The voice thorn found the second cage before they did.
Its dry answer traveled down the buried iron, entered the nursery roots, and came back beneath the wrecked district as a muffled chorus. Every note arrived late. Every pause belonged to a call that had already changed.
Something struck the underside of the deck.
Tovar turned so quickly that his cradle rolled against the scar ridge.
"Wet vault," Kesta translated. "There are brood below us."
During the collision, one nursery roof had punched through the floor. A gap opened between its beams, breathing cold bubbles into the street. Pale gripping limbs appeared behind a lattice of submerged roots and vanished when the thorn repeated its stale call.
Dema pulled on the rescue rope. "We take them out."
Beras looked across the surviving district. The roofs not pinned to the Bellmother had started sagging away from one another. "Open that vault and its water leaves with them. This section breaks."
