The obsidian tunnels were not designed for human travel.
They were frozen fluid dynamics, massive arteries of volcanic glass that spiralled down into the earth's crust.
The floor was smooth and impossibly slick, coated in a thin layer of condensation that smelled of sulphur and ancient, pressurised steam.
Zane skidded, his heavy boots finding no purchase on the glass. He slammed his shoulder into the curved wall to arrest his momentum, the impact vibrating through his skeleton.
"Quiet," Wren hissed, grabbing his arm to steady him.
Her fingers dug into his coat with a desperate grip.
"I can't turn off the weight," Zane whispered back, grimacing.
The Dead Weight trait, usually his greatest asset in a brawl, had become a liability in this acoustic nightmare. Every step he took sent
