The only sound in the vault was Eron's wet, ragged breathing. Each gasp was a struggle, a weak whistle through broken teeth and blood. He lay in the crater Lucian had made of him, a broken doll in a fine suit.
Lucian didn't look at him again. He turned, the cold fire in his eyes banked for now, and moved toward his friends.
Reia was already working her raw wrists, her gaze fixed on Lucian with a mixture of relief and something else—awe, maybe. Silas gave a weak, lopsided grin as Lucian approached. "Took you long enough," he rasped.
Lucian didn't smile back, but his posture softened a fraction. He reached for the manacles on Silas's arms. They were thick, cold iron, etched with suppressing runes. He didn't bother with a key. He placed his fingers on the metal, and the space within the lock twisted. With a sharp crack, the mechanism shattered from the inside, and the manacles fell open.
"Thanks, kid," Silas grunted, rubbing his freed arms.
