Elayra shivered as the chilled water rose up to her mid-chest. She waded through the stream to start her search closer to where she and Ghent had surfaced. She took a few more deep breaths, preparing her body for another plunge into the airless world beneath her, then dove down into the gently rushing current.
	Still already chilled from her first plunge, the water wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. She forced herself to sink to the bottom, her natural buoyancy making it difficult for her to remain at the river bed. She kept her eyes open, searching for any hint of blue among the blurry murky brown. 
	She stayed under as long as she could, running her hand over the mud and sand. She held onto anything that felt or looked even remotely like her dagger, or like it could be of any other value to them.
	When her chest warned her she needed to head for the surface, she planted her feet beneath her and stood. Sucking in a deep breath, she frowned at the haul of her first attempt. Nothing but a couple broken sticks that had lodged themselves into the mud. Tossing them to the bank furiously, she dove back under.
	She lost count of how many times she went down. Small fish occasionally attacked her, but, without teeth, they couldn't do much, even in larger schools. Despite their minor distraction, she picked through the earth carefully, thoroughly. She found many large, loose rocks as she went, rocks she suspected were the evidence of the death that had occurred beneath the surface. 
	Her heart sank every time she came up empty. Only garbage of lost cities and nature's detritus found its way to her to be unearthed. Her anger grew along with her pile of useless litter.
	By the time she’d reached at least a yard beyond the ruins of the bridge, her lungs were spent. Her chest ached from holding her breath for so long so often. Her eyes stung, though she'd given up keeping them open under the water after the first few dives.
	With an angered growl, she tossed her most recent find—the backing of a hand mirror, its metal tarnished and covered in gooey weeds and mirror missing—onto the bank. It was useless. And not just the mirror. Despite the weight of her dagger, somehow, it had floated down the stream beyond her reach. The terraflame had frantically stirred the water; she supposed the vines of its tongue could have caught the weapon, dragging it down the agitated current. 
	Cracked bottles. Rusted cans. The rotting remains of a couple clothing items too decayed to identify. Sticks. Broken hilts. It all created an uneven trail down the riverbank to where Elayra puled herself out of the water.
	Face twisted in a frustrated, angered snarl, she trudged back toward Ghent and their things. Some part of her knew it was unfair to blame him. But [i]she[/i] hadn't been the one to lose it. He hadn't needed both his hands to get to the surface. But still, the featherhead had dropped it to the mercy of the river, like it was nothing more than a disposable butter knife.
	She kicked her finds back into the water as she went, eliminating the evidence of her presence. A few of the bottles shattered from the force, returning to the stream in a glittering rain of shards. The first can made a loud [i]tang[/i] that made her flinch. She glanced around, making sure it hadn't aroused any unwanted attention, then made it a point to roll the other couple cans softly back into the water. As minor as it was, she enjoyed the small outlet for her frustration. 
	She took a few slow breaths, trying to calm herself, to keep her fury at bay. Though she suspected the terraflames were an isolated incident, she needed to keep herself in check.
	Socks squelching in her boots, she ignored Ghent as she stopped beside Drust’s pack. She kicked off her ruined shoes, knelt on the grass, then reached inside the Knight’s bag. She paused, finally looking to Ghent. Her scowl deepened as she took him in, gauging how much his clothes had dried. At least it looked like he'd taken care of his wounds as she'd ordered. 
	“Your clothes need to dry,” she grumbled. She pulled a pair of trousers from the pack. Their ends were crudely tailored to better suit Drust’s height, the fabric worn and rough. “Take yours off and put them in the sun.” She tossed the pair of pants to him with more force than necessary. “Drust should be back soon, but use these for now.”