That steady blue-green pulse that doesn't require fire. Doesn't create scent. Doesn't draw attention.

  "What do we do?" Kira's voice is steady but I can hear the fear underneath. The knowledge that this moment was always coming. That we knew it would. That preparation doesn't make it less terrifying.

  "We listen. We wait. We see how close they get." I position us where we can hear the entrance clearly but are ready to retreat. Behind the sealed box. Good cover. Good sight lines. Quick access to the deeper passages. "Stay calm. Stay quiet. We knew this was coming."

  She nods, gripping her small knife. The one I gave her before we climbed. Her knuckles are white but her hands aren't shaking. She's terrified but functional.

  The barking gets louder. Closer. Minutes pass like drops of water. Slow. Heavy. Each one an eternity. Coming from the east initially. Then shifting northeast as the pack follows whatever trail they've found. Then almost straight at us. Straight toward the cliff.

  They're tracking. Following our scent trail from days ago. From when I went down to scout. When I moved through the forest looking for signs of hunters. When I left tracks. Left scent. Left evidence.

  I should have been more careful. Should have done something to break the trail. But what? Water washes away scent but we'd have had to wade through streams for miles. And with my shoulder. With Kira's ankle. We'd never have made it.

  No point in regrets now. What's done is done. The dogs found our trail. Are following it. Coming closer with every second.

  Five minutes pass. The barking gets louder. Much louder. Maybe half a mile now. Close enough to hear the individual dogs. Different pitches. Different tones. Some deep and bellowing. Some higher. Sharper. All excited. All on the hunt.

  Kira presses closer to my side. Her tail wraps around my arm"”seeking comfort. I put my hand on her shoulder. Steady. Calming. Even though my own heart is pounding. Even though every instinct is screaming to run. To flee. To get as far away as possible.

  But running now would be noise. Would be movement. Would give away our exact position. Better to stay hidden. Stay silent. Let them search. Let them struggle. Let the sanctuary's defenses do their work.

  Ten minutes. The barking is loud now. Very loud. Maybe a few hundred yards. Getting closer fast. The dogs are running. Following a hot trail. Excited. Eager.

  Kira's breathing is fast. Shallow. Panic starting to set in. I put both hands on her shoulders, making her look at me.

  "Breathe," I whisper. Barely audible. "Slow. Controlled. In through nose. Out through mouth. Like I showed you."

  She tries. Stuttering at first. But slowly it evens out. Slows. Her eyes are still wide with fear but more focused. More present.

  "Good. Stay with me. Stay calm. They're just animals. They can smell us but they can't climb. Can't reach us. The cliff will stop them."

  She nods. Swallows hard. Breathes.

  The barking reaches a crescendo. Right at the base of the cliff. Maybe fifty feet below our entrance. The dogs have arrived. They're going absolutely insane. Baying. Howling. Scrabbling at rock. That frenzied sound hounds make when they've cornered prey. When the hunt is almost over. When the kill is close.

  Men's voices now. Clear and close. Coming from the same direction.

  "They found something!" Young voice. Male. Excited. "It's a cave!"

  "Told you the dogs were on trail!" Another voice. Older. Satisfied. "This has to be it!"

  "Look at that cliff though!" A third voice. Worried. "How'd they get up there?"

  "Same way we're going to. Carefully."

  Sounds of activity below. Multiple men. At least three. Maybe more. Dogs still barking. Still going crazy. Someone trying to quiet them with sharp commands. "Down! Quiet! Heel!"

  The dogs don't listen. They can't help themselves. Their prey is here. Close. They can smell us even from down there. Even through thirty feet of air and stone. Their training is fighting with instinct. Instinct is winning.

  "This is definitely a cave!" The excited young voice again. Closer now. Like he's moved right up to the base of the cliff. "Deep too! I can see it going way back!"

  "Then get up there and check it out."

  "Me?"

  "You're the one so eager. Go on. Show us how it's done."

  Pause. Then: "Right. Yeah. I can do this."

  Sounds of someone approaching the cliff. Hands on stone. Testing holds. Boots scraping. Beginning to climb.

  Long minutes. The sounds of struggle. Scraping. Sliding. Heavy breathing that gets heavier. The climber is maybe ten feet up now. Maybe less. Hard to tell from sound alone. But struggling. Really struggling.

