The dungeon was colder than it had any right to be. Even the air felt judged.

  Thessia crouched behind a crumbling archway as a pair of robed followers marched another wagon of children toward the tunnel exit. The cries were muffled—gagged, silenced, and hidden by spellwoven cloths that hummed with divine bindings.

  She waited. Heart steady. Sword loose in her palm.

  Then she struck.

  A blur of motion—one slash, two. The first cultist dropped, his staff clattering across the stone. The second shouted something holy and stupid before catching a boot to the throat. The kids screamed beneath their bindings, but she was already freeing them, slicing cords and muttering soft assurances.

  “Run. Don’t look back.”

  Half of them obeyed. The other half? Too scared. Too small.

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  “I said RUN—”

  Then the temperature shifted. Light bent. A false wind swept the dungeon’s edge.

  From the shadows stepped Priest Ducalin.

  But he was already at the execution, wasn’t he?

  No. This one shimmered differently. Real. Present. The one above—an illusion. A body double woven from spell-cloth and holy lies.

  He smirked as he stepped over one of the bodies. “You know this voids your contract. You’ll receive no payment for treason.”

  Thessia spat. “Go to hell.”

  “I’d rather send you first.”

  They clashed.

  His fingers traced scripture mid-air. She cut through it with arc-woven steel.

  He summoned chains of radiant scripture—she dodged, parried, weaved between them like lightning draped in silk.

  Her enchantments flared. He countered with glyph-snares.

  Back and forth, grace against grit.

  And slowly—she began to win.

  Until he turned and raised a hand toward one of the children.

  A sigil flared in his palm.

  She saw it too late.

  Without hesitation, she threw herself in front of the beam.

  The impact was silent.

  Then blood hit the stone wall.

  Her arm was gone.

  She staggered—gasping, pale, kneeling. Her blade clattered.

  Ducalin’s boots echoed as he approached. “Foolish woman. Did you think this mattered?”

  He raised his hand again.

  Then—

  **CRASH.**

  The ceiling above exploded.

  Stone and debris rained down as a figure hurtled through the roof like a meteor, shattering the altar.

  Still wearing the medieval execution stock—head and arms locked—Rell landed in a crouch between Thessia and the priest.

  Eyes glowing. Breathing wild.

  Rell’s voice, muffled by wood: “Move. Now.”