Morning didn't reach the room.
Nyra only knew time had moved because her body did—stiff joints, a dull ache behind her eyes, hunger pressing softly but insistently. The lantern had burned low, its flame smaller now, like it was conserving itself.
Ilen was awake, seated near the door, methodically cleaning crystal dust from her hands. Cael stood with his back to the wall, eyes half-lidded, listening to something Nyra couldn't hear.
No one spoke.
The silence wasn't empty. It was held—as if words would disturb something still settling.
Nyra shifted, and Cael's gaze flicked to her instantly.
"You're learning," he said.
She frowned. "Learning what?"
"How not to rush the quiet."
Ilen huffed softly. "Or how to survive it."
Nyra pushed herself upright. The absence of crystal hum still unnerved her. Without it, she felt oddly exposed—like standing in a place where lies couldn't find anything to cling to.
"Did anything happen?" she asked.
Cael considered the question carefully. "No," he said. "Which is not the same as nothing changing."
Nyra looked down at her hands.
The mask sat between her feet, wrapped in cloth. Even like that, she could feel it—present, patient.
Waiting, just like the city above them.
And for the first time since the crack, Nyra wondered which of them would move first.
Ilen finished brushing the last of the dust from her palms and flexed her fingers, as if checking they still belonged to her. She glanced at Nyra's wrapped mask, then deliberately looked away.
"You should eat," she said, breaking the quiet like it had weight.
Nyra blinked. "Eat what?"
Ilen reached into her pack and tossed over a small packet wrapped in waxed cloth. Nyra caught it awkwardly.
"It's bread," Ilen said. "Dense. Boring. Keeps you upright."
Nyra peeled it open. The bread was dark and dry, but the smell made her stomach twist painfully. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.
She took a bite and immediately regretted how fast she'd done it.
Cael watched without comment.
"You don't stare much," Nyra said after swallowing. "For someone who watches things."
"I stare when it changes the outcome," he replied. "This doesn't."
She wasn't sure how to feel about that.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The lantern guttered again, then steadied, its flame stubborn in the still air. Nyra felt more awake now—too awake. Thoughts crowded in where exhaustion had kept them back.
"What happens if I put it on?" she asked suddenly.
Ilen froze.
Cael didn't.
"What do you think happens?" he asked instead.
Nyra looked down at the cloth. "I don't know. That's the problem."
Ilen shifted closer, voice lower now. "Down here, crystals don't behave the way they're supposed to. Masks especially. They amplify. Or… misinterpret."
"Misinterpret what?"
"You," Ilen said simply.
Nyra's throat tightened. "So I'm just supposed to… never wear it again?"
"No," Cael said. "You're supposed to choose when."
That landed strangely—heavy, but not cruel.
Nyra turned the mask over in her hands, still wrapped. "Up there, the mask decided everything. When to speak. When to stop. What was safe."
"And now?" Ilen asked.
Nyra hesitated. "Now it feels like it's waiting for me."
Cael's gaze sharpened—not alarmed, but alert. "That's new."
"Is it bad?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he crouched in front of her, close enough that she could see the fine fractures etched into his own mask—deliberate, controlled.
"It's dangerous," he said finally. "But dangerous isn't the same as wrong."
Nyra absorbed that in silence.
Somewhere beyond the walls, faint vibrations rippled through the stone—not footsteps, not voices. Movement. The city adjusting, like a sleeper turning in its rest.
Ilen felt it too. "They're sealing another passage."
Cael nodded. "They're narrowing their guesses."
Nyra's pulse quickened. "About me?"
"About why the system hiccupped," Cael said. "You're just one variable."
She didn't find that comforting.
"What do you want from me?" she asked quietly. "Really."
The question hung between them.
Ilen looked away.
Cael met her eyes.
"For now?" he said. "Nothing."
Nyra frowned. "That's not an answer."
"It is," he replied. "Just not the one people expect."
He stood and moved toward the door, resting his hand briefly against the stone as if listening again. After a moment, he relaxed.
"You won't stay here long," he said. "No one ever does."
Nyra pulled the cloth tighter around the mask. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
Cael glanced back over his shoulder.
"Pay attention," he said. "To what feels wrong. To what feels familiar when it shouldn't. The city is very good at teaching obedience."
"And you?" Nyra asked. "What are you good at?"
A pause.
"Remembering," he said. "And choosing what not to forget."
The lantern flame flickered—just once.
Nyra looked down at the mask again, at the faint pressure she could feel even through the cloth, like a question waiting for permission.
For the first time, she didn't reach for it out of fear.
She let it wait.