Tobias turns back through the narrow passage, shoulders brushing damp stone, and re-enters the first chamber where the fire still pops and the broth still steams. The rope ladder hangs just as before, but when he wraps both hands around the lowest rung the whole thing shudders — as though weight somewhere above has just shifted. He climbs anyway. The rungs are dry despite the cave's damp, the knots tight and carefully made. The crack swallows him one sideways breath at a time, and then he is through, crouching on a stone shelf barely wide enough for both feet. A single clay lantern burns here, identical to the ones hanging in the chamber below. Beside it lies a square of birch bark pressed flat on the stone; on it, in what looks like soot, is a handprint — larger than Tobias's and smaller than any grown person's he has ever known.