Wilhelm stumbles onward in silence, his eyes fixed on the trembling edge of the light that buffets them. Claude's arm around his shoulder weighs almost nothing, like a memory more than the thing itself. The blood soaking the ground at their feet has as much to do with reality as the blood splattered larger than life across a movie screen.

Farther away. Farther and farther, until everything is just a pinprick in the distance behind him.

The tunnel never ends. Literally — they walk for what could be an hour, or it could be ten minutes, but no opening appears in the brambles. If anything, instead of widening into the cavern, the tunnel cinches tighter around them.

The only way out is falling through the tangled vines. Suddenly, the tunnel gives way and they crash onto moss-slick stone. The fire spills from Wilhelm's hand and, failing to find purchase in the damp rocks, fizzles out.

He says nothing as he scrapes himself off the ground, or as they stagger the rest of the way back to the camp. There, someone does what they can with his wounds. Someone else tips a couple sips of water into his mouth. When he lies down, wrapped up in his tattered cloak, he's scared to close his eyes. The darkness in there is harder to face than the darkness of the cavern.

And so, sleep never comes.