WATER DRIPS FROM EVERY HORSE as they take stock of themselves and their belongings. None of their lanterns are lit anymore, too sodden with the dank water of the cistern to hold a flame. The only light is that of Halftruth’s wisp, Aurae, who hovers almost nervously far above the party’s heads. Despite Halftruth’s coaxing, it won’t come any lower.

    Smokejumper shakes themself, head still high, and turns their gaze to Beetle, who jumps. “What?”

    “I have kindling in my packs,” Smokejumper twists to point with their nose. “In the oilcloth, to keep it dry. Can you and Henbane look around for things to burn?”

    “Oh,” Beetle blinks. “Sure.”

    The cistern is behind them. Their plan succeeded, although Beetle is still entirely unsure what it was that even attacked them. The moment that the water was still and quiet again was the moment that every horse turned and slogged out of there, wet, cold, and exhausted. He’s still all of that. Too tired to bicker with Henbane like usual, disgusted by the dampness that pervades his coat and the water that drips continuously from his mane.

    “These would work,” Henbane says. Beetle turns to look at her and finds her looking down at discarded wooden crates. Her rat, Pip, darts over them, inspecting the old, rotting wood. Beetle joins them and grunts his agreement. The wood may be old and degrading, but it’s also dry and will hold a flame.

    Gathering it up, they return to Smokejumper and Halftruth. Smokejumper takes the lead on making the fire, and Beetle drops to his knees to lay down nearby, setting his chin on the stone, eyelids heavy. He stirs when he feels someone’s nose on his withers, warm breath stirring his mane.

    “Don’t stay down there too long,” Halftruth murmurs, worry coloring her voice.

    “I won’t,” Beetle mumbles. Before his eyes, the campfire springs to life. Orange flame flickers and curls, lacing around the tinder and soon enough, the discarded wood of the crates. Warmth tickles the very edge of his nose. On the other side, he sees Brimstone slink closer to the fire, as well, his shaggy gray pelt just as sodden as Beetle.

    The next few hours somehow pass both far too slowly and far too quickly. Halftruth rouses Beetle into standing at some point, and he wobbles on all four hooves next to the fire. They keep the fire fed, nibble on food themselves, and gradually, all four horses begin to dry off.

    “We need to keep moving,” Smokejumper announces, checking Henbane over. A nod of approval, and they come over to check Beetle. “You’ll feel better once we do,” they tell him, long tail swaying back and forth. Beetle has known them long enough to know that it’s a sign of their anxiety. A subtle one, but one nonetheless. “I want you between me and Halftruth, alright?”

    “Alright,” Beetle murmurs.

    “I’ll take the back?” Henbane asks. No argument edges her voice, for once. Beetle manages a squint at her, confused about her sudden compliance, but she only glances at him briefly and then back to Smokejumper, lifting her chin.

    Smokejumper nods. “If you please, Henbane.”

    Henbane takes a step back. “Can do.”

    The coursers stir into motion. Smokejumper takes point, as they always do, and Beetle slogs into position next to them. The last flickering light of the campfire fades away behind them.

    The path here is less wet-slick than the one into the cistern. Dry, old soil even covers the floor in a thin blanket. The walls, however, are dense black stone, and they keep scraping Beetle’s sides. Every time they do, his head lifts, nostrils flaring, but every time, the path widens again, and his head drops. The horses fell into single file a while ago, plodding along nose-to-tail.

    It narrows again, and Beetle holds his breath, waiting for the walls to widen once more.

    They press tighter to his sides.

    “Um,” Henbane says from the back. “Should we back up.”

    A pause. “We can go a little further,” Smokejumper calls. “We won’t get stuck.”

    “Smoke,” Halftruth says warningly. In close quarters, her wisp’s blue glow suffuses everything. Beetle swears he’s breathing in the color of it. The world spins under his feet. He squeezes his eyes shut.

    “It’s widened before,” Smokejumper says.

    “Can we please figure out which way we’re going?” Beetle cries, voice pitching up. “It’s so hard to breathe like this.”

    Silence.

    “Smoke,” Halftruth says, voice rough-edged. “We either go forward or we turn back.”

    Smokejumper’s tail flicks the end of Beetle’s nose. The smoky-furnace scent of it chokes his lungs as much as the wisp’s light. “We vote,” they decide.

    “I vote turning back.” Halftruth.

    “Henbane?”

    “I… think we should go forward.” Then, "We're gonna tie."

    “Beetle?”

    Beetle draws in a ragged gasp. “Let me think.”

    “Smoke?”

    “Forward.”

    Halftruth huffs.

    Backward, Beetle thinks, struggling to pull his thoughts in order, is back into the cistern. And he can’t remember any paths diverging from that one. This is the only one so far. And what does he hate more? Water, or tight spaces? What is going to leave him more uncomfortable for a longer period of time?

    Beetle draws in a ragged breath and says, “Forward. I vote forward.”

    He can feel the surprise radiate from Halftruth. Henbane makes a wordless noise.

    “Alright,” Smokejumper murmurs, barely audible in the tight passageway. They raise their voice. “Forward. If I think it gets too tight, we back up and leave. Understood?”

    It echoes three times: “Understood.”

    Smokejumper moves forward. Beetle flattens his ears and follows.