I had only just gripped the cold iron ring of the cellar trapdoor when the world tilted. I expected the damp smell of earth and the narrow path to safety; instead, a heavy, metallic thud vibrated through the wood beneath my feet.
They weren't just circling the cabin—they were already underneath it. My "secret" exit was a mouth waiting to swallow me whole. I scrambled back just as the first explosion tore through the floorboards.
The cabin walls exploded inward like they were made of paper, not timber. Shards of wood spun through the air like deadly projectiles, and I threw myself to the floor, arms covering my head as debris rained down around me. The magical sigil—the containment circle those bastards had been drawing—must have activated. The air itself felt wrong, heavy and thick, like trying to breathe through wet cloth.
"Found the trapdoor!" a voice barked from outside. Male. Rough. One of Alistair's dogs.