  Wet limestone. Covered in moss and lichen. Holds that look solid but crumble under weight. Cracks that are too wide or too narrow or too slick. And vertical. Almost completely vertical in places. Even with our claws it was challenging. For a human? Nearly impossible.

  "You're doing good!" One of the men below. Encouraging. "Just keep going! Don't look down!"

  The climber doesn't respond. Too focused on not falling. I can hear his breath. Fast. Panicked. That sound people make when they realize they've made a terrible mistake but it's too late to back out.

  More scraping. More struggling. A yelp. Brief. Quickly cut off. Like he almost lost his grip but caught himself.

  "Careful!" Multiple voices below. Worried now.

  "I'm fine!" The climber sounds anything but fine. Sounds terrified. "Just... there's no holds here. Nothing solid."

  "Try to your left! There's a crack!"

  "I can't reach it!"

  "Then go right!"

  "There's nothing right either!"

  The scraping gets more frantic. I can picture it. The climber maybe fifteen feet up now. Too high to safely drop. Too low to have made real progress. Stuck. Clinging to wet stone. Arms starting to shake. Legs cramping. Fear setting in.

  "I'm slipping!" Real panic in his voice now.

  Chaos below. Multiple voices overlapping. "Grab that root!" "Get your foot in the crack!" "No the other foot!" "Don't look down!" "Just hold on!"

  The scraping sounds go crazy. Boots kicking. Hands scrabbling. Looking for anything. Any purchase. Any hold. Not finding it. Slipping. Actually slipping.

  Someone screams. Might be the climber. Might be someone below. Long terrible moment where it sounds like he's going to fall. Thirty feet onto rock. Broken bones. Maybe broken neck. Maybe death.

  Then stillness. Heavy breathing. Whimpering almost.

  "I got it." The climber's voice is shaking. "I... I caught something. But I can't move. Can't go up or down. Just... stuck."

  Long pause. Then another voice from below. Calm. Controlled. Authoritative. Master Kravik.

  "Jenks. Listen to me."

  The climber, Jenks, doesn't respond. Too scared to speak probably.

  "Jenks. You need to come down. Right now. Slowly. Carefully. Find your footholds and reverse course."

  "I can't..."

  "You can. You will. Because the alternative is you hang there until your arms give out and then you fall. Understand?"

  Silence. Then quiet: "Yes sir."

  "Good. Now. Right foot first. Feel for the last hold you used."

  The descent takes forever. Every movement agonizingly slow. Multiple times Jenks slips. Catches himself. Freezes. Has to be talked through the next step. His companions below give constant instruction. Constant encouragement. Keeping him focused. Keeping him moving.

  Finally. Sound of boots hitting solid ground.

  Heavy breathing. Someone might be crying. Hard to tell. The relief is thick enough to taste even from up here.

  "That was fucking stupid." Master Kravik's voice is dismissive. Not angry. Just stating fact. "You could have died."

  "I'm sorry Master." Jenks sounds shaken. Young. Maybe early twenties. "I thought I could do it."

  "Thought wrong." A pause. "But you're alive. That's what matters. Anyone else want to try their luck?"

  Silence. No volunteers. No one eager to attempt what Jenks couldn't manage.

  "Didn't think so." Kravik sounds unsurprised. "This isn't a cliff you free-climb. This is a cliff you respect. Or it kills you."

  "So what do we do?" Another hunter. Frustrated. "We came all this way. The dogs prove they're up there. We just give up?"

  "I don't give up." Kravik's voice goes cold. Hard. "I adapt. We can't free-climb it. Fine. We use tools. We use rope. We do it right instead of stupid."

  "We don't have rope. Not enough for thirty feet."

  "Then we make it work with what we have. Morris, how much rope?"

  "Twenty feet. Maybe twenty-five if we uncoil completely."

  "Not enough." Thinking. I can almost hear him calculating. "Unless we do it in stages. Marcus, you're our best climber. Better than Jenks by a mile. Think you can make it to that ledge?"

  "Which ledge?"

  "Halfway up. On the right side. Maybe fifteen feet. See it?"

  Pause. "Yeah. I see it. Might be doable."

  "Might be isn't good enough. Can you or can't you?"

  Longer pause. "Yeah. I can do it. If I take it slow."

