The Labyrinth did not smell like a tomb.
It smelled like something older than tombs — wet stone and deep earth and the particular mineral cold of air that had not moved in centuries, carrying beneath it the faint, sweet rot of organic things that had adapted to the dark and grown strange in it. The walls were black basalt threaded with veins of pale luminescent mineral that provided just enough light to see by — which was, for Yan Shu, completely irrelevant.
She had her pole.
