“My companions and I,” he bellows, voice warping with a metallic echo, “are here only for one prisoner.”
They hesitate.
River moves beside him. “Skeela,” she says, voice clear.
The towers tremble.
And the tunnel between death and deliverance yawns open for us to step into.
I slip through the narrow arc of torchlight into the prison wing, and what's there drags every breath into my gut.
Skeela is bound to an iron post, limbs splayed, sweat slicking her skin. Her eyes are sunken, and her lips part in a silent scream. A dark elf sorcerer stands before her, robes swirling like smoke, chanting words that taste like acid. With each syllable, her flesh shudders—veins glowing with tortured light, her face melting in agony. Soul-burning magic, raw and jagged, ripping information from her mind. I panic before I can think.
“Kragna,” I whisper, voice torn. But his roar answers me.
The sorcerer’s chant falters as Kragna crashes in—massive, obsidian skin reflecting torchlight, blades glinting, golden horns blazing like twin suns. He swings once, a brutal arc, and the sorcerer splits in half with a sick sound.
I’m both relieved and horrified, unable to move. Skeela crumples, limp but breathing.
Bruce stomps forward, roaring, scattering guards like paper. Harriet’s multiple heads hiss and spew choking vapor, her six eyes glowing. Charen dives from the ceiling in a drunk blur, claws rending armor, wings shining with firelight.
I shake off the haze and step forward, heart thundering in my ears.
“River,” says Skeela’s voice, brittle but alive.
I rush to her side, prying away her shackles even as more guards pour in. Steel clangs. The air is thick with dust and death and magic. I yank her free and help her to her feet. She leans on me, eyes wet and fierce.
“We need to move,” I say, voice urgent.
She nods, every breath trembling, but she stands tall.
We sprint down the hallway, swords banging guards aside, Harriet’s coils tangling ankles, Bruce smashing doors open with silent ease.
I guide Skeela past rows of prisoners—men and women bruised, broken, eyes lighting with hope. “You’re free,” I whisper. “You’re free.”
Each step burns with urgency. The tunnel’s stones are slick with old blood and magic. We press on, Kragna’s silhouette lighting the way, monstrous and noble in the dark.
We burst into the main catacomb shaft, torches sputtering, air stale with centuries of secrets. The path back to the surface splits here; every second counts.
I pause long enough to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to Skeela. “This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
She meets my eyes, fierce despite exhaustion. “You saved me.”
Later, forging our way back through hidden tunnels that tremble with echoes of battle above, I whisper promises into my friend’s hair, vows of safety, of blood-forged loyalty. Kragna’s body looms above us, vigilant, guarding every step.
And outside, the city’s firestorm rages—but here, beneath the earth, we are alive.
We spill out of the catacombs into a world gone mad. The sky above the battlefield is ablaze with fire and fury—losing wall sections collapse in sparks, catapults vomit boulders, musket fire cracks gold in the air. I taste smoke, blood, sweat.
Kragna takes point, crouching low like he smells something only he can track. Harriet’s heads hiss beside him, mouth slits dripping toxin. Bruce’s shoulders ripple in the torchlight. Veeto crests the rubble line, all grins and knives flashing.
And then?—
He appears.
Laertiez.
