Torik took a final scan of the chamber, his breath ragged. No doors. No windows. No clever exits. Just the Holy Mother, her guards, and death bearing down.
Then his eyes lifted.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling, heavy, shaped like a sunburst with sharpened ends. Probably ceremonial. It would do.
Torik narrowed his eyes and reached inward. No elegance this time. No finesse. He focused on their minds and pulled.
He had bound a whole room before, but not for more than a moment. Sustaining an illusion on multiple minds at once. He reached into the screaming corners of his thoughts and grabbed what Tharoghul had shown him.
No, not that, but close. Something worse.
He cast the image of Edramon, the First King himself, golden-crowned and wreathed in light. A god to many. A symbol of terror to the Unbound.
Torik shoved the illusion into their heads like a blade.
His skull ignited with pain. His nose began to bleed. He staggered, clutching his temple. But he held it.
The Holy Mother shrieked. She reeled back, her eyes wide. "No! It cannot be!"
The Unbound guards screamed but not in fear. In agony. They clutched their heads, staggered on their feet.
Torik ran. Leapt atop the long stone table. Sprinting now.
He jumped.
Caught the chandelier.
It groaned under his weight. He swung forward, then back, then let go at the apex.
He sailed over the stunned guards.
"No… don't let him escape!" The Holy Mother screamed.
One of them reacted at the last moment, swinging his sword upward. Steel grazed across Torik's back.
He cried out, twisting in the air. He landed hard and tumbled forward. Pain lanced through him. The cut wasn't deep, but it bled freely.
He shoved himself up. Ran.
Just like before when he had stolen the crown the first time.
The corridors blurred around him. The Crown jostled in its sack, slung over his shoulder.
This cursed thing could never be stolen quietly, could it?
He tumbled up the stone steps, two at a time. There'd be a guard at the door.
There was a reason they'd done this with stealth. The Unbound didn't need an army when they had zealots. Fanatics. Tight halls were their advantage.
They'd leave him behind. He knew it. Kell would see the cult chasing after him and decide it wasn't worth the risk.
He reached the top and cracked the door open.
A guard stood there, back turned.
Torik reached for his pen but he'd dropped it. And footsteps were already echoing behind him. No time.
He ducked low, crouched under the guard's arm, and sprinted.
The guard yelled and gave chase. People turned, some in robes, others just loitering. Kids stopped mid-step, eyes wide.
Torik's mind raced. Yes... This could have been him. Could have been Mox.
The two robed guards who had patted him down on the way in stood by the alley door. They saw him and panicked.
Torik didn't slow. He leapt forward and slammed through the door feet-first. It burst open. One of the men fell. The other shouted and gave chase.
The alley opened before him, narrow, twisting, flanked by beggars. Not real beggars. Scouts. Spotters.
He ran.
His back burned. The wound throbbed with each step. Blood trickled beneath his shirt.
A beggar lunged.
"Hold!"
Torik tried to push past, but the man grabbed his arm and yanked him back.
"Let go!" Torik snarled. He struggled, but the grip was firm. He had no weapon. No pen. No knife. Just pain and breath.
The guard thundered after him.
Then a flash of steel.
A blade cleaved down and took the beggar's hand off at the wrist.
The man screamed.
Captain Kell stood behind him, sword drawn, eyes flaring.
"Come on, boy. Are you hurt?"
Torik looked up, stunned. Kell hadn't left him.
"No time!" Dama shouted, appearing at his side.
Kell didn't hesitate. He hoisted Torik up over his shoulder like a sack of flour and ran.
Torik blinked, breath ragged. The alley spun around him.
More guards poured out of the keep behind them. More cultists. They were everywhere.
But Dama didn't flee.
She turned.
Faced them.
Drew her sword.
"I'll buy you time, Kell."
Torik's eyes widened. "You'll die!"
Dama glanced back, her smile grim. "I've fought worse odds, boy."
Kell grinned. "She's one of the best swordswomen alive."
Torik shook his head, barely believing it. "But those things outnumber her by so much and are armored."
"Boy," Kell said, laughing, "She is a musclebinder, that armor is butter."
Torik looked back over Kell's shoulder.
Dama struck.
Her blade flashed like silver lightning. One guard split clean in half. Another charged her, but she ducked low and rammed her sword through its stomach.
Another cultist came at her from behind but an arrow struck their throat.
Torik turned his head.
Whistle stood on a rooftop, hand-crossbow drawn, calm as sunrise.
They trusted each other completely. That had reminded him.
"Kell?" Torik said, voice hoarse.
"What is it, lad?"
"Mox... he didn't betray me. He was imprisoned. Tortured. They wanted to know who I was. He refused to speak."
Kell was quiet. He didn't have to ask if he was dead, he could tell.
Then he said, "Lad, do you believe it now? There are those worth trusting. Just have to find 'em."
Torik felt his eyes sting. Tears welled, unbidden. He never cried. Not since he was a child.
But this...
This was different.
"I'm going to make the Unbound pay for this," he whispered.
Kell nodded.
Torik wiped his eyes and looked up again.
"Why did you come back for me? You didn't even know if I got the Crown."
Kell smiled, face lit with something warmer than fire.
"Tor, you didn't need the Crown for me to storm in there and pull you out if needed."
The words hit harder than any blade.
Torik had never known warmth like that.
Not from Varlon. Not from the streets. The closest had been from Mox, who, for all his loyalty, had never heard it in return from Torik. Damn it.
This was a man who saw him. Who believed in him.
Then Kell chuckled. "But I had no doubt you got ahold of that Crown."
Torik shook his head, smiling despite the pain.
He didn't feel like an invisible street rat.
He felt like someone who mattered.