They race single-file down the pitch-black, wind­ing stairs. Ayan slams the hinged door behind them, and Gil gropes the curved wall blindly with his hands.

He stum­bles over rub­ble lin­ing the stairs, and for a hor­ri­fy­ing sec­ond is sure he will fall head­long and break his neck. Some­how, he stead­ies him­self.

The ground at the bot­tom of the stairs is soft sand, unlevel and treach­er­ous in the dark. Gil wants to call out for light, but the sound of mass­ing and yelling sol­diers from the floor above per­suades him to be quiet.

He strains to fol­low the sounds of the mystic’s soft foot­steps ahead. Then he sees something—a flick­er­ing light at the end of a tun­nel.

It’s a can­dle, held up by an old native man.

The can­dle flame only illu­mi­nates his worn face, giv­ing the appear­ance of a dis­em­bod­ied head float­ing in the dark­ness. It looks like he’s been wait­ing for them.

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