Chapter [XIII]

ALL THREE OF them turned toward the voice. The man stood in the shadows at the far end of the cell, arms crossed, back pressed casually against the damp cave wall like he owned the place. His hair was thick, curly, and fell just below the ears, a bit wild but not unkempt. More like he didn't care, not like he didn't try. His face was sharp in the kind of way that made him look like he was perpetually scowling at someone two inches shorter. The kind of guy whose default expression made you feel like you owed him money.

He wasn't huge, but built in that quiet, efficient way—more soldier than gym rat. Bulk where it mattered. Movement in the shoulders like someone who knew how to fight. No cold elegance like Amara, no monstrous weight like Agta. Just tension and precision, like a blade waiting to swing. His brown jacket clung to him like it had seen better days and too many fights, with the black shirt beneath clinging to a torso forged for function, not vanity. Faded jeans, scuffed boots. He looked like he'd been dragged here from a bar fight, won it, and didn't even spill his drink.

But more than all of that, it was his eyes that stood out. Black. Not like the dreamy kind, or the soulful poetic ones. No. They looked permanently pissed off. The kind of eyes that said he had already decided you were going to annoy him, and now you just had to prove him right.

"Troy Confiado," Amara said before Gray could ask. She didn't turn fully when she spoke. Just shifted her head slightly, enough to look. Her voice was steady, but there was a note in it. A hint of recognition. Not warmth. Not history. Just: I know who you are, but you were never mine to know.

Gray's eyes narrowed as he followed her gaze, then studied the guy again. Troy didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just stood there like the last person in the room who still had dignity and a working plan.

"What are you doing here?" Amara asked.

Troy pushed himself off the wall with a lazy shove of his shoulders. "I got an SOS text from my great old professor." It was sarcasm. When Amara waited, Troy rolled his eyes and continued, "I did something and Ishmael saved my ass. Now he's asking for a payback to do this one."

"That's mad. For someone dying and still managing to text for backup. That's next-level multitasking," Gray muttered.

Agta, still perched near the bars, let out a low grunt that was almost a chuckle. "Ishmael is a katalonan. Powerful anitos who used their anting-anting. Those amulets you probably saw. They're spell anchors, Gray."

Troy finally turned to face the group, his eyes flicking over Agta and Gray with the enthusiasm of someone scanning a group project and realizing he'd be doing all the work. "And who are Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber?"

Gray raised a hand. "Yo. Gray Sandoval. Honor student, recent demon survivor, current inmate."

Troy's eyes narrowed. "So you're the idiot Ishmael told me about. Said Amara's traveling with some newly awakened anito who doesn't know what he's doing."

Gray smiled. "Ya know, I always wondered what Plan Z looked like... turns out, it sulks in a cell wearing jeans."

"Hey, dickhead," Troy said suddenly, his voice just sharp enough to make Gray glance up. "I've got a plan. And if you keep running your mouth, you won't be part of it."

Before Gray could answer, Amara cut in with a tone that could freeze boiling water. "Will the both of you shut up." They both did. Even Agta raised a brow, impressed. Amara's sigh echoed off the damp stone. "Now, Troy. What's your plan?"

Troy hesitated. Just a second. But in that heartbeat, his glare softened, barely. He looked at the barred gate like he was sizing up a sparring partner, then crossed his arms. "There's a maintenance tunnel. Not part of the main structure. I saw a younger katau slip through it when they were rotating the guard shifts. It's tight, leads up behind the torch vines. We can take that route."

Gray tilted his head. "And where does this mystery tunnel lead?"

"Out. Eventually. Toward the reef caverns, maybe the lakebed split. Kataus doesn't monitor dry ground as much."

Gray blinked. "So... your plan is to squeeze into a tunnel we've never seen, hope it leads to somewhere that's not a dead-end, and outrun or outswim creatures that literally evolved for this exact terrain. Bold."

Troy's jaw tightened. "Got a better idea, wiseass?"

"Literally anything," Gray said. "What about the vent shaft above the guard station? That thing's breathing air. I saw moss moving near it. Means it's dry, maybe leads to the upper cave structures. You said yourself the kataus don't monitor dry ground as much."

Troy gave him a flat stare. "And you think we can reach it by growing wings?"

Gray pointed at the stacked stone basins and loose crates in the corner. "Stack those, climb up. I'm not saying it's pretty, but at least it won't get us impaled by tail-tridents."

"And what if the shaft ends in a dead wall?" Troy shot back.

"Then we come back down and try your 'hope and tunnel' special."

"That's your pitch? Trial and error?"

"It's called adaptation, Thickhead."

They stared at each other across the cramped cell.

Amara sighed. "Combine it."

They didn't respond.

She stood now, arms crossed. "Use the tunnel. But reach the vent shaft first. If it leads somewhere, we go. If it doesn't, we backtrack and use the water route."

Troy finally muttered, "Fine."

Gray smirked. "Wow. We agreed. I should write this down."

"You'll be unconscious before you finish the sentence," Troy replied.

Gray leaned back against the wall. "Don't tempt me. I thrive on spite."

"And what are we going to do about these wooden bars?" Her voice cracked through the thick air like a whip. She rose slowly, her fingers brushing against one of the thick, coral-nailed beams sealing them in. Ending the insults of both boys jabbing at each other.

Gray raised a brow, glanced at Troy. "I was gonna insult the bars until they lost the will to live."

Agta chuckled quietly near the corner, arms folded, clearly entertained by the dynamic unfolding in front of him. "I'm starting to think the three of you were put together by some bored god with a sense of humor."

Troy didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he smirked, stepping forward with the casual confidence of someone about to pull a rabbit from a hat—or more specifically, a secret weapon from the shadows. "Oh, that's solved already." He lifted two fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp whistle that echoed through the stone and damp, bouncing down the corridor like a call to something just outside sight.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. The silence returned. From the deep shadows down the corridor, something moved. No growl. No bark. Just the scrape of claws against stone, steady and deliberate. A shape emerged—broad-shouldered, low-slung, silent as falling ash.

It was a dog. But not just a dog.

It was huge. Black as the deep between stars, its fur matte and thick like scorched velvet. Its gait was smooth, muscles moving under its coat like the shifting of tectonic plates. Eyes the color of stormclouds rimmed with frost caught the torchlight, but didn't reflect it. They absorbed it, like the dark had finally grown its own eyes. Around its neck was a woven collar made from braided vine and silver clasps, marked with old glyphs half-burned, half-carved.

The black dog moved with the ease of something born to track, to hunt, to kill. A predator not bred for show, but for silence and precision. There was no mistaking the power in its shoulders, the way it placed each paw like it remembered blood beneath stone.

Its jaws were clamped around a ring of rusted keys. Old cell keys, unmistakable. Each one clinked faintly against the others like bones in the breeze. The dog reached Troy and stopped with military discipline, then dropped the keys into his open hand without a sound.