The iris slammed shut. The ledge was gone. Eloy's boots found empty air where the stone had been, and the intake current caught him like a fist around the ribs, dragging him down into the shaft's throat. Above, Isolde's lightning flared, illuminating the rungs she'd already grabbed. Maya's wind threads snapped taut, tried to brace, failed against the vacuum pull that reversed the air in her lungs.
[ SIPHON PULSE: 11 SECONDS ]
Eloy drove Caldera's Edge into the wall.
Pre-war stone shrieked as the blade bit in, the vibration traveling through his wrists and into his teeth. Stopped two meters above the intake maw. Current peeled at his back, tried to drag the sword free, failed. His boots found the rung below him and locked.
"Grab something." The words came stripped of everything but the instruction.
