I stood a few paces behind Lyra and Willow and forced my hands to remain loose at my sides. My lightning was restless under my skin, buzzing like a warning I couldn't shut off. The wards here didn't suppress it the way dragonbane would—this was different. This was… interference. A hum threaded through the stone that muffled the edges of my power and, more importantly, muffled him.
Mortimer was quiet.
Not gone.
Not removed.
Just… pushed back, like the prison's layered wards didn't want a god of death whispering in its halls. Either it couldn't carry him properly here, or it refused to.
The silence should have been relief.
Instead, it made the cracks inside me feel louder.
Lyra murmured something to Willow—too low for me to catch—and Willow's hands loosened from her cloak with obvious reluctance. She wiped at her cheeks like she hated herself for the evidence.
She pushed to her feet, jaw tight, and looked at Lyra first.
Then, finally, at me.
Her gaze lingered on my mask for half a beat too long.
Then she looked away.
"Revik," Lyra said, as if saying his name aloud could pin it to reality. "You know where he is?"
Willow swallowed. "I… know where he should be."
Lyra's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's not comforting."
"It isn't meant to be." Willow's voice was hoarse. "This prison doesn't usually keep people in by force. It likes to trap the mind."
Lyra's mouth twitched—something between a smile and a snarl. She glanced around the chamber, taking in the anchored wards etched into the walls, the older stabilizing lines that didn't shift like the rest.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "It's doing a great job."
The prison didn't move.
It listened.
Lyra turned in a slow circle, as if she were addressing the stone itself.
"All right," she said, voice calm, like she was speaking to a stubborn animal rather than a fortress that ate hope. "We'll play your game."
Willow's brows pulled together. She looked like she wanted to ask what Lyra was doing—then thought better of it.
Lyra lifted her chin toward the ceiling.
"But first," she added, "you have to give us the finish line."
Silence pressed in.
Then the air changed.
Not with sound.
With direction.
A ripple moved through the floor beneath our feet—subtle, like a pulse traveling through a vein. Dust shifted on stone in a gentle stream, drifting toward the far archway.
A corridor that had been blank stone a heartbeat ago opened like a seam being unstitched.
Lyra's smile sharpened.
"There you are," she murmured, like she'd just caught the prison looking.
Willow's face went pale.
"You shouldn't talk to it," she whispered.
Lyra glanced back. "Why? It's already listening."
"It doesn't like being mocked."
Lyra's eyes flashed. "Neither do I."
The corridor waited.
Inviting.
Threatening.
Like a mouth pretending to be a door.
Willow took a breath, forced her spine straight, and stepped forward anyway. "Looks like Revik is in the maximum security wing."
Lyra didn't slow. "Of course he is."
"No," Willow said, sharper now, as if she needed us to understand. "Not just maximum security. The section no one even admits exists. Wards on wards. Anti-escape devices that don't only stop magic—they stop memory. People leave that wing and forget how to find it again."
Lyra finally paused. "That's… insane."
"It's Earth Kingdom history," Willow replied flatly. "The mind is where your true strength lies. We don't build prisons to hold bodies. We build them to break certainty—at least that's what the scribes say."
Lyra's gaze slid to the corridor again.
Then to me.
Her expression didn't change much—just a small tightening at the corner of her mouth.
She stepped closer.
And, without asking, reached for my hand again.
Light. Uncertain.
Barely there.
My instincts screamed to pull away.
To sever contact.
To reclaim distance.
I didn't.
Her fingers tightened just enough to be intentional.
"I'm ready when you guys are," she whispered, not looking at me.
I exhaled sharply.
Willow stared at our hands like she'd walked into a war and found something worse than blood.
Lyra kept her gaze forward. "Either stay close enough that you can't get separated, or you can take my other hand."
Willow blushed slightly before replying quickly, "I'll take my chances with the prison."
"Your loss," Lyra said, waving her free hand.
She made it hard not to smile when she did things like that.
My grip tightened instinctively.
She didn't let go.
Neither did I.
The prison noticed.
The corridor shivered.
Stone plates shifted along the walls, seams knitting and unknitting like the place was recalculating how to punish us for cooperation.
Good.
Let it try.
We stepped into the corridor.
Immediately, the air thickened.
Sound dulled.
Even our breathing felt swallowed, as if the stone ate echoes before they could become comfort.