  "Good. You climb to that ledge. We give you the rope. You secure it. Anchor it somehow. Then we have a handhold for the rest of the climb."

  "And if there's nothing to anchor to?"

  "Then you hold the rope and we climb past you to the top. Then we anchor it from above and haul you up. Either way we make it work."

  Silence while everyone processes this. Then: "That could work."

  "It will work." Kravik's voice brooks no argument. "Get the rope ready. Marcus, take your time. This isn't a race."

  More activity below. Rope being uncoiled. Tested. Preparations being made. Kravik organizing his men with cold efficiency. No wasted motion. No hesitation. A professional who's done difficult things before. Who knows how to solve problems.

  Minutes pass. Then Marcus starts his climb.

  Different from Jenks immediately. Slower. More controlled. Testing each hold before committing weight. Moving carefully. Methodically. Taking his time.

  I can hear his breathing. Steady. Focused. Not panicked like Jenks. Confident. Experienced. I hear everything"”the scrape of boots on stone, the grunt of effort, the creak of rope under strain, the quiet commands from Kravik below, patient and professional, solving the problem of our cliff one careful step at a time.

  Five minutes. Ten. The sounds of steady progress. Occasional pauses. Testing. Checking. But always moving upward. Always making progress.

  "I'm at the ledge." Marcus's voice. Calm. Satisfied. "It's solid. Good position."

  "Can you anchor?"

  Pause. Sounds of examination. "Yeah. There's a thick root growing through a crack. Old growth. Strong. I can tie off here."

  "Do it."

  Sounds of rope being thrown up. Caught. Tied. Marcus working methodically. Testing his knots. Making sure they're secure.

  "Done! Rope is anchored! Come on up!"

  "Master's going next!" Someone below. "Then Jenks. Then me."

  "Understood."

  Kravik starts his climb. Using the rope. Moving with the same controlled efficiency as everything else he does. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. Professional. Someone who's climbed difficult terrain many times before.

  Minutes pass. Then: "I'm at the ledge."

  "Good." Marcus sounds relieved. Like he wasn't sure the rope would hold. "Heading up the rest of the way."

  Both of them climbing now. The rope stretched between the ledge and the ground. The final fifteen feet still free-climbing but having already made half the distance makes it psychologically easier. More manageable.

  I can hear boots scraping. Hands finding holds. Heavy breathing. But steady progress. Both of them moving upward.

  Then Marcus's voice. Closer now. Much closer. "I'm at the top. I'm at the entrance!"

  My heart drops into my stomach. They're here. They're actually here. Made it up a climb that should have been impossible. Because they adapted. Because they used tools. Because Master Kravik is smart and experienced and professional.

  "Secure the rope!" Kravik's voice. Also closer. "Anchor it proper!"

  Sounds of rope being tested. Marcus finding something to tie to. Maybe a boulder. Maybe a tree root. Something solid. Testing it. Making absolutely sure.

  "Done! Rope is anchored at the top! Come on up!"

  Kravik arrives next. I can hear him pulling himself over the edge. Standing. Brushing off. "Good work Marcus."

  "Thank you Master."

  "Jenks! You're next! And try not to die this time!"

  Jenks starts his climb. With the rope and two stages it's much easier. Still slow. Still frightened. But manageable. He makes it to the ledge. Then to the top. Collapsing at the entrance. Breathing hard.

  "Pull yourself together." Kravik's voice is dismissive. "You look pathetic."

  "Yes Master."

  "Morris, you coming up?"

  "No Master." The voice from below. "I'll stay with the dogs. Make sure nothing approaches from behind. Someone should maintain perimeter."

  "Agreed. Keep them quiet if you can. And if anything happens, if you see anyone, you sound the alarm immediately. Understand?"

  "Yes Master."

  "Good. Marcus, Jenks, torches."

  Sounds of torches being lit. Flint and steel. The smell of pitch and smoke. Yellow-orange light flickering. Growing stronger. Getting closer.

  Three hunters. Inside our sanctuary.

  I look at Kira. Her face is pale, pupils blown wide, every line of her body screaming fear. Her ears are flat against her skull. But her hand is steady on her small knife.

  "Time to go," I whisper.

  She nods. Not frozen. Not breaking. Just a child who has learned that fear is something you carry with you, not something that stops you.