He staggered to his feet, ignoring Elena completely. He moved with stiff determination, crossing over the shattered wall into the next chamber, still half-limping. Elena hesitated, then followed, calling softly.
"Wait… please!"
He didn't respond.
The air in the second dungeon was colder. Dustier. She could barely see him ahead when a sudden sound stopped her in her tracks—a faint, broken gasp.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered, catching up to him and grabbing his arm.
He paused, eyes narrowing. "Breathing?"
"Somebody's buried under there."
"You check. I'll keep looking for a way out."
She didn't argue. Something pulled her toward the collapsed stones in the corner.
With shaking fingers, she began to uncover the rubble. Stone by stone. Dust filled her lungs, but she didn't stop. Something in her heart was already breaking before she saw the face.
And when she did—
Her heart shattered.
"Papa…?"
He looked exactly as she remembered. His face bruised, dirt in his beard, lips slightly parted. But peaceful. Too peaceful.
Tears blurred her vision.
"Papa… no…"
His voice snapped behind her. "We need to move—now!"
Then she heard it.
Footsteps. Boots. Metal clinking. Dozens. Getting closer.
She turned just as three figures dropped through the ceiling grate.
And when she saw the first face—
She froze.
It was him.
The alchemist with the cruel smirk. The one who chased her through the woods, who shot her with something sharp and strange. The one who would've killed her had she not blacked out.
Her body stiffened. Her wound pulsed in memory.
"Well, well," he said, cracking his neck. "Thought I lost you."
But the moment he was about to unleash his power, nothing happened. His hands sparked, then flickered out. His magic failed. They looked confused, panicked, enraged. Elena didn't understand.
The other two alchemys activated their powers, attempting to pull energy through the embedded sigils—but nothing worked. Their eyes widened in confusion, and then in fear.
The cloth—Elena was still wearing it. And it was glowing faintly at the edges, like it was feeding off their presence.
Then the man with Elena charged. He lunged forward and struck first, ramming his shoulder into one of them and slamming him to the wall. Another swung, and he ducked, countering with a wild punch that landed square in the gut. The last one—the cruel one—tried to fight too but was struck to the ground.
"No magic near her…" He muttered, wiping blood from his mouth. "Interesting."
The fight was fierce and physical, raw fists against armored bodies. But somehow—the guy won. Maybe it was rage. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was something else.
Elena stood, stunned, tears still clinging to her lashes. She turned to look at her father's face one last time… then heard him yell:
"Move!"
She turned to run, but the cloth—the Veil—was caught under a heavy stone.
"No, no—please…" she pulled.
It didn't budge.
The alchemys were groaning, starting to stir again. With a final scream, she yanked hard. The stone shifted—and the cloth came free. She clutched it tightly and ran.
Behind her, the dungeon filled with echoes—his footsteps, distant groans, the hiss of metal against rock—but she didn't look back.
Only forward.
Meanwhile, Sean stirred awake with a stiff neck and an ache in his back. The morning light had crept in through the slits in the wooden window, casting long stripes across the floor. He sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from his eyes.
His first thought was Elena.
He stood and walked quietly down the hall, heading straight for her room. He hadn't checked her leg since last night, and he hoped the swelling had gone down.
"Elena?" he called gently as he opened the door.
The bed was empty.
He froze.
No sign of her.
His eyes swept the room. The blanket had been folded aside. The pillow still held the faint shape of her head. But she was gone.
Confused, he stepped back and looked down the hallway. Maybe she was in the bathroom. Maybe she had gotten up on her own. He checked. No one. The kitchen? Empty. The small back door? Still shut.
"Elena?" he called again, louder this time.
Nothing.
A quiet tension settled over the house. Something wasn't right.
He returned to his room, eyes scanning the corners more carefully now. That was when he noticed it.
The drawer.
It was slightly open.
Sean walked toward it slowly, pulled it the rest of the way—and stopped.
The cloth was gone.
The old, strange cloth he had hidden there just yesterday.
He stood in silence for a moment, the breath leaving his lungs slowly. Then he turned and walked quickly to the drawer he kept the key, reaching his hands inside it.
His fingers found nothing.
He searched again.
The key was gone.
Sean stepped back, staring at the wall, heart sinking.
There was only one explanation.
She had taken it and left.
Just like she said she would.
She had talked about leaving. About finding her mother. And now, with no warning, no note—she was gone.
Sean stood in silence, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the empty space behind the shelf.
Meanwhile Elena and the guy that saved her ran.
The stone paths of the city echoed under their feet as they slipped through winding alleys and narrow walkways. Morning light crept through broken rooftops and crooked wooden signs. The city was alive—but it wasn't welcoming.
People glanced up from their stalls. A woman pouring water into a basin paused mid-motion. A man carrying a sack of herbs narrowed his eyes as they passed. A pair of children stopped their game and watched in silence.
They didn't speak. They just stared.
The Man barefoot, bruised, and wild—looked like he hadn't seen a bed in weeks.
The other... wore a long cloak, hood drawn deep over the face. Silent. Tense. Unfamiliar.
They didn't belong.
Without a word, they kept moving, weaving past open doors and moss-covered fountains until the sounds of the city began to fade behind them. They followed a narrow path that slipped between old stone fences and overgrown walls, until even the buildings began to disappear.
The trees started thin—just a few scattered among the edge of the road—but then they thickened. Roots cracked the stone beneath their feet. Branches swayed above them.
Soon, they were among the woods.
It was quiet here.
But Elena couldn't keep going.
Her legs gave way near a fallen log. She stumbled, caught herself, and finally sank to the ground. Her chest rose and fell with shallow, shaky breaths.
She didn't say anything—she couldn't. Her strength had run dry.
The man didn't notice at first. He was still ahead, his eyes scanning the trees.
It wasn't until the sound of footsteps vanished behind him that he stopped.
He turned.
The hooded figure was crouched near the trees, unmoving.
He jogged back quickly. "Hey," he said, slightly breathless. "You good?"
No answer.
Then he saw her shoulders trembling.
Tears streamed quietly down her face, barely visible beneath the hood. Her hands were clenched in the fabric of her cloak, and her breath came in short, broken bursts.
She wasn't crying because she was tired.
She was crying because her father was already gone.
The weight of everything—of running, of pretending, of losing him—pressed down all at once.
The man scratched his head awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot.
"I've never met a guy that cries this much," he muttered under his breath.
Her fingers twitched.
For a moment, she wanted to say it. I'm not a guy.
She wanted to pull back the hood, tell him her name, tell him everything.
But something in her... stopped her.
So she said nothing.
After a while, she wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and stood again.
They were quiet.
Then she spoke, softly. "I know a place."
He glanced at her.
"I can take us there," she said. "It's safe. Someone I know. He can help."
He studied her a moment longer, then gave a nod. "Alright."
And together, without exchanging names, they turned deeper into the woods—heading toward the house that waited at the edge of the trees.