The tunnel was a tight, winding throat of stone that seemed to press in on us from all sides. The faint draft Iris had detected was our only guide, a promise of open air that felt miles away. Kael's light cast long, dancing shadows that played tricks on the eyes, making the walls seem to shift and breathe. For hours, we walked in silence, the only sounds the scrape of our boots on the gritty floor and the occasional drip of water.
Just as the claustrophobia began to feel unbearable, the narrow passage opened abruptly into a much larger space. This was no natural cavern. The walls were roughly hewn but deliberately shaped, and old, moss-covered wooden beams supported the ceiling. We had found it. The smugglers' tunnel.
A sense of relief washed over us. We weren't just lost in a cave system; we were on a path.
The tunnel sloped gently upwards. We passed alcoves carved into the walls, filled with the remnants of a forgotten trade: rotted canvas, broken barrels, and the faint, dusty scent of strange spices. It was a ghost road, haunted by the memory of illicit journeys.
As we walked, I kept my hand trailing along the wall, listening. The song of the worked stone was different from the natural rock—it held the faint echoes of the people who had carved it, a ghost-song of effort and secrecy. But as we drew closer to the surface, I began to hear a new sound carried through the stone. It was a low, rhythmic vibration. Steady. Measured.
"Wait," I whispered, stopping Kael with a hand on his arm.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice low.
"Something's moving up ahead. On the ground above us," I said, concentrating. "Something heavy. A lot of somethings. Marching."
A grim understanding dawned on Kael's face. The patrol from the skiff hadn't given up. They had landed and were sweeping the area.
The tunnel ended in a curtain of thick, hanging roots and vines, with daylight filtering through the gaps. Cautiously, Kael extinguished his light stone, and we crept forward, peering through the living veil.
We weren't in a forest. The tunnel opened onto a rocky ledge about thirty feet above a wide, paved road. It was an old Magi road, built for moving troops and supplies quickly along the coast. And on that road, marching directly below us, was a patrol of at least twenty Magi soldiers. They moved with a chilling, synchronized precision, their dark armor gleaming even in the overcast light. At the head of the column was a figure in robes—a Magi, likely the storm-warden from the skiff.
They were marching north, the exact direction we needed to go. We were out of the darkness, but we had emerged from our hiding place only to find our path blocked by an enemy we could not hope to fight. We were trapped between the sea behind us and a legionary patrol before us.