The prison didn't like that we were together.
I didn't need Mortimer to tell me that. Didn't need the wards to hum louder or the stone to tighten around us in subtle, irritating ways. The walls themselves watched. Calculated. Adjusted.
It did not rage.
It adapted.
That was more dangerous.
Lyra moved ahead of me with quiet confidence, feet silent against the stone as she tested each step before committing her weight. No magic. No shifting. Just instinct, awareness, and a lifetime of knowing how to exist where she wasn't welcome.
Annoyingly effective.
Even more annoyingly impressive.
I kept half a step behind her, eyes tracking the seams in the walls, the slight warping of corridors when attention drifted. This place didn't rearrange itself when you looked directly at it.
It waited.
We had made it through three trap sequences already. None of them lethal. All of them designed to separate, confuse, delay.
That was the point.
Break the group. Convince you you were alone.
I was not.
Yet.
Lyra slowed suddenly.
Before I could ask why, her hand reached back and closed around the fabric of my sleeve.
The contact was light. Uncertain. Barely there.
Every instinct in me screamed don't.
I should have pulled away.
I wanted to pull away.
I didn't.
Her fingers tightened just enough to be intentional.
"Don't overthink it," she whispered without turning around. "This place likes to split people up. I'd rather not give it the satisfaction."
My jaw clenched.
She was right.
I hated that she was right.
A sharp exhale left me before I could stop it. "That grip," I muttered, "is pathetic."
She glanced back at me, one eyebrow lifting. "You volunteering to demonstrate a better one?"
I hesitated for half a second too long.
Then I reached forward and took her hand.
Fully.
Properly.
Her fingers disappeared into mine far too easily—small, warm, solid. Not fragile. Just… real. Heat seeped into my palm like it belonged there.
I ignored it.
"If you actually want to stay together," I said coolly, "then do it right."
Her mouth curved slightly. "Who knew even this side of you could be charming."
"Don't get used to it."
She snorted softly and faced forward again, but she didn't let go.
Neither did I.
The prison noticed.
The floor shifted beneath us—just a fraction of an inch, but enough to throw off balance. Lyra reacted instantly, weight rolling to her toes as she pulled me forward instead of back.
Good instincts.
A wire snapped up from the stone where her heel would have landed a heartbeat later, barbed and humming with suppressive energy. I pivoted without thinking, dragging her with me as the wire whipped harmlessly past where our legs had been.
She didn't stumble.
Didn't fight the movement.
She moved with me.
Stone plates slammed down from the ceiling ahead, cutting off the corridor. I stepped forward, shadow coiling instinctively—then stopped.
"No magic," Lyra breathed. "Calm down."
She tugged my hand once, then knelt, pressing her palm flat to the stone just short of the barrier. Her eyes tracked the faintest vibration, the way dust shifted along the floor.
"Timing trap," she murmured. "Reactive. It's listening for force, not presence."
She counted silently.
Then pulled.
We sprinted forward together as the plates lifted for a fraction of a second—sliding through just as they crashed shut behind us with bone-rattling force.
The prison groaned.
Not audibly.
Emotionally.
I felt it recalibrate.
"Impressive," I said before I could stop myself.
She glanced up at me, surprised.
I added quickly, "For you."
Her smile was brief. Sharp. Satisfied.
Another corridor narrowed into a spiral, the walls slowly rotating inward as pressure plates triggered in sequence. I took the lead this time, calculating angles, my strength reinforcing my balance as I pivoted us through gaps that would have crushed someone slower.
Lyra kept up.
Matched pace.
Trusted me.
The realization was… inconvenient.
A dart launcher fired from the wall. I twisted, shielding her with my shoulder as it grazed my armor. She ducked automatically, hand tightening in mine as she slid under my arm and yanked me down with her just as the second volley screamed overhead.
"Well," she panted quietly, "you're definitely louder than Revik."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Don't."
We moved like this for longer than should have been possible.
Hand in hand.
Step for step.
The prison grew angrier.
Traps stacked closer together. Corridors shortened. False walls appeared, then vanished. Sounds echoed that didn't belong to anything living.
Once, a section of floor dropped away beneath us without warning.
Lyra didn't scream.
She jumped.
Pulled me with her.
We landed hard on a lower ledge, knees bending in unison, momentum absorbed instead of wasted. Stone spikes erupted where we had been standing a second later.
The prison hesitated.
Confused.
It hadn't accounted for cooperation.
I found myself studying her in the brief lulls between danger—the way she breathed, the way her focus sharpened instead of fracturing, the way she trusted without looking back.
Annoying.
Impressive.
Dangerous.
I did not comment.
Eventually, the air changed.
Not hostile.
Not shifting.
Still.
We slowed simultaneously.
Ahead, the corridor widened into a circular chamber reinforced with stabilizing wards—older than the rest of the prison. Not adaptive. Anchored.
Someone had been here a while.
"Willow," Lyra whispered.
We stepped through together.
She was slumped against the far wall, knees drawn to her chest, hands pressed to her face. Stone dust streaked her cheeks where tears had cut through it. Her shoulders shook—quiet, controlled, but breaking all the same.
The prison hadn't touched her.
It hadn't needed to.
Lyra released my hand instantly and crossed the chamber.
"Willow," she said softly, dropping to her knees in front of her. "Hey. You're okay. We've got you."
Willow looked up.
Her eyes were red. Raw. Furious with herself.
"I tried to hold the level," she choked. "It… it kept shifting. I couldn't—I didn't know where you were. I thought—"
"You didn't fail," Lyra said firmly. "This place cheats."
Willow's breath hitched.
She leaned forward suddenly, gripping Lyra like she was the only solid thing left in the world.
I stayed back.
Silent.
Watching the prison recede, recalibrate again.
Watching Lyra anchor someone else the way she had—unintentionally—anchored me.
Something inside my chest twisted.
I crushed it.
This was not sentiment.
This was strategy.
The prison had not won yet.
And neither had I.
But for the first time since entering its depths, the stone did not move.
It waited.
And so did we.