Wolf had cast Phoebe but a sidelong glance as the cave’s maw swallowed them whole, plunging their little world into darkness. The shadows crooned to them, whispered promises of adventure, but only if they strayed a little deeper. Their eyes adjusted to the inky tunnel, revealing a rugged path bearing the scars of a thousand hooves, a thousand delvers who had meandered the cavern’s gullet before them, braving danger for the promise of treasure.

Darkness had quickly given way to towering caverns lit by the glow of unearthly plants, and the lingering flames of torches left by previous wanderers. The air had grown damper and colder by the second, like the breath of ghosts long forgotten.

Time felt endless in the shadows, pulled and stretched, tugged and teased, until a minute became an hour, and an hour became a minute. Wolf had attempted to strike up conversation with Phoebe, but beyond the quick, polite replies, it had dwindled into silence long after they’d begun their descent.

The tunnel they now enter is a mass of tangled roots and eerie fungi that bleed ominous blue light into the oblivion. Wolf saunters into the dim recesses, his hooves scuffing the uneven floor with a careless rhythm. Cobwebs cling to the walls, forgotten tales of the decades written into the undisturbed coils of their threads. A lopsided grin pulls at the corners of his mouth and he turns to Phoebe.

“I hope you don’t mind spiders,” he jokes.

The gold-dusted mare barely spares him a second glance as she hums non-committedly, eyes tracing every crevice, every nook.

With a clatter that ricochets hauntingly through the cavern, Wolf stumbled upon the remnants of what must have once been a camp. Both coursers snap still, eyes wide as they listen, hearts jack-rabbiting. Other than the screech of bats, there is nothing, no response to Wolf’s clumsiness. Their sighs of relief plume in the cold air, tiny clouds of mist that dissipate in the darkness.

An iron pot, rusted and fragile, leans drunkenly against the bones of a stone hearth, dust coated and cracked by the hands of time. A little more carefully this time, the blue roan steps closer to a set of armour, head bent down to lip at the aged pieces. The metal is dull and brittle with age, as though a mere touch might shatter it into oblivion. Time presses in like a heavy cloud, the realisation that they (or rather Wolf) had stumbled upon something from aeons past. He grins wider, clearly pleased with his first foray below ground.

“Wolf, don’t touch anything,” comes Phoebe’s voice, snaking through the air.  She’s nosing at a tent, carefully pushing back the flaps with the gentle touch of one used to these excursions.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wolf mumbles, but his attention is already snagged by something else. He’s drawn to the wall, bathed in the soft glow of algae and mushrooms, where the face bears the scars of an ancient carving. Letters, or maybe just scratches (he’s not sure which) spell out a word. GALATEA. He squints in the darkness, tilting his head like a curious wolf. “Gala Tea,” he mutters to himself, rolling the sound over his tongue as if tasting it. “Gala Tea,” he says louder. “What’s that? Some fancy drink?”

Phoebe doesn’t respond – probably checking for traps or something smart like that. 

“Maybe it’s a clue to where they kept their booze…” His chuckle rumbles through the cavern and finally she turns to him.

“Galatea,” she corrected, gently but with a gaze that is clearly questioning his competence. “It’s a name, not a drink.” She’s next to him now, leaning past to examine the walls. “It’s probably some kind of warning, best not to linger.”

Despite the correction, Wolf is still imagining some kind of grand celebration buried deep beneath the earth, where the cavern's walls themselves might lean in to listen to the laughter and clinking cups. He can almost hear it, the ghostly echoes of distant festivity, hidden beneath the layers of time and rock. Hesitantly, he reaches out, itching to trace the letter, but instinct holds him back. Maybe it’s the way the shadows gather around the forgotten camp, darker and thicker than they should be, more maybe it was Phoebe’s suggestion that the word was some kind of warning. Either way, caution whispers at the back of his mind, but Wolf isn’t one for caution. He shrugs off the feeling and reaches out anyway, lips brushing against the stone with a careless grace.

“Come on, Wolf,” Phoebe calls over her shoulder and he pulls away, feeling a little foolish. Some poor sap probably carved it here before they met their end and here he was imagining fancy teas and parties in dark, dank caverns.

Phoebe has already moved on, satisfied that there is nothing of interest in the aged camp and weaving through the overgrown cavern like she’s done it a hundred times before. Wolf hurries to catch up, heart thumping in the cage of his chest for reasons he’s not quite ready to admit. Taking one last glance back at the time, at the rusted armour that might fall apart with one touch, and the word scrawled on the wall. It feels like an injustice not to know what it means, as though the memory of someone long ago dies with the disinterest.

“Let’s go,” Phoebe calls out again and Wolf snaps out of his thoughts, trotting to catch up with her, hooves slipping a little on the damp, uneven ground.

“Right behind you,” he calls back, though he knows she doesn’t need the reassurance. She’s probably got the whole place mapped out in her head and he’s just along for the ride. Wolf’s grin falls back in place. He doesn’t mind so much; as long as she’s leading, he is happy to follow, even if he doesn’t understand half of what’s going on. At least with Phoebe, he knows he’s in good hands and that’s enough for him.