Rook braces one boot against the stone and hauls the last crate up from the hollow, breath sharp from the climb. The iron rings at his throat shift with the movement, a low, layered sound like metal settling after heat. One of the dark scales taps against his collarbone as he leans forward, counting under his breath, making sure nothing was left behind in the dark. He wipes his hands on his coat, then hooks a finger beneath the chain and lifts it slightly, checking the spacing of the spikes where they sit between the plates. They’ve shifted again, closer than he remembers. “Greedy,” he mutters, though there’s no one there to hear it. The air up here carries that dry, mineral weight, the kind that settles at the back of the tongue. He straightens, rolls his shoulders, and the necklace answers in small movements — a tilt, a slide, the plates turning just enough to catch the light differently. Not bright, never bright. More like the inside of something old. He presses one of the scales flat with his thumb, feeling the faint resistance before it settles, then lets it go. It doesn’t fall back where it was. It holds, as if it’s chosen its place. Below him, the opening waits, half-hidden by scrub and broken stone. Rook doesn’t look at it again. He gathers the rope, slings it over his shoulder, and starts the walk back, the chain at his throat shifting with each step, keeping its own quiet count alongside his own.
