Darius and his companions hurried past the shattered remnants of the ritual hall, bursting through the doorway. The main prison corridor held moans of prisoners still recovering from their nightmarish visions.

  Tilda led the way, her dagger still drawn, breath coming in sharp bursts. Silas leaned heavily on Marshal's broad shoulder, his face pale and slick with sweat—the after effect of the curse's grip evident in his unsteady gait.

  Favian followed close behind, his bow at the ready, while Tristan brought up the rear, sleep darts tucked into his sleeve. Darius gripped the Spirit of Death tightly, its dark blade humming faintly in his hand, a constant reminder of the power he could unleash.

  They rounded a bend, and there they were: Renn and the other freed prisoners, huddled against the far wall, still disoriented from the curse's aftermath. Renn, a sturdy woman with rebel markings etched into her arms, looked up first. Her eyes widened in relief as she saw Tilda.

  "Tilda!" Renn cried, surging forward despite her weakened state. She threw her arms around Tilda in a fierce embrace, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face. "I thought... I thought we'd lost you all in that madness."

  Tilda held her tightly for a moment, her own eyes glistening. "We're here. We're getting out." She pulled back, scanning the group. "All of you—on your feet. We don't have much time."

  The others—Kara, a thin woman with fire in her eyes despite her chains' scars; Silas's fellow companion, a quiet man named Elar; and two more, battered but determined—exchanged hurried nods with Darius.

  Tilda clasped his forearm briefly. "You broke it," she whispered. "The curse... Thank you."

  Darius managed a nod, his grip on the sword tightening.

  The reunion was brief but heartfelt, charged with the raw emotion of survivors.

  But it was cut off as Silas suddenly collapsed behind them, clutching his head with a guttural cry. The group whirled, weapons raising instinctively. Silas writhed on the stone floor, his body convulsing as if invisible hands tore at him from within.

  "Silas!" Tilda dropped to her knees beside him, gripping his shoulders. "Fight it! The curse is broken—"

  But Silas's eyes rolled back, glowing faintly with magic. His voice erupted in a vision-induced outburst, ragged and prophetic. "Hidden... one among us... a Valiant plant! Cloned... embedded to spy!"

  The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Chaos stirred immediately—eyes darted suspiciously between the group, hands hovering near weapons.

  Silas’ eyes returned to normal and he raised his head, turning his gaze to Bryan, Brenna’s twin.

  Bryan—a lanky young man with wide, frightened eyes—stepped back, shaking his head vehemently. "What? No! That's insane! I'm not—"

  Darius felt a violent heat flare at his wrist. He yanked back his sleeve, revealing the gem band. The violet gem pulsed wildly. His heart slammed against his ribs. Violet for Rageler. And it was screaming.

  Without hesitation, Darius pointed his sword at Bryan. "Reveal your band," he demanded, his voice low and unyielding.

  Bryan froze, his face paling. "What? Why me? This is ridiculous—I just got here!"

  The others drew their weapons slowly—Favian nocking an arrow, Tilda raising her dagger, Marshal's form rippling as if preparing to shift. Tristan's darts glinted in the torchlight.

  "Show it," Darius repeated, stepping closer. "Now."

  Bryan's hesitation cracked under the pressure. With trembling hands, he pulled up his sleeve. The gem band was there, wrapped around his wrist like the others'. But unlike theirs, it showed no glow. The stones lay dull and lifeless, as if the magic had never touched them.

  Gasps rippled through the group. "That's not possible," Tilda whispered. "The bands... they awaken for Truthers."

  Chaos erupted in an instant.

  Bryan's denial twisted into a snarl as his body convulsed. Flesh rippled and tore, scales bursting forth like erupting wounds. His limbs elongated with sickening cracks, forcing others to step back in fear.

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  Claws sprouted from fingers that had been human moments before. The transformation was swift and grotesque, his face distorting into a maw of jagged teeth.

  Then, the Rageler lunged with terrifying speed—not at Darius, but at Renn, who stood closest.

  She barely had time to raise her arms before its claws raked across her chest, tearing through fabric and flesh in a spray of blood. Renn screamed, staggering back, but the beast was relentless.

  It pounced on her as the others charged at it, jaws clamping down on her shoulder, mauling her with savage force. Blood poured from the wounds as she collapsed, her cries turning to gurgles.

  "No!" Tilda roared, charging forward.

