His hand was cold, strong, and stained with blood—his own, and that of his enemies. Isadora took it, not out of forgiveness, but out of a shared, desperate need to escape the crushing darkness behind them. He pulled her to her feet, his grip unwavering, a solid anchor in the chaos that threatened to pull her under.
He did not speak again. There were no more words to be said. Only the desperate, pounding rhythm of their flight.
He led her through the final stretches of the catacombs, his steps sure and certain even as the very earth around them seemed to groan and shift in protest. The map in his head was their only guide, a fragile thread of ancient power leading them out of the Labyrinth.
They emerged, not into the familiar cellars of Mirewood Hall, but into the cold, damp air of the Bellmere night.
