The squad took refuge in a hollow bone nook carved into the inside ribbing of the glandular junction, fifty meters above the shattered back shells of the Phalanx Wardens.
The nook had once served as a fluid-draining straining recess, but with the flow diverted by Toby’s clockwork bypass valves, the space was dry, quiet. Then he sheltered from the howling methane drafts of the main channel. A portable infrared heating fire bowl burned in the center of the nook, casting warm, flickering amber light across the weathered steel inner walls and the exhausted faces of the companions.
Arthur Vance sat cross-legged on a padded ground-mat, his back resting against Titus’s massive, comforting front leg. The giant terrapin had extended his neck along the floor, his heavy chin resting beside Arthur’s knee, his breathing slow, rhythmic, and reassuring as he dozed by the fire bowl.
Grimm was curled tightly across Arthur’s boots. His head was tucked beneath his tail in classic scrapper fashion, one notched ear leftover half-cocked to monitor the distant echoes of the hive.
Pip perched on Arthur’s right knee. He held his wing slightly open so Arthur could inspect the healing feather quills. The cold-root salve had worked its potion-made magic. The singed tips were already sloughing away, replaced by vibrant new pinfeathers that shone with molten golden fire.
