A week.
Seven days and seven nights spent in the cold, dark belly of the earth.
Their world had shrunk to the confines of the ancient, rune-lit chamber and the oppressive darkness of the catacombs beyond. Time was measured not by the sun, but by the slow, painful healing of the creature that now shared Caldan's soul, and the steady, agonizing unraveling of his own mind.
They had made a lair of the dragon's tomb. Ryven, ever the pragmatist, had scouted the tunnels, finding a path to the surface, to the rain-lashed mountainside where he could hunt, scavenging for rabbits and scrawny mountain goats. He would return with meager offerings, his face a grim mask of disapproval, and find Caldan exactly where he had left him: sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor, staring into the pitch-black fire of the hatchling's eyes.
