This place reeks of uncertainty.
The walls close in without windows or doors, and knowing Bradley uses black magic to spy sends a pulse of dread deep into your bones. If he's watching—even now—he holds every card, every shadow.
But you've seen the pieces he left behind. You understand why this began. His father, the grief, the desperation.
An idea forms.
"Hey, Trida?" you say, voice hushed but clear.
"What if we find his dad? It shouldn't matter what state he's in. If we can show him it's really his father, maybe it'll prove he doesn't need to use black magic anymore."
Trida bites her lip, the gold in her eyes dimming. "But if he really is dead… Bradley might try to bring him back to life. We don't know what he's truly capable of."
She's right. But something in you—bold, maybe reckless—pushes forward anyway.
A smirk creeps in. Perhaps Bradley's strange energy is rubbing off on you.
Your hand moves to your jacket pocket, where a small weight has pressed against your side this whole time.
Back when you chased Therley, something had slipped from his coat. You grabbed it—instinctively— in a rush.
"If he has a negative reaction," you murmur, pulling it out, "we can disable him for good."
It's a gun. Sleek, small, but cold with intention. You open it. The chamber is full.
Trida stares, brows drawn. "What is that?" she asks cautiously.
You don't explain with words.
You step toward the chair you'd slumped on earlier and raise the weapon. Slowly, deliberately, you pull back the trigger—clicking it into readiness.
The sound echoes softly in the stone room. One practiced motion. One clear message.
The chair stands empty.
Bradley may have magic. But you're not defenseless anymore.