Wilhelm hasn't slept in a week. He just crashes through days that have lost all definition and shape. His body buzzes, and his mind blurs.

At some point, Kell, cornering him, had tried to cure him, but the sores encrusting his skin remain. So do the mushrooms bursting out of them, not content with waiting for him to become a corpse, and the roots spreading from his spine. All that has cleared is the manic certainty he'd held about gods and salvation. With that light doused, that hope dimmed, he plunges deeper into fear.

He still sees Erik in the shadows sometimes, still hears his voice. When the cavern starts to crumble, that's where he is: chasing after his brother's ghost, because reassurance is as scarce as anything else down here. Instead of reassurance, though, there comes a clattering of debris. A chunk of rock strikes the earth in front of him and he stumbles backward.

Then his name cuts through the cacophony of things falling apart, but not the voice he's desperate to hear again. His gaze lingers on the dark nook where he thought he saw a flicker of Erik. He's alone again.

"Over here!" Wilhelm calls back.