Chapter 59: The Silken Floor

The lift does not stop. It does not slow. It simply ends.

The grinding, ancient chain mechanism groans, shudders, and with a final, protesting clang, the iron platform slams into the ground. The impact is not a crash; it is a solid, definitive arrival. It throws us all to our knees.

I am Erima. My hands, raw and aching from the Grak-ta bow, hit the floor.

The floor is wrong.

It is not stone. It is not flesh.

It is soft.

It is a vast, endless, taut surface that yields slightly under my weight, like a trampoline woven from cold, damp silk. It is the 'silken floor' Krell spoke of. It is the top layer of the Spinner King's web.

Silence.

The rushing wind of the descent is gone. The shrieks of the airborne Hunters are a distant memory. Down here, there is no sound. No wind. No life.

The only light is the faint, cold, silver-white glow that emanates from the web itself. It is a world of monochrome, of silver and absolute, perfect black. The air is cold, sterile, and thin. It smells of nothing, which is somehow more terrifying than the Miasma-stench of Torchlight.

"We... we are here," Hachiro whispers, his voice a dry, hoarse crackle. He is on his hands and knees, his good hand pressed to the silken floor. "This... this is it. The bottom."

Yogawa is a whimpering, fetal ball behind him, his eyes squeezed shut. He has not spoken a word since the fight with the Shriekers. He is broken.

Kizawa is already on his feet.

He stands in the center of the platform, a dark, rigid silhouette against the pale, glowing silk. He is perfectly still. He is listening.

"Kizawa?" I whisper, getting to my own feet. The obsidian bow feels impossibly heavy in this dead, thin air.

He raises one hand, a silent command.

He is listening to something I cannot hear. His head is tilted, his blue eyes narrowed, staring into the silver-gray emptiness that stretches out beyond our platform.

"What... what is it?" Hachiro pants, scrambling up.

"She is close," Kizawa breathes.

His voice is not a guess. It is a statement. A cold, absolute certainty.

"How... how do you know?" I ask, nocking an arrow, my eyes scanning the impossible, empty horizon. This place... it is a plain. An endless, silver plain of silk, with no walls, no ceiling, just darkness above.

"I can feel her," Kizawa says, his voice a low, intense rumble. "The Flame. It is... dim. A whisper. But... it is here."

He steps off the iron platform.

His boot makes no sound on the silken floor.

The silence is absolute.

He takes another step, his swords held low. He is a predator, a blade in the gloom.

"Kizawa, wait!" I hiss. "A plan! We need a plan!"

"The plan... is that way," he says, pointing.

I look. I see nothing. Just endless, silver-white silk stretching into blackness.

"There is nothing there!" I protest.

"Exactly," he says. "The web is clean. The King... it is a spider. It keeps its parlor clean. The Hunters... they do not come here. This... is hallowed ground."

He is right. The logic is terrifying. A spider does not foul its own web. This is the heart of its power.

"But... where... is she?" Hachiro asks, his voice trembling. "In... in a cocoon?"

The image... is horrifying.

"We... find out," Kizawa says.

He begins to walk.

I look at Hachiro. His face is pale, but he nods, his one good hand clenched into a fist. I look at Yogawa. He is unresponsive.

"Hachiro, get him up," I command.

"I... I cannot carry him!"

"Drag him," I snap. "We are not leaving him here. We move together. We die together. That... is the only plan."

Hachiro nods, his face grim. He loops his one good arm under Yogawa's, and begins the agonizing, slow drag.

I follow Kizawa.

We walk across the endless plain of silent silk.

It is the longest walk of my life. Every step... is a nightmare. My feet make no sound. The air does not move. The only sound is Hachiro's panting breath and the faint, wet drag of Yogawa's limp body on the silk.

We are exposed. Utterly. A single, four-person blot in an infinite silver void.

"Kizawa... how long?" I whisper, my voice eaten by the silence.

"As long as it takes," he breathes. He... is in a trance. He... is a compass needle, and she... is North.

After an eternity, he stops.

"What?" I hiss, raising my bow.

"Here," he whispers.

He kneels.

He presses his pale hand to the silken floor.

"The web... is different here," he says. "It is... colder."

I kneel beside him. I touch it.

He is right. The silk... is brittle. Damp.

"It... is not cold," Hachiro pants, dropping Yogawa. "It... is burned. No... not burned. It... is seared. Like... my arm..."

He looks at his own Rekka-burned flesh.

Kizawa's eyes are closed. He is feeling it.

"The Flame," he whispers. "She... was here. She fought here."