Metheea's heart pounded as she squeezed through the narrow window. The creaking of the wood beneath her hands barely registered. Her thoughts were consumed by the desire for freedom, a burning need that pushed her forward despite the sharp pain in her leg. Her hands shook as they grasped the frame, but there was no hesitation in her movements—she had only one chance, and she couldn't afford to waste it.
But as she pushed her body through the window, her foot caught on the sill, and her momentum caused her to slip.
She gasped as she lost her grip, tumbling into the street below. Pain shot through her as she hit the cold ground, her injured leg screaming in agony. She struggled to crawl forward, the stones scraping against her skin, pushing herself with desperation toward freedom.
Then, she heard it—the unmistakable sound of a body trying to squeeze through the window. A grunt of frustration followed by another, louder, more exasperated growl.
Metheea glanced back just in time to see Verry wedged halfway through the window, his broad frame stuck in the narrow opening.
He snarled as he struggled to pull himself through, his face contorted with rage. "Damn it! Move, you—!" His words were punctuated by another strained grunt as his body jammed against the window frame. His large hands clawed at the air, trying to force his way out, but it was useless.
Verry's face turned red with exertion, and his breath came in heavy gasps as he pushed against the window frame.
"You think I'll let you go this easily, you nasty girl?" he shouted, but his voice was muffled by the tight space. "You'll never get far—never!"
His body was too large, too cumbersome to fit through, and the harder he tried, the more he seemed to become trapped. He cursed under his breath, his face twisted in frustration. His arms flailed, trying to pull himself free, but the window was too small. His shoulders were wedged tight, and his fat stomach pressed against the frame, refusing to budge.
"GUARDS!" he bellowed, his voice now filled with panic and fury. "GET OUT HERE AND CAPTURE HER, NOW!"
Metheea, pushing past the pain, looked ahead. The guards were closing in, and Verry's shouts filled the air, his face twisted in a mask of rage. She needed to move faster, but her body was sluggish, heavy with exhaustion. The only thought in her mind was to keep going. To keep running.
Fear surged through her, but she shoved it aside, knowing she had to move fast. She limped down the alley, her injured leg protesting with every step, but she didn't slow down. She couldn't. The sound of pursuit grew louder, and her breath came in ragged gasps as she pushed herself harder, praying for the distance to grow between her and the guards.
Her mind raced with frantic thoughts: She had only one chance to escape before they caught up. She had to make it count.
The alley stretched before her, narrow and twisting, and she could feel the weight of her body shifting
As she rounded a corner, Metheea focused, trying to center herself. She reached out with her magic, weaving an illusion to throw them off course. She envisioned herself running in the opposite direction, creating a false trail to lead the guards away.
Her illusion was delicate, subtle, but it was all she had. The air hummed with the effort as she pushed the magic out, weaving it carefully to avoid detection. The image of her running up the hill began to form, her concealment magic cloaking her movements.
Then something felt wrong. The shimmer of the illusion flickered for a moment, destabilizing, as though it were struggling to hold. Her heart skipped a beat. She pushed harder, trying to reinforce the magic, but the flicker became more pronounced with every step.
The illusion was weak, unstable.
She focused harder, trying to steady the illusion, but the strain was starting to take its toll. The flicker grew more pronoun—not now.
Her pulse raced.
The illusion shimmered again, weaker this time, and the faintest hint of her form began to bleed through.
She turned her head, her breath catching in her throat as she saw Lerima standing in the distance, watching with that unsettling grin of hers.
Her heart sank.
Lerima's grin widened as the magic flickered again. She wasn't just watching—she was actively breaking it. Metheea's stomach dropped at the realization. The illusion wasn't failing because of her magic, but because Lerima was interfering.
The blood rushed to her head as her pulse quickened. How quickly Lerima was tearing down her concealment left her breathless. She'd known it would be dangerous to rely on this magic, but now, seeing the ease with which Lerima was unraveling it, the desperation gripped her tighter. The illusion flickered again, barely hanging on, and for a split second, Metheea's position was exposed.
Lerima saw her.
Metheea's stomach churned with the weight of the realization. The guards were closing in, and the space around her was narrowing. She pushed herself faster, her heart thundering in her chest as the alley grew smaller with each frantic step.
The feeling of the illusion slipping away made her panic rise to new heights. She couldn't keep this up much longer.
The air felt thick with the tension, and she knew the end of the alley was near. But the guards were on her heels, and she had nowhere left to run. She could hear them gaining on her, their footsteps heavy and purposeful. She had to get to another hiding place, something to block their path, something to give her the few seconds she needed to escape. She turned into another narrow alley, hoping it would buy her time.
But her breath caught in her throat as she saw Lerima at the entrance of the alley, her grin wide and malicious.
Metheea's chest tightened as she realized the full extent of her mistake. Lerima wasn't just chasing her—she was waiting, enjoying the hunt.
Her illusion was barely holding now, flickering like a dying flame. And it was only a matter of seconds before it completely unraveled.
As she glanced back, Metheea saw Lerima's expression shift. No longer content to just watch, Lerima moved forward, her magic in full force as she actively tore down the last threads of Metheea's concealment. The illusion flickered one final time, revealing her position to the guards just as they closed in.
Metheea's pulse raced with desperation.
She reached for a nearby stick, her hands trembling. It was a pitiful weapon, but it was all she had.
The first guard reached her just as she swung the stick, striking him in the chest with all the force she could muster. He stumbled back, but there was no time to celebrate.
Another guard rushed her, and she swung again, this time hitting him in the shoulder.
But the magic was slipping, and with it, her chances. As the guards grabbed her, the illusion completely faltered, vanishing in an instant. They saw her now—completely exposed.
The struggle felt futile. Her heart sank as the guards grabbed her arms, pinning her down with overwhelming strength. She kicked and struggled, but it was no use. The fight drained out of her, her body surrendering to the inevitable.
Lerima's voice broke through the haze of panic, her tone laced with cruel satisfaction.
"Caught you," she said softly, her eyes gleaming with malice. "No more tricks, Velista."
Metheea's chest tightened with a wave of crushing realization. There was no escaping this. Lerima had outsmarted her, and the guards had her surrounded. Her legs burned with fatigue, her arms held firm by the guards' unyielding grip. She was trapped. The only option now was to face the consequences.
Metheea's stomach sank even further. She could feel every ounce of her fight draining from her as she struggled against the guards.
Lerima stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. "Stupid princess," she whispered, the cruel amusement evident in her voice. "You really thought you could outsmart me?"
Metheea's heart sank even further. The realization was crushing: she couldn't escape, not with Lerima's magic tearing apart her last defense and the guards now closing in. The fight left her, drained, and the crushing weight of failure settled over her like a shroud.
The only path left before her was either Verry or Azrayel. Neither of them felt like a real choice. Not anymore.
Lerima leaned down, her voice dripping with condescension. "Your efforts are always so... pathetic."
But just as Metheea's thoughts started to spiral, a voice cut through the thick tension.
"Enough."
Verry's voice, cold and filled with fury, rang through the air. Metheea's pulse quickened as she turned toward him, her heart sinking further as he stepped forward, eyes locked onto her with an icy expression.
Verry's eyes locked onto hers, his gaze cold, calculating. He was done with this game. His fingers gripped her arm with unyielding force, dragging her to her feet.
"You've caused enough trouble, princess," he said, his voice low and sharp as a blade.
Lerima stepped back, a satisfied smile on her face.
Her heart sank even further as the realization set in. She was caught. Her escape was over.