The blue light pulsed.
Not steady. Not flickering. Breathing. Like the walls themselves had lungs and were using them.
Miros stood at the centre of the lowest level, his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His right arm hung at his side, the dead weight of it a constant reminder. The fingers didn't move anymore. The shoulder ached when the air turned cold.
But the light was warm.
"How long has it been doing that," Dexion asked.
"Since we arrived," Deia said. She was already writing. Her stylus moved across the tablet in quick, sharp strokes. "The walls respond to carbon dioxide. Our breath. The more of us here, the brighter it gets."
Echion held up his hand. The blue glow intensified around his fingers. He pulled his hand away. The glow dimmed.
"It's watching us," he said.
"It's responding to us," Deia corrected. "There's a difference."
