The ascent back to Deep Karakorum was agonizingly slow.
The retrofitted transport they called Lilith didn't fly; it clawed its way up the subterranean incline. The gravity-drives whined with a bone-rattling frequency, fighting the massive atmospheric pressure of the deep earth. The iron hull groaned constantly, vibrating against the rusted tracks of the ancient service tunnel. Inside the cramped cabin, the air was freezing, carrying the harsh, metallic scent of ozone, flaking rust, and pure adrenaline crash.
Mara sat curled in the darkest corner of the cabin, shivering violently.
Her hands were locked in a death grip around a severed, six-inch piece of black tactical webbing. It was the only piece of Kael's harness she claimed to have grabbed before the Ink-Wash Stalker dragged him into the abyssal drop of the Floating Gallery.
