Don's yellow eye blazed brighter.
Rowan pulled a vial from his belt—blue liquid, glowing faintly with inner light. "Drink this. It'll help."
Don took it with shaking hands and drank.
The liquid burned going down, then spread warmth through his chest like brandy but better, filling empty spaces he didn't know were there.
[CONSUMED: ENERGY RESTORATION ELIXIR]
[EFFECT: MANA +200, STAMINA +10]
[MANA: 250/800]
[STAMINA: 11/22]
[NOTE: ELIXIR GRADE UNKNOWN TO HOST]
Not full strength. Not even close.
But better. Enough.
Don stood on trembling legs.
Rowan steadied him with one massive hand. "Can you walk?"
"I… think so."
"Good." Rowan's eyes were grim. "There are others. Prisoners. Below. We need to get them out before this whole place comes down."
Don's yellow eye met his. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because the Princess ordered it," Rowan said simply. "And because leaving people to die is something demons do. Not us."
Before Don could respond, Torkh's voice rang out.
"NO!"
The Blood King's eyes had found them. Seen the collar fall. Seen the boy stand.
His grip tightened on Diana's throat hard enough to make her choke, eyes bulging.
"That specimen is MINE! Do you have ANY idea what he represents? What I could learn from—"
Diana's broken wrist moved—slowly, painfully, fingers closing around empty air.
No. Not empty air.
A shard. A piece of her shattered sword, fallen at Torkh's feet.
She grabbed it.
And drove it into the gemstone on his chest.
CRACK.
The gem fractured, a spiderweb of cracks spreading across its surface.
Light exploded from the fracture—red, sickly, wrong. The kind of light that made eyes water and skin crawl.
And Torkh screamed.
Not pain. Rage. Pure, undiluted fury that shook the throne room's foundations.
He threw Diana across the room. She hit the far wall hard, ribs cracking audibly, but landed on her feet through sheer force of will. Blood—green sap—leaked from her mouth.
Torkh's hand went to the gem, trying to cover the crack, to hold the pieces together.
"You—you DARE—do you have ANY idea what you've DONE?!"
Ashwood's eyes widened, staff blazing as information flooded his consciousness. "The signal—it's destabilizing! The anchor is fracturing! Princess, we need to—"
"WHERE IS IT CONNECTED TO?!" Diana shouted, coughing green blood.
"Evil Realm!" Ashwood yelled back, his voice cracking with urgency. "Specific coordinates unknown but the signal origin—it's coming from HERE, from HIM, from that gemstone—"
The eye inside the gem opened fully.
All the way.
And everyone in the room felt it.
A presence. Vast beyond comprehension. Ancient beyond counting. Hungry in a way that transcended physical need.
Looking through the gem.
Looking at them.
Seeing them.
"EVERYONE OUT!" Diana roared, forcing herself upright despite cracked ribs, despite a broken wrist, despite exhaustion pulling at every muscle. "NOW! WE'RE LEAVING!"
"What about you?!" Thorne shouted, retrieving his blades from where they'd fallen.
"I'll be right behind you! GO!"
Thorne grabbed Sylva, who was still gasping for air. Ivy snatched up her bow. Ashwood's staff flew back to his hand with a gesture.
Rowan looked at Don. "Can you run?"
Don nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Then run. Don't stop. Don't look back."
They ran.
Not toward the shattered ceiling—that path was blocked by blood chains and collapsing stone.
Toward the corridors. Down. Into the castle's depths where shadows grew thick and the air tasted of old blood.
Behind them, Torkh's rage shook the entire structure.
"YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE! THIS PLANET IS MINE! THIS AREA IS MINE! EVERYTHING HERE BELONGS TO ME!"
His blood chains erupted from every surface—hundreds of them, thousands, tearing through stone like paper, reaching with grasping fingers tipped with screaming faces.
Diana's roots exploded from the floor behind them, blocking corridors, entangling chains, buying precious seconds with each sacrifice of her dwindling power.
They descended through levels of horror that Don recognized from his march upward. Past the Memory Eater's throne where the golden parasite and its host still knelt, forced to stare at each other. Past holding cells where corpses rotted. Down, down, down into darkness that seemed to swallow light.
"Here!" Don gasped, pointing with a shaking hand. "The prisoners—here!"
Thorne and Ashwood followed him while the others held the rear, weapons ready, eyes scanning for pursuit.
The cell door was iron, locked, reinforced with blood magic that made the air around it feel thick and wrong.
Don raised his hand.
His Imagination flickered—weak, unstable, like a candle in wind—but there.
The lock didn't dissolve so much as stop existing, reality forgetting it had ever been there.
Nine figures stumbled out into the corridor, blinking in the dim light.
Martha, the scarred knight, her eyes immediately assessing, taking command. Aldric, the old mage, looking frail but alert. Karn, the laborer with dark skin and defiant eyes. Tam, the farmer's son, terrified but moving. Renna, the merchant's daughter, already calculating odds. Gorath, the massive blacksmith, silent and watchful. Lysa, the dancer, moving with predatory grace despite imprisonment. Finn, the traumatized child, eyes hollow. The Wraith, androgynous and unsettling, face hidden in shadow.
They stared at Don, at the green-haired warriors, at the impossible sight of rescue.
"No time for questions," Thorne snapped, his scarred face brooking no argument. "You want to live? Move. Now."
They moved.