Lyra's posture changed without her realizing it—shoulders lowering, weight settling into her feet, eyes scanning every seam, every line where the stone didn't quite match itself.
Willow followed a step behind, hands slightly raised, as if she could feel the prison's mood in her bones.
"You said you knew where he should be," Lyra whispered.
Willow swallowed. "I know the layout up to the third ward ring. After that… everything's classified. Even from me."
Lyra's grip on my hand tightened. Not fear.
Focus.
"All right," she murmured. "Then we steal the rest."
Something twisted in my chest at the word steal.
A flicker of a voice that wasn't Mortimer's.
A soft laugh, remembered.
You little thief.
The thought hit like a bruise pressed too hard.
I shoved it down.
The corridor split ahead without warning—one path sloping down, one veering left.
Lyra didn't hesitate. She tugged me right.
The left path sealed shut behind us like it had never existed.
Willow swore under her breath. "It's steering."
Lyra's smile was thin. "Good. Saves us time."
The floor shifted under our feet—barely perceptible, but enough that the next step would have landed wrong.
Lyra stopped mid-stride.
I stopped with her.
A thin line of runes glowed where her boot would have touched.
Pressure ward.
Sound-triggered.
If activated, it wouldn't just alert guards—it would scream through the stone and invite every trap in the sector to converge.
Lyra crouched.
Pressed two fingers to the stone.
Listened.
"How—" Willow started, then stopped.
Lyra didn't answer. She didn't need to.
She measured the ward's pulse by feel—counting the intervals between its subtle hums, the way the glow brightened and dimmed.
Then she looked up at me.
"Step when I step," she whispered.
I hated taking orders from her.
I did it anyway.
She shifted her weight forward.
I matched it.
We moved as one, stepping into the narrow dead space between pulses, boots landing soft as breath.
The ward didn't flare.
The prison's irritation hummed through the stone like a low growl.
We passed the first trap.
Then the second.
A corridor narrowed into a spiral, walls slowly turning inward like ribs closing around a lung.
I took the lead this time.
I watched the stone's rotational timing—the slight lag at each pivot, the moment the walls hesitated before committing to their next squeeze.
Lyra stayed at my side, moving when I moved, trusting without question.
That trust was… unsettling.
And—
I wanted it.
Without warning, the wall to our right buckled inward, then expelled a barrage of jagged rock fragments like a breath forced through clenched teeth. Not debris—projectiles, shaped and propelled with intent.
"Move," I snapped.
Lyra didn't question it.
I twisted sharply, dragging her with me as the first slab shattered against the floor where she'd been standing a heartbeat earlier. She spun with the motion instead of fighting it, ducking low and yanking my arm downward just as a second rock screamed past at head height, close enough that I felt the rush of displaced air.
Stone exploded behind us.
Another fragment tore free from the ceiling, dropping fast.
Lyra reacted first—planting a foot against the wall and pulling us sideways, momentum carrying us into a controlled slide across the stone as the slab smashed down where our legs had been.
We never let go.
I hauled her upright as the floor surged beneath us, stone spikes thrusting upward in a jagged line. She pivoted on instinct, tugging my hand just enough to change our angle, and we vaulted the rising edge together—barely clearing it as the spikes locked into place with a grinding shriek.
The prison snarled.
More rock tore loose—this time from every direction.
I stepped in front of her without thinking, shadows flaring reflexively before I forced them back, instead using my weight and timing. I yanked her close, turned with the impact, and let a flying shard glance off my shoulder guard while she twisted behind me, pulling my arm down as another projectile screamed overhead.
We landed hard.
Together.
Crouched low, backs nearly touching, hands still locked like we'd planned it that way.
Lyra huffed out a breath, eyes bright despite the danger. "Wow. It's really mad now."
"Good," I muttered. "It means it's running out of ideas."
She glanced up at me, mouth curving despite herself. "You say that like you're enjoying this."
I tightened my grip just slightly. "Don't flatter yourself."
Willow made a small, strangled sound behind us. "How are you—"
Lyra didn't look back. "Practice."
The prison adapted.
Stone plates dropped from the ceiling ahead, cutting the corridor in half.
Lyra's eyes narrowed.
"Reactive," she murmured. "It's mad now."
My shadow stirred instinctively, wanting to strike.
Mortimer remained silent.
The wards didn't let him speak.
But his power still breathed.
Still waited.
