The ritualist didn't look back.
He ran.
His breath tore out of his chest as he bolted up the stairs toward his room. He slipped twice on the worn stone steps, skinning his palms and cracking his knee against the edge, but he didn't stop. He barely felt the pain.
Blood stained the steps behind him.
"Damn it… damn it…" he muttered hoarsely, forcing his trembling legs to keep moving.
He reached his room and slammed the door shut, throwing multiple seals into place with shaking hands. Then he rushed to the center of the chamber and dismantled every formation connected to the pseudo palace.
One by one, the glowing runes dimmed.
The surveillance arrays collapsed.
The spatial anchors disengaged.
When it was finally done, he dropped onto the cushion in the middle of the room, chest heaving violently.
"Almost dead…" he whispered.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He couldn't sit still.
He couldn't calm down.
His mind raced with only one thought.
Three days.
