This is the TWELTH chapter of Wealthgiver, an alternate history serial romance about nationalism and cave-Thracians. For the back-of-the-book description and an index of chapters, click here. For the beginning, click here. For the previous chapter, click here.
Andrei slid his foot through the air. The sole passed over the floor, pressed, rested. Again. Not a pebble rolled. Not one grain of sand scraped against another.
He did the same with his hand against the wall. No brushing, no sliding, nothing that would twitch a listener's ear. Andrei rested his hand on letters, incised and indecipherable, breathing through his mouth.
This wouldn't be enough. Andrei could do nothing to stop the air from parting around him or the pounding of his pulse in his throat.
Not to mention the fact that you are lost.
Andrei looked up. Had he spoken that thought aloud? Had someone else heard? Even his own thoughts sounded loud in this hollow blackness.
Did you think you could navigate the Mountain alone? Fool.
But he'd had a plan. There was a draft he could follow. Chilly, clean air, which Andrei had followed from the infirmary up the corridor. And it had been up! He had climbed carved stairs, their beginnings and ends helpfully signaled by grooves cut into the floor. Andrei had made turnings, moving ever upwards towards warmer, sweeter air, until he had reached the ventilation grate.
Of course a tunnel system this large would need fresh air pumped into it! Of course, the grate was far too small for Andrei to fit through and now it was only a matter of time until the cave-Thracians noticed his absence and came hunting.
What was that?
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