Lyra tugged my hand once.
"No magic," she breathed.
I clenched my jaw hard enough my teeth ached.
She counted silently.
One.
Two.
Three—
"Now."
We sprinted together as the plates lifted for the barest fraction of a heartbeat—sliding through as stone crashed shut behind us with bone-rattling force.
The prison groaned.
Not in sound.
In intent.
It was getting angrier.
Good.
Anger made things predictable.
A stretch of corridor opened into a chamber filled with columns.
Too many columns.
Too symmetrical.
My instincts screamed trap.
Lyra's gaze flicked upward.
Thin threads of rune-light crisscrossed the ceiling like spiderweb.
"Don't touch the columns," she whispered. "They're not supports. They're triggers."
Willow's breathing quickened.
The prison shifted the floor.
Not enough to throw us.
Enough to force a choice.
Lyra chose immediately.
She jumped to the only safe strip of stone between two columns, yanking me with her. I landed without stumbling—only because her timing had been perfect.
Willow stumbled behind us.
Her foot brushed the edge of a column's base.
The rune-web above flared.
The chamber exhaled.
Stone bars slammed down from the ceiling, slicing the space into vertical cages.
One bar cut between Lyra and Willow.
Another between Willow and us.
Lyra swore, sharp and furious.
Willow froze on the other side, eyes wide.
The prison had gotten what it wanted.
Separation.
Lyra tightened her grip on my hand like she could anchor herself through sheer will.
"Don't move," she hissed to Willow.
Willow's lips parted—then pressed shut. She nodded once.
Lyra scanned the bars.
No runes on them.
But the air around them shimmered faintly.
Suppressive field.
Breakable by brute force.
Which meant it wanted me to use lightning.
It wanted me to reveal myself.
Lyra's eyes slid to me, as if she could feel the calculation in my bones.
"No," she said quietly.
I bared my teeth.
"We don't have time—"
"We do," she snapped. "We do it my way."
She knelt by the base of the nearest bar and pressed her ear to the stone like she was listening for the prison's heartbeat.
Then she smiled.
A small, wicked thing.
"It's connected," she murmured. "All these bars are fed by one core ward."
Willow's eyes widened. "That's impossible."
Lyra glanced up. "And yet here we are."
Then she shifted her weight, lifted her boot, and deliberately stomped on the stone two inches to the left of where instinct said to step.
The floor clicked.
The rune-web above flickered.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, every bar shuddered.
Lyra moved.
Fast.
She yanked me forward into the gap, then twisted us both sideways, using my weight as leverage.
The bars slammed down again—
—but not fully.
One bar jammed at an angle.
A narrow opening appeared.
Not enough for me.
But enough for Willow.
"Now!" Lyra barked.
Willow didn't hesitate. She threw herself toward the gap, shoulders scraping stone, breath hitching as she squeezed through—
—and landed on our side, gasping.
The bars crashed shut behind her with a furious vibration.
The prison had lost.
Just barely.
Lyra stood, eyes bright with defiance.
"See?" she murmured toward the walls. "Finish line, remember?"
The stone hummed.
Offended.
We moved again.
Faster now.
The prison stopped trying to be clever.
It started trying to crush.
Corridors shortened. Walls shifted. Floor plates dropped away underfoot. False sounds echoed down passageways—footsteps that didn't belong to living bodies, whispers that weren't voices, laughter that felt like knives.
Willow flinched at every illusion.
Lyra didn't.
She just kept moving, dragging us through the maze like she'd been built for places that wanted her dead.
Annoyingly effective.
Even more annoyingly impressive.
A section of floor dropped away without warning.
Lyra's foot slipped.
For the first time since we entered, her balance broke and her hand slipped my grasp.
The world tilted.
She fell.
My body moved before my mind did.
Lightning snapped alive under my skin—red-black, threaded with shadow.
Wings tore free from my back in a burst of pain and power.
The ward field screamed.
The prison screamed.
Stone surged upward like teeth.
I caught Lyra mid-fall.
My hand locked around her wrist.
My wings flared wide, slamming air like thunder, forcing us upward just as the floor collapsed fully into a pit lined with stone spikes and rune-light that pulsed hungrily.
For one heartbeat, we hung in the air.
My wings strained.
Lightning crackled along the edges of my scales—wrong and beautiful.
At some point my mask must have fallen.
Lyra stared at me.
