(this is a direct sequel to this story. you might want to read it first) Mouse never returned. The rest of them—Stance and Tide and Ashes and Sparrow—always knew that it was a possibility. The ruins were dangerous, they knew that well enough; the unquiet dead, the ancient traps … But Mouse was supposed to be better. She was the best of them. And yet … “S-she’s fine,” Tide finally stammers, “just … just delayed a bit. Right? She has to be …” ...
Mouse creeps through the ruins on wary feet, careful of each step. There is so much here that she does not understand; so much that she has always been taught to fear. Etched plastic and fallen glass, the reaching bones of long-dead godlets— Stillborn, or so she’s always been told. Pathetic things reaching up towards the unattainable. It doesn’t matter to Mouse, not really; that was all long ago. All she needs to know is how to slip around whatever ancient hunger might yet linger within them—and that’s so easy! ...