"Do you know what these letters say?" Alan asked. He crouched beside a boy who huddled against the wall. Though taller, the stranger curled inward like a frightened turtle, his greasy hair falling over his face as he shook his head.
"They're everywhere," Alan continued. "And why are you hiding in a stupid tomb?"
"I… I got lost," the boy squeaked, his fingers nervously picking at the frayed edges of his torn tunic.
Alan's gaze dropped to the shallow cut on the boy's leg. "Then why'd you attack me?"
"You snuck up!" the boy blurted, his voice cracking. "I thought you were a tomb monster!"
Alan opened his mouth to retort, but a familiar shout cut through the air.
"Alan!"
Both boys flinched as Milla's voice echoed through the chamber. She barreled into the room, her boots skidding slightly on the uneven floor. Emma followed close behind. Sylas trudged in last, his shoulders slumped like a scolded child. Purple bruises dotted his face, and one eye swollen shut.
"Your dumb sword scratches saved us," Milla said, eyeing Alan's blade with a mix of amusement and exasperation.
"They're not scratches! They're trail marks!" Alan protested, holding up the blade defensively.
Sylas snorted, his swollen lip curling into a smirk. "Looks like a rat chewed the walls." Milla stomped her foot, and he yelped.
The group had followed Alan's jagged carvings through the maze of tunnels. However, no one explained why Sylas was covered in bruises or why Milla kept hiding her scraped knuckles behind her back.
"Who's he?" Milla asked, looming over the trembling boy. Her shadow stretched across the chamber, making the boy shrink even smaller.
"He was hiding in the tomb and tried stabbing me when I got here," Alan said with a shrug. "Wasn't very good at it."
"Dummy," Milla muttered as she rummaged through her magic bag. She pulled out a roll of bandages and tossed it at the boy, the roll bouncing off his head. "Wrap your leg before it falls off, tomb-boy."
"Mine!" Sylas exclaimed, making grabby hands at the tin of salve Milla pulled out next. She rolled her eyes and tossed it to him. He fumbled the catch but managed to pop it open, smearing the salve across his cheek in uneven streaks that glistened like pudding left out too long.
"You're worse than a baby," Milla said, snatching the tin back with a huff. "Hold still!" She dabbed at his bruises with rough, impatient pats.
"Quit poking!" Sylas whined, jerking his head away from her touch like a petulant child.
"Then quit being a crybaby!" Milla shot back, sticking her tongue out at him in mock defiance. Sylas grumbled under his breath, but his swollen lips concealed all traces of anger.
The stranger watched the exchange wide-eyed, his gaze darting between the bickering group. Milla turned her attention back to him, her expression softening slightly. "What's your name, tomb-boy?"
"Ch-Chase."
"Chase is a weird name," Sylas mumbled through his puffy lips.
"Shut up, Sourface." Milla pinched his swollen cheek.
"Ouch!" Sylas yelped, swatting her hand away. "Don't you ever learn how to be gentle?"
"Aw, poor baby." She reached for his head, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she patted it. "Do you want me to kiss it better too?"
Sylas recoiled, his cheeks flushing red. "Gross! Get away from me!"
"Any sign of Nora and Gerral?" Alan asked, ignoring the bickering around him.
Emma shook her head. "I woke up with Milla after the storm. Found Sylas crying behind a rock."
"I was not crying!" Sylas' good eye watered as he spoke. "There was… dust!"
"Dust in your pants, maybe," Milla teased, earning a glare from Sylas.
"They're okay," Emma said, cutting off the banter. "Nora punches harder than Gerral."
Alan chewed his lip, his gaze flicking toward the dark passages. "We gotta find them and get out of here. This place smells like Joe's socks."
"And death farts," Sylas added, wrinkling his nose.
"Ew!" Milla exclaimed, chucking the empty salve tin at him. Sylas ducked, the tin clattering harmlessly to the ground.
—
Clark pressed his hand to Gerral's nose, his fingers trembling slightly. A faint breath grazed his knuckles, barely perceptible. "Alive," he muttered under his breath, though the word carried little relief. His eyes traced the gash on Gerral's neck, its edges twisting downward into thorny tendrils beneath the skin—a wood shield, no doubt the work of an overprotective parent's magic. Even so, no enchantment could fully deflect a blade driven at point-blank range.
Clark's gaze shifted to the smeared blood on the wall. Footprints. Drag marks. The signs of a chase. Connor and Nora had come this way. He needed to move—
His muscles locked. His breath hitched. Cold steel slid between his ribs from behind.
"Ghh—!" Clark pitched forward—hands clutching, slipping, pressing—heat spilling between his fingers, staining them crimson. Stone bit his palms. He crawled forward. His vision blurred. His breath burned. Copper filled his throat, its metallic tang sharp and bitter.
The wall loomed before him. He leaned against it, back scraping rough stone, dragging himself upright. Every breath rattled in his chest, shallow and sharp.
"Why?!" he gasped, the word spat blood as it left his lips.
"Why?" Connor's laugh slithered out of the shadows, cold and mocking. He stepped into the dim light, Nora dangling limply in his grip. Her silver hair tangled in his fist as she choked sob echoed faintly. "You're asking while wearing the collar of a lapdog?" Connor sneered, his boot slamming into Clark's leg and sending him sprawling to the ground. "The Dawn's reign is over. A new era is brewing. And this—" He shook Nora like a ragdoll, her whimper sharp as shattered glass—"is my prize."
Clark's fingers dug into the stone floor, his nails scraping against it as he struggled to rise. He got to his feet. He'd—
His knee buckled, and the world tilted. Darkness seeped into the edges of his vision.
Nora's face flickered in the dim light—her wide eyes, trembling lips, and a silent plea carved into her expression. Then, there was nothing but Connor's grin, sharp and cruel, like the blade still lodged in Clark's gut.