Her eyes wide.
Not with admiration.
With terror.
Because she hadn't expected me to save her.
Because she hadn't expected me to reveal myself.
Because she hadn't expected… that look on my face.
I didn't realize what I was showing until I saw it reflected in her eyes.
Fear.
Raw. Uncontrolled.
Not fear of the prison.
Fear of losing her.
That was impossible.
That was unacceptable.
Lyra lifted her free hand and pressed her palm to my cheek, fingers warm against skin that didn't deserve it.
And she smiled—small, breathless, infuriating.
"You always did like sweeping me off my feet," she whispered.
The words hit like a blade wrapped in velvet.
My grip tightened involuntarily.
The prison walls shuddered.
Stone began to close inward from every angle—panicked now, enraged, trying to crush the anomaly we'd become.
Willow shouted something behind us, her voice muffled by the ward scream.
I didn't hear it.
All I heard was my own breathing.
And the way Lyra's thumb stroked once—just once—over my cheek like she remembered a version of me I couldn't reach anymore.
I hauled her upward, wings burning, and slammed us onto the nearest ledge as stone teeth snapped shut beneath.
The pit sealed.
The prison reset.
For a moment, the corridor was still.
Lyra's hand dropped from my face.
My wings folded back into nothing, vanishing as quickly as they'd appeared.
Lightning sank under my skin again.
My breath came harsh.
I stared at Lyra like she was the problem.
Like she was the fracture.
She looked up at me, heart still racing, and her smile faltered into something quieter.
"Thanks," she said simply.
I should have said nothing.
I should have turned away.
I didn't.
Instead, my mouth opened and something reckless slipped through.
"You're welcome," I muttered, as if the words tasted like ash.
Willow stared at me like she'd just watched a ghost step out of myth.
Lyra didn't look away.
She didn't push.
She just turned forward again and tightened her hold on my hand—like she was making a decision not to let go.
The prison's hum returned.
Angrier now.
It had tasted victory and been denied.
We moved.
Every trap after that came faster.
A corridor flooded with suppressive mist that stole breath—Lyra covered Willow's mouth, dragged her through before the mist could settle in her lungs.
A set of swinging stone blades—Lyra timed the arc, pulled me through the dead space between them like she'd danced with death her whole life.
A sound-trigger hall where echoes became weapons—Lyra moved silent as a thief, and I matched her silence without thinking.
We worked together.
Perfectly.
It was wrong.
It was effective.
It made the prison furious.
Finally, the air changed.
Not hostile.
Not shifting.
Still.
We slowed simultaneously.
Ahead, the corridor widened into an older chamber reinforced with stabilizing wards—older than the rest of the prison. Anchored. Unmoving. A place the prison couldn't rewrite without breaking itself.
A place it hated.
And in the center of it—
A sealed door of stone and metal.
Runes layered over it like scars.
Maximum security.
Willow's breath hitched. "That's it."
Lyra's gaze sharpened. "Finish line."
The stone hummed like it was displeased she'd said it.
Lyra stepped forward, fingers brushing the runes without activating them.
"No magic," she murmured. "No brute force. So… we cheat."
She tilted her head toward Willow. "How many ward layers?"
Willow swallowed. "Four. Minimum."
Lyra smiled faintly. "Great. Overachiever."
Then the chamber trembled.
Not from the prison shifting.
From someone sobbing.
A sound so small it barely qualified as noise.
Willow froze.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Lyra's head snapped toward the door.
My chest tightened.
Because even through wards and stone and suppressive air—
I recognized the sound of a man trying not to break.
"That's him," Lyra whispered, voice cracking. "That's Revik."
Her expression softened for half a heartbeat.
Then hardened into purpose.
She tightened her grip on my hand.
And the prison, sensing what we were about to do, began to hum—low and furious—like it was finally done playing nice.
Willow wiped at her face with shaking hands, tears streaking fresh through stone dust.
She looked… wrecked. Like she'd been holding her loyalty together with splinters and prayer.
Lyra stepped closer to the door.
I watched the ward-lines flare faintly beneath her fingertips.
Watched the prison lean in.
Watched Lyra smile at it like it was a rival.
"All right," she murmured under her breath—not to us, but to the stone itself.
"We're here."
And somewhere deep in the walls, the prison shifted—
angry, calculating, adapting—
ready to see if we would finally break.