Calculated risk.
"Maybe. If we're smart about it."
"Define smart."
I point to a wedge-shaped chunk of limestone that acts as a keystone for the current configuration. "Remove that piece carefully, the lintel drops but the weight redistributes to the side supports. Should give us another six inches of clearance."
"Should?"
"Nothing's certain when you're playing games with gravity."
She studies the stone I've indicated, then looks at Thorne's semiconscious form, then back at the narrowed gap.
Measuring odds. Weighing probabilities.
"Do it."
I work my knife blade into the gap around the keystone, using the steel as a lever to gradually shift the rock's position. The technique requires patience—too much force too quickly,and the sudden movement triggers a cascade failure that crushes us all.
Gentle pressure. Steady progress. Don't rush.
The stone shifts. An inch. Two inches.
Overhead, the lintel groans and settles lower. But not catastrophically. The weight redistributes exactly as hoped, creating precious additional space in our escape route.
Sometimes physics cooperates.
"Now," I tell her.
We squeeze Thorne through the widened gap with desperate efficiency. His injured leg catches on a protrusion, and he screams, but we force him through, regardless. Broken bones heal. Crushed skulls don't.
Practical priorities.
Ressa follows, her lithe frame navigating the tight space with a dancer's grace despite her injured shoulder. I come last, feeling the structure shift ominously as my weight transfers from one support point to another.
Almost...
Almost...
Clear.
The ruins collapse behind us in a final crescendo of destruction. What had been the western quarter of Ember Hollow's ancient fortress becomes a mountain of rubble and dust. The sound echoes across the wasteland like thunder, rolling away into distance until only normal silence remains.
We made it.
Barely.
I lean against a intact wall section and check myself for injuries. Minor cuts from stone fragments. Bruised ribs from a glancing impact. Nothing serious enough to slow me down.
Beside me, Ressa examines her shoulder wound with clinical detachment. The gash isn't deep, but it bleeds steadily and will need cleaning to prevent infection.
She moves like it doesn't hurt. But it does.
Pain tolerance. Another professional skill.
Thorne lies between us, conscious but barely functional. He definitely broke his leg. The bone shows white through torn flesh. But he's breathing regularly and his eyes track movement, which suggests no serious head trauma.
He'll live. Whether he wants to or not.
