The path wound higher until the air thinned and the sky seemed close enough to touch. Shuang's band followed the trail of newly-lit towers, each glow like a stepping stone in mist. The wind smelled of stone dust and pine resin; even the children had stopped speaking, moving as if in a temple.
At the end of the ridge a cave yawned, its mouth ringed with glyphs so old they were almost gone. Faint black veins threaded through the rock. The apprentice's spark pulsed uneasily in her hand. "This wasn't on the maps," she whispered.
"It wasn't supposed to be," Shuang said. He could feel the cold coming off it — not wind-cold but deep-water cold, like a tide rolling under stone.
He pressed his spark to the rock. The glyphs flared briefly silver, then dimmed as if smothered. A low sound rose from inside the mountain, a long creak like something stretching in its sleep.
The children clutched each other. "What is it?" one asked.
