The chamber was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of iron. The nobles groaned on the floor, clutching fractured wrists and crushed limbs, their wealth and pride meaningless before the precision of Kairo's bone magic.
The children stared, wide-eyed. Kairo moved among them, calm, deliberate. His crimson eyes swept over each of them, adjusting the subtle shrink of their wrists and ankles. None were hurt—only freed from their chains.
Igron rubbed his eyes, still groggy from the sedatives. "He… he didn't even try to kill them," he muttered, half in awe, half in disbelief.
Kairo crouched beside Selaih, releasing her chains completely. "Stay calm," he whispered. "Don't move too fast. They're dangerous—but they're still only human."
The nobles scrambled, fear painted across their faces, realizing they had been bested by a child. The mistress's eyes gleamed from the shadows, but she did not move. She was assessing, calculating.
Kairo's hands flexed, adjusting bone lengths in micro-shifts, ensuring no child's injuries would linger. Small sparks of residual power danced at his fingertips, but he kept them controlled, hidden from the nobles' frightened gaze.
Then he rose, crimson eyes blazing with quiet authority. "Follow me," he said. The children hesitated, then obeyed, moving carefully through the chamber.
The gods' voices echoed faintly in his mind: "Good. Protect them. But remember—you are not a healer. You are the storm."
Kairo swallowed, feeling the weight of both their approval and their expectation. Chains were broken. Bones had bent. But the real test—the escape, the survival—was only just beginning.