The Ascent from the Abyss
The icy grip of the subterranean stream pulled George into the dark, the current roaring like a beast in his ears. Above him, the ceiling of the tunnel flew by in a blur of jagged rock, the labyrinthine walls pressing in like teeth ready to grind him to dust. Every time he tried to surface, the turbulent water dragged him back under, filling his lungs with a freezing burn. Salt and iron—the taste of his own blood and the ancient minerals of the maze—filled his mouth. More than the physical cold, it was the weight of failure that threatened to drown him. The image of Nana bound in stone, Kayn slumped against the wall, and Arthur sacrificing himself to buy George a chance burned behind his eyes. The burden of his inability to protect those who had become his lifeline was nearly crushing, a mental weight heavier than the rushing tide.
Damn it, he thought, his consciousness flickering like a dying candle. We were supposed to survive. We were supposed to make it out of here, together.
But in that absolute darkness, a flicker of light sparked within his core. It wasn't the regal gold of Arthur's aura or the warm glow of Nana's healing; it was a sudden, sharp memory of his grandfather's voice, echoing from a time when the world felt safe.
"George, my boy, life is like magic. Never let them take your magic."
George lifted his head against the weight of the water, the raw, stubborn heat of his own will igniting. I have to find a way to save them, George resolved, his fingers clawing at the liquid darkness. I refuse to give up! Drawing upon the final, guttering embers of his mana, George didn't try to swim. He focused every scrap of his elemental intent into his palms and the soles of his boots. With a guttural cry that was swallowed by the rapids, he slammed a massive, high-pressure gust of air downward into the water. The reaction was violent. The air hit the surface with the force of an explosion, the recoil launching George upward out of the freezing torrent. While mid-air, he swirled the wind around his feet, condensing the atmosphere until it acted like pressurized jet boots. With a sudden, explosive burst of speed, he shot forward, clearing the river and slamming onto a narrow stone ledge.
George lay on the cold floor, gasping for air that felt like needles in his chest. His body was weak, trembling from the back-to-back exhaustion of the serpent's slaughter and the candidates' treachery. His clothes were shredded and soaked, clinging to his shivering frame. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to stay down, to let the darkness take over.
But he pushed forward. Crawling on hands and knees, George reached the base of the steep, vertical walls that led back to the upper corridors. He began the grueling ascent, digging his fingernails into the ancient fissures of the stone. Halfway up, the Maze City groaned—a deep, tectonic rumble that signaled a shift. The wall beneath him lurched to the left, the stone groaning as it reconfigured. George's grip slipped, and for a terrifying heartbeat, he was in freefall.
"Not... today!" he wheezed.
He snapped his wrist, a desperate tether of wind lashing out to hook onto a protruding gargoyle. The jerk nearly dislocated his shoulder, but it stopped his fall. Swinging like a pendulum, he found his footing again and continued to climb, his vision tunneling until all he could see was the next handhold.
As his fingers finally curled over the lip of the main corridor where the ambush had taken place, George hauled his battered body over the edge. He collapsed onto the tiles, his face pressed against the cold, indifferent stone. He was utterly spent, his mana pool bone-dry and his muscles seizing with fatigue. He looked toward the direction the candidates had taken his friends, his eyes narrowing even as they began to drift shut from exhaustion. He had returned from the abyss, but the real battle to save his friends was only just beginning.