The wind was a constant whisper at their backs as they descended into the lower dunes, the sky overhead pressing down like a dull weight. Every step away from the cliff face felt too loud, too heavy, as if the sand itself might give them away. The glass-limbed thing hadn't moved when they turned to leave, but Allen felt its attention like a nail being driven between his shoulder blades.
The thread in his palm was still dead—no pulse, no pull, just a length of silk that suddenly felt lifeless. That was worse than when it had been frantic. At least then, it had been telling him something. Now it was as if it had given up.
Rinni's voice was low, barely more than a breath. "It's still looking."
Allen didn't ask how she knew. The way the hairs on his neck stood told him the same thing. He shifted course, keeping his back angled, never fully turning his head to check. Velith's warning was burned into his skull—don't cut it, don't confront it, don't give it a reason.
