For the first time since they had entered the passage, no one was telling them to keep moving.
Miros stood at the edge of the underground city and listened.
There were children crying softly. Women speaking in exhausted whispers. The occasional cough of a wounded man who had spent too many hours trying not to make a sound. Behind him, Daidalos was unloading the last of their supplies, while Antiphus moved between the injured, checking bandages and asking questions that received increasingly tired answers.
Above them, there was no sky.
No stars. No moon. No wind carrying the smell of the sea.
Only ancient stone, the faint blue glow spreading across the walls, and the strange quiet of a city that had waited beneath the world for longer than any of them could imagine.
Yet people were here now.
People who needed a place to sleep. Children who needed food. Wounded men who needed rest more than another order.
Miros looked toward the nearest row of buildings.
