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The rift was still open.
Evira could hear it breathing. Not wind. Not the groan of settling stone. Something wet and deliberate, like lungs working behind a membrane too thin to hold.
She was on her knees. Blood ran hot down her forearm, pooled black under her palm. The crack in the ground glowed a sick, pulsing red—same color as the emergency lights in the old transit tunnels, the ones that meant cave-in or gas leak or get out now.
"What the hell did you do?"
Marcus.
She didn't look up. Couldn't. If she met his eyes, he'd see it. He'd see everything. The panic, the lie, the fact that she had no idea what she'd just done or how to close it.
"I don't know." Her voice came out steady. Good. She could work with steady. "It opened when I bled."
"Blood doesn't do that."
"Yeah, well." She pressed her sleeve against the gash. The fabric soaked through in seconds. "Mine does, I guess."
Marcus moved closer. She could hear his boots on the stone, slow and deliberate. He wasn't running. He wasn't calling for backup. That was either very good or very, very bad.
Behind them, the rookie—Tomas, she thought his name was—was still whimpering. The shadowbeast had clipped his shoulder before she'd tackled him out of the way. He'd live. The thing in the ground, though. That might kill all of them.
"Step back," Marcus said.
She did. Her legs shook when she stood, but she locked her knees and made it look smooth. The rift pulsed again, and this time she saw movement inside. Not shadow. Not mist. Something with edges. Something that knew they were watching.
"How long have you been able to do this?" Marcus's voice was flat. No curiosity. No fear. Just the tone he used when he was cataloging a threat.
"First time." Not a lie. She'd bled plenty in her life. Scraped knuckles, split lips, the time she'd fallen off the mill roof and opened her shin to the bone. Nothing like this had ever happened before.
"First time," he repeated. He didn't believe her. She wouldn't have believed her either.
The rift widened.
Evira took another step back. Marcus didn't. He dropped into a crouch, one hand on the hilt of his blade, and stared into the crack like he was reading something written there.
"It's not a summoning mark," he said.
"I didn't summon anything."
"No. You ripped a hole." He tilted his head. The red light from the rift caught the scar along his jaw, made it look fresh. "That's worse."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him it wasn't her fault, that she'd been trying to save Tomas, that she didn't ask for whatever this was. But Marcus wasn't the kind of person you whined at. You gave him facts, or you shut up.
She shut up.
The thing in the rift moved again. Closer to the surface this time. Evira caught a flash of pale, slick skin—too smooth, like something that had never seen sunlight—and then it was gone.
"Your name," Marcus said. He still wasn't looking at her. "The thing in there said your name."
Her chest went tight. "You heard that."
"Everyone heard that."
She glanced back. Tomas was staring at her, wide-eyed and pale. His mouth was open like he wanted to say something but couldn't figure out what.
"Evan's not your real name," Marcus continued. Still calm. Still flat. "Is it."
Not a question.
She could lie. She was good at lying. She'd lied her way past the guild registrar, past the intake exam, past three weeks of sparring and patrol shifts and close-quarters bunk rooms. She could lie now.
But Marcus had her blood on his gloves. He'd seen the rift. He'd heard her name.
She didn't answer.
Marcus stood. Turned. Looked at her.
In the low red light, his eyes were unreadable.
"Evira," he said.
The sound of it—her real name, spoken out loud for the first time in months—hit like a punch. She flinched. Hated herself for flinching. Forced her shoulders back and met his stare.
"Yeah," she said. "That's me."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Behind them, Tomas made a choked sound. He was going to talk. He was going to tell someone. She'd be out of the guild by morning, and Felix—
No. She couldn't think about Felix right now. She had to deal with Marcus.
"You're a woman," Marcus said.
She almost laughed. Of all the things he could have led with—the rift, the blood, the impossible thing she'd just done—he went with that.
"Yeah," she said again. "That too."
His gaze flicked down. Not leering. Clinical. Taking inventory. Seeing the bind under her shirt, the way she stood, the decade of practice she'd put into moving like a man.
"How long?" he asked.
"Three weeks in the guild. Whole life being a woman."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "How'd you get past intake?"
"Bribed the registrar. Faked the paperwork." She shrugged. "Wasn't hard. You people don't look too close if the numbers add up."
"You people," he repeated. This time it was definitely a smile. A cold one. "And why would a woman bribe her way into an all-male hunter guild?"
"Money," she said. Simple. True. "Same reason anyone does anything."
He studied her for another beat. Then he looked back at the rift.
"You need to close that," he said.
"I don't know how."
"Figure it out."
"I just told you—"
"And I just told you to figure it out." His voice didn't rise. Didn't have to. "Because if you don't, something's going to come through. And when it does, I'm going to have to kill it. And you. And him." He jerked his chin toward Tomas. "In that order."
She believed him.
Evira looked down at her hand. The cut had stopped bleeding. She wiped the drying blood on her pants and crouched next to the rift. Up close, the smell was worse—copper and rot and something else, something that made her sinuses burn.
"It opened when I bled," she said slowly. "Maybe it closes when I stop."
"Try it."
She waited. The rift kept breathing.
"Not working," she muttered.
Marcus crouched beside her. Close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that if he wanted to grab her, shove her into the rift, end this whole problem right now, he could.
He didn't.
Instead, he pulled his knife.
"What are you—"
He grabbed her wrist. She tried to yank back, but his grip was iron. He pressed the blade to her palm. Not cutting. Just resting there.
"If blood opened it," he said, "maybe more blood closes it."
"That's insane."
"You have a better idea?"
She didn't.
He dragged the blade across her palm. Shallow. Controlled. She hissed through her teeth but didn't pull away. Blood welled up, bright red in the dim tunnel.
Marcus guided her hand over the rift. Let the blood drip.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the rift screamed.
Not a human sound. Not an animal sound. Something that vibrated in her teeth and made her brain itch. The edges of the crack flared white-hot, and the thing inside surged toward the surface.
Evira jerked back. Marcus swore and shoved her behind him, blade already out.
The hound came through.
It wasn't a hound. Not really. But her brain didn't have another word for it. Four legs, lean body, too many teeth. Its skin was the same slick pale as the thing she'd glimpsed before, and its eyes—
It didn't have eyes.
Just smooth skin where eyes should be.
It landed in a crouch. Sniffed the air. Turned its head toward her.
"Run," Marcus said.
She didn't run.
The hound growled. Low and wet. Its muscles bunched.
Marcus stepped between them. "I said run."
"I'm not—"
The hound jumped.
Marcus moved fast. Faster than she'd ever seen him move in sparring. His blade caught the thing mid-leap, opened a gash along its ribs. It twisted in the air, landed wrong, skidded.
Blood hit the ground.
The rift pulsed.
"No," Evira whispered.
Marcus looked back at her. His face was hard. Decided.
"Bleed again," he said.
The hound lunged.