He looked at the healer woman. His expression was not kind.
"It is all due to you," he said. "If you had not blasted our explosive bag, we would have had the charges to seal the entrance. Now we have nothing."
The woman trembled. "Please — forgive me — I do not—'
"Fuck it," the third man — the one with the crossbow — said. "We are not going to die."
All three men turned. Looked toward the road. Saw us — the carriage, the horses, the women, the lord.
"Damn it," the swordsman said.
"We were not the ones who did it," the axeman added.
They ran. All three — toward the dungeon, into the dark, fleeing with the desperation of men who had seen something they did not want to explain. The healer woman reached for them, her hand outstretched, her voice calling after them, but they were gone — swallowed by the darkness, their footsteps echoing, fading.
She stood there. Alone. Her hand still reaching. Her face a mask of confusion and hurt.