  Favian reacted faster. Arrows flew from his bow in rapid succession, thudding into the Rageler's hide. Black ichor sprayed as the creature recoiled, releasing Renn's limp form. She hit the ground hard, her chest heaving once, twice—then going still. Blood pooled beneath her, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

  Tilda fell to her knees beside Renn's body, traumatized, tears streaming down her face. "Renn... no, please..." Her voice broke into sobs, her hands pressing futilely against the wounds, as if sheer will could stem the flow of life ebbing away.

  Darius charged, the Spirit of Death igniting in his grasp like black fire. Marshal shifted beside him, his body swelling into a massive, brutish form, while Tilda rose with a primal scream, dagger flashing.

  The Rageler whirled to face them, its red eyes gleaming with feral rage. Arrows from Favian peppered its side, slowing it but not stopping it. Darius closed the distance first, slashing deep into its flank. The blade bit true, drawing a screech from the beast as dark blood hissed against the metal.

  Marshal slammed into it like a battering ram, his enlarged fists pounding its skull. Tilda darted low, her dagger slicing tendons in its legs. The Rageler bucked and thrashed, claws raking the air, but the assault was relentless.

  Favian loosed a final arrow straight into its eye. The creature staggered, blinded on one side, and Darius seized the opening. With a roar, he drove the Spirit of Death through its chest, twisting the blade until the light in its remaining eye faded.

  The Rageler collapsed, its body shuddering once before going still. Black smoke rose from its form, dissolving into nothingness, leaving only a faint scorch mark on the stone.

  Tilda dropped back to her knees beside Renn, her hands bloodied and shaking. "She's gone," she whispered, voice shattered. "She's gone."

  Marshal knelt beside her, pulling her gently from the body. "Tilda, we have to go. Soldiers—"

  As if summoned by the words, shouts echoed from the far end of the corridor. Boots marching upwards, growing louder by the second. Reinforcements were storming in.

  "There's no time to grieve," Marshal said urgently, hauling Tilda to her feet despite her protests. "We must move. Now!"

  The group fled down the opposite end of the corridor, hearts pounding, leaving Renn's body behind in a pool of her own blood. The loss burned like an open wound, but survival demanded they run.

  The delay had cost them dearly. As they burst through a side door into another passage, soldiers flooded the corridor's exit behind them. The brutal skirmish erupted without warning—Soldiers in armour charging with spears and swords drawn.

  Darius led the charge, the Spirit of Death pulsing in his hand. But the pain from his earlier wounds flared, and the numbers were overwhelming. He needed to do more.

  He inhaled deeply, drawing the blade's power into himself, and felt the trance take hold. The world shifted. His eyes flooded with ink-black darkness, and his movements blurred into impossible speed. The corridor became a slaughterhouse.

  He moved like a shadow given form, the Spirit of Death carving through armour and flesh with effortless precision. Soldiers fell before they could scream—one's spear shattered mid-thrust, another's head severed in a clean arc. The others—Tristan, Marshal, Tilda—stared in awe at his quick, inhuman movements, his ink-black eyes reflecting no light or mercy.

  Favian provided ranged support, arrows whistling past Darius to fell those who tried to flank him. Finally Marshal joined in, charging like a bull, smashing through shields, while Tilda darted low, her dagger finding throats and hamstrings.

  One by one, the soldiers crumpled, their reinforcements cut down before they could overwhelm the group. Darius moved through them like a storm, the trance fueling him until the last body hit the ground.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the trance released him. Darius staggered, the ink draining from his eyes, leaving him gasping and disoriented. The corridor was littered with the dead, blood slicking the stone.

  The group did not wait, they broke through to the outside, bloodied but alive. Alarms blared outside, horns trumpeting from the Keep's towers as the escape was discovered.

  They raced toward the riverbank, the night air whipping past them. Silas, still leaning on Marshal, whispered incantations under his breath.

  As pursuing soldiers crested a hill behind them, ghostly decoys materialized—ethereal versions of the group fleeing in the opposite direction, drawing the Valiants away with shouts and illusory clashes.

  The real group slipped into the shadows, reaching the boats hidden among the reeds. They shoved off into the river, the current seizing them at once. Silas raised his hands, weaving another spell. Fog rolled in thick and unnatural, blanketing the water and muffling their passage.

  As they drifted downstream, the shouts of soldiers fading behind them, Silas leaned close to Darius. His voice was a weak whisper, but urgent.

  "The entity from your vision," he said, "it will kill you.. The era of the Profane is at hand, and we'll need every edge to survive it."

  Darius nodded, trying to shake off fear from what he had just heard.

  They had escaped, but at a cost. Renn's death burned in his mind, a fresh scar among many. And as the fog carried them away from the keep, he knew the true fight was only beginning.