D’Jacques pressed through the smoke. He couldn’t see a thing. Not even his hand holding his sword, or the torch he held aloft. His skin burned from the exposure. His lungs were scorched to the point where he knew if he didn’t find his way out soon, he’d die.
The spiders or the egg sacs gave off high-pitched whines as they burned. The sound grated in his ears.
His right shoulder struck a wall. The pain was fierce and bright, but he ignored it as he continued to rub along the uneven rockiness. Something told him to follow along its length. With any luck, he might be able to find a way out.
He coughed, hard and rasping. He thought he tasted blood, but he wasn’t sure. It wouldn’t surprise him if he had.
“Yulen!”
He stopped and strained to listen. He’d heard his name. He hadn’t imagined it
