"Wait," Xas says in desperation, in his own language, and with meaning - the kind of meaning that could stop a hailstorm, once, that could melt glass and curve bullets. It makes his mouth flood with the taste of blood and his own effort, but it doesn't work

He spits pink foam onto the ground and moves toward the staircase, not letting go of his steel handhold until he can't reach it any longer. There are more holes than floor, mouths with jagged teeth, and he breaks glass under his bare feet as he moves around them. It takes him time to notice the glass is colored. It's green and brown, curved, and when he breathes in there's spoiled, acidic wine beneath the burning.

His throat clenches, and it stops any sound from escaping when he opens his mouth. For the better. He doesn't look down again and doesn't look back, and even though he shouldn't fit into a stairwell, he does.