The deafening GONNNN of the colliding blades faded into a sustained, grinding whine. Marya and Pier stood locked in a test of terrible leverage, their feet planted on the stone floor, neither giving an inch. Nisshoku's crimson runes pulsed like an angry heart against the unadorned black iron of Saigen. Sparks of void-darkness and iron-grey force spat from the contact, sizzling as they hit the cold ground.
Across the chamber, perched on her crate, Paula Cupcake Pope took a long, deliberate draw from her pipe. The ember brightened, casting her sharp features in a hellish glow as she exhaled a stream of aromatic smoke. "Appears they're just gettin' warmed up," she commented, her voice a lazy drawl that cut through the tension. "All that gruntin' and no one's bleedin' yet. Boring."
From the opposite side of the domed room, leaning against the ancient wall with its fading murals, Archibald Winn Lima-Sabin watched with an artist's critical eye. He noticed the tight, controlled grin on Pier's face—not one of strain, but of dark, genuine pleasure. "Oho," Archibald chimed, his voice a theatrical whisper that somehow carried. "Look at that smile. She's got some proper skill in her! Anyone else would be a red stain on the floor already. This is getting good!"
The commentary was a distraction, a cover. Galit Varuna's emerald eyes, sharp and calculating, flickered from the duel to the huddled prisoners. He made eye contact with Jannali. A single, almost imperceptible nod passed between them.
Jannali's head dipped slightly. Under her breath, her accent a low murmur, she whispered to Eliane and Vesta, who were staring wide-eyed at the clashing titans. "Hey. Get ready."
Vesta's head snapped around, her rainbow hair a vibrant shock of color in the gloom. "Ready? Ready for…?" Her gaze followed Jannali's pointed look to Galit. The Urdhva lieutenant's face was a mask of focused intensity, his long neck held rigid. Understanding dawned on Vesta's face. "Oh. Right. Showtime."
With a fluid motion, Jannali reached up and untied the stylish headscarf concealing her brow. The fabric slipped away, pooling around her shoulders. For a moment, the smooth skin of her forehead was bare. She took a deep, centering breath, the air in the chamber stilliing around her.
Galit's hand came up, hidden from the commanders' direct view. He glanced at the wobbly blue sphere on his shoulder. "You know what to do?"
Jelly's massive eyes blinked. He gave a firm, if jiggly, nod. "Bloop! Get the jingly thing from the big lady with the smoke-stick!"
"On my mark," Galit breathed. He raised his hand, three fingers extended.
Three.
Jannali's eyes flicked to Paula, measuring the distance, the angle of her attention, which was still lazily on the central duel.
Two.
Jannali's brow furrowed. The air around her temples wavered, like heat haze off a desert road.
One.
A vertical slit rippled open on Jannali's forehead. Her third eye opened, a luminous, ancient gold. At the same instant, Galit's last finger curled into a fist.
Jelly became an azure bullet. He launched from Galit's shoulder, not with a bounce, but in a silent, streaking arc directly toward Paula Cupcake Pope, who was watching Pier shove Marya back a half-step with a grunt of effort.
Archibald's head tilted, his chalk-dusted grin widening. "Oh-ho! It appears the supporting cast is making their move!" He uncrossed his arms only to re-cross them with a more comfortable lean against the wall, settling in like a patron at a play. "This should be entertaining. Let's see the script."
Paula felt the shift. Her head started to turn, a smirk on her lips. "Let's see what you've got, darlin'," she began.
Then Jannali's full attention landed on her. It wasn't a look; it was an assault. Jannali's awakened three-eye ability, the power to hear the Voice of All Things, reversed its flow. Instead of listening, she projected. A torrent of spiritual noise—a cacophony of a thousand overlapping whispers, the screams of forgotten battles etched in the Lugh-Grange stones, the discordant ringing of every bell-fruit in the Mirabelle Woods, the chaotic chorus of the world's pain—hammered directly into Paula's mind.
Paula's smirk froze. She blinked, a full-body flinch rocking her frame. Her pipe slipped slightly in her fingers. "Impressive," she muttered through clenched teeth, her voice strained. "A proper psychic wallop. But…"
While the Emerald Matriarch was mentally staggering, Jelly struck. He elongated a gelatinous hand, its form perfectly silent, and snatched the heavy iron key ring from Paula's belt loop. He rebounded off the floor in the same motion, sailing back across the chamber in a wobbly parabola.
"Bloop! Freedom delivery!" he chirped, landing with a soft splat at Galit's feet, keys held aloft.
Galit didn't waste a moment. He snatched the keys, the metal cold in his hand, and went to work on the heavy manacles. The first lock on Vesta's wrists clicked open with a sound like a gunshot in the tense air. "Nice one!" Vesta whispered, shaking her wrists free as the shackles fell with a heavy clank.
"Quiet," Galit hissed, moving to Eliane. Another clank. Then Jannali's. A bead of sweat rolled down from Jannali's third eye, tracing a path through the dust on her cheek. Her whole body trembled with the effort of maintaining the psychic barrage on Paula, who stood swaying, her eyes unfocused.
With the others free, Galit moved to Atlas. He grunted, hefting the unconscious Mink over his shoulder with a practiced motion, the red fur smelling of antiseptic and dried blood. He placed his free hand on Jannali's shoulder, the contact a clear signal.
"It's time," he said, his voice low and urgent. He looked at Eliane and Vesta, then toward a dark, narrow archway on the far side of the chamber—the one they'd entered through. "Go! Now!"
Eliane didn't need telling twice. Vesta shot a worried look at Marya, still locked in her grinding duel, then nodded. They broke into a run, their footsteps echoing in the vast space.
Archibald chuckled, a sound like grinding stones. "So cute! A little jailbreak! The drama, the teamwork! It's almost touching."
Paula shook her head, a sharp, violent motion. The glazed look in her eyes shattered. She took a deep, steadying drag from her pipe, the ember flaring brightly. She exhaled, and the smoke came out in a controlled, unshaken stream. "Nice attempt," she said, her voice regaining its full, rich, and utterly dangerous timbre. "Really. Not half bad. But not that impressive, cupcake."
Galit, with Atlas on his shoulder and a hand guiding the straining Jannali, was halfway to the archway, Vesta and Eliane just ahead.
Archibald and Paula shared a single, fleeting look across the chamber. It wasn't a look of concern or anger. It was a look of shared, predatory amusement. A silent question and answer passed between them in an instant.
Shall we?
Obviously.
They shrugged, almost in unison. And then they smirked.
The air in the Lugh-Grange changed. The casual, observant atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a crushing sense of impending violence. Archibald pushed off the wall, no longer a spectator. Paula rose from her crate, her shadow stretching long and terrible against the mural of conquest.
They didn't run. They pounced. Archibald became a blur of crimson cloak and chalk-dust, his movement silent and horrifyingly fast. Paula moved with the lethal grace of a striking serpent, her pipe still clenched between her teeth, her eyes fixed on her fleeing prey.
The rescue had just become a chase. And the hunters were finally on the move.
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