Half prepared dishes littered the countertops.

There was the unmistakable sound of sizzling food.

Elrik turned to see a half-cooked leg of something, perhaps lamb, on a pan. It was still cooking on the stove.

The stairwell from the dungeons came up and into a kitchen. No, not just a simple kitchen, this was a kitchen fit for a palace

A tureen of dressing lay on one countertop. Sauces and syrups, half made, lay here and there. In a large pot a stew of some kind bubbled appetizingly.

Suddenly, Elrik’s stomach grumbled dangerously. He realized it had been a many, many days since he’d had anything substantial to eat.

Elrik grabbed a pair of tongs lying nearby and used them to spear the leg of lamb from the pan.

The meat tasted oily and delicious on his tongue.

Elrik sent a silent prayer of thanks to any listening deities.

He took another bite and looked around.

There had been people here.. many of them. A kitchen this size would require a large staff. More than five cooks working. It looked like a feast was being prepared - a large feast.

Elrik gingerly touched the edge of the pan with a finger.

The surface was still warm. They might have been here mere minutes ago.

They wouldn't have have upped and left in the middle of preparing a feast like this.. not unless they’d been ordered to..

For all his stealth and and subterfuge.. someone had sensed that he was loose and coming up the stairwell.

Elrik looked back to see Sherlot panting, just coming up from the long stairwell. The boy looked in rough shape.. He was doubled over, wheezing from the exertion.

Silently, Eric offered the meat with a gesture, but Sherlot shook his head, his face turning green at the thought.

Elrik turned back, to keep an eye on the room before them.

We need to keep moving

The words came to his lips, but he bit them back. The boy was pushing himself as far as he could.

He'd made a choice, dragging the young lord along. Now he had to bear the cost of that - come what may.

just a little farther..

...

They made their way through the mansion.

It was a mansion, the place they were in. The building above the dungeon was richly, even extravagantly appointed.

Paintings adorned the walls, dark gothic scapes of plains or mountains, in the rich oils popular in the imperium. The furniture was finely made, with not a dent or scratch, and artisans didn't come cheap in these lands.

The floors were draped in long luxurious rugs.

Elrik felt like he was watching himself from the outside, as he stalked the halls. In one corner of his mind, the thought arrived that he looked utterly, comically out of place here.

They were two dirty, injured, blood spattered recent prisoners, walking through these halls. They were a sight for sore eyes - barely held upright by the tension of their escape.

If some butler appeared now and gave them a sneer, Elrik genuinely wasn't sure if he wouldn’t wilt in shame.

But there were no people.

No butlers appeared. No footmen, no maids, no valets. Just tall empty hallways that echoed with their steps.

Elrik was not getting a good feeling about this.

They were heading towards what Elrik hoped was an exit - since the door of the kitchen was wrought iron and seemed sealed shut - when they turned corner into a pleasant airy entryway.

The eerie whistling sound of a blade moving almost faster than thought was the only warning Elrik had.

[Warning! Attack lef-]

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

One second Elrik was walking down the hallway, the next his hand moved of its own accord, blocking an attack he would never have seen.

Elrik felt his hand go numb, the sword thrumming like a rung bell, from the impact.

"Are you trained?"

The voice that spoke was high pitched and genteel. The voice of a highborn aristocrat.

Elrik turned to face it.

It was, he saw, the second school trained blade he'd suspected Ambrose had in his employee. He didn't know the face, but he knew the type.

The man stood at ease, decked out in an airy high collared shirt and silk pants, looking for all the world like he was about to depart for a garden party. His face wore a smug smirk.

Almost leisurely, the aristo, ignoring Sherlot, walked around to Elrik's other side, putting himself between Elrik and the boy. The lordling still looked to be in woeful shape, and clearly didn't pose a threat to the swordsman.

Elrik raised his sword in a high guard.

Just another asshole to kill before this shitstain of a week comes to an end

He gave the man a grim smile.

"No.. but you are trained. Is he really paying you enough to do this?"

The man's expression quirked in anger, "One simply obeys Lord Ambrose"

Again.. None of them seem to even entertain the possibility of betrayal

The swordsman took a step forward, then another.

[Warning! Warning! threat level high!]

[Warning: opponent combat ability very high]

He moves too fast. Too inhumanly fast, even for me. The only chance I have, is to trap him so he can't move.. And the only way to do that is..

Elrik blinked. An unpleasant thought came to him. He racked his brain, but no better ideas seemed to be forthcoming.

Well.. a bad idea was better than none..

[Applying custom temporary spinal reflexware patch]

Like drops of water down his back, an icy feeling traveled down his spine and to his fingertips.

The school trained blade raised his blade, that smirk still on his face.

Elrik stayed ready, his arms braced.

Then several things happened.

From a standing start, the aristo leapt forward, blurring into inhumanly fast movement. He lunged clean, without a shred of wasted movement, darting forward.

Elrik started to bring his sword to bare, but before Elrik could even register that the aristo had moved, the man's blade was inside his reach and a foot from his throat.

[Warning: attack incoming - hea-]

At the same time, Elrik's left arm moved on its own, snapping into the path of the blade, fast as a tripped spring. The tip of the blade easily punched through the thin metal guard on his forearm and through the flesh of Elrik's arm, spearing through it.

As it did, the thin metal of the metal armguard seemed to come to life, turning from thin steel to liquid silver, flowing over the blade spearing Elrik's arm, before solidifying, attaching the blade firmly to the arm it was pierced through.

All of it, from the first movement, took less than a fraction of a second.

Elrik and the aristocrat stared at each other, their faces mere feet away from each other. The swordsman instantly tried to move away, but his blade was stuck fast, nearly welded to Elrik's arm. Then he looked back at Elrik, the smirk on his face replaced by a look of dumbfounded shock.

The swordsman looked down to see Elrik's hand release the dagger he'd just put in the swordsman's stomach.

...

"Are you sure you can't do this?"

Elrik shook his head, "No, I can't get the right angle. You have to do this. Quick and easy, yes?"

Sherlot nodded unsurely and took a two handed grip on the sword in Elrik's arm. He adjusted his grip and then nodded to Elrik.

At a whisper of thought, the titian lump that joined the blade to his arm came away, turning to quicksilver.

Elrik let out a sharp hiss of pain as he drew his handback along the blade, letting the sword out of the wound it made. He drew out his arm as slowly as he could bear.

The sword seemed to take forever to draw out, each inch of blade seeming to take a small eternity as it scraped against bone.

Before the pain could overwhelm him, he held his hand out to Sherlot, who quickly dropped the sword and wrapped the arm in strips of cloth they had torn and kept ready. As fast as he could, he bound the wound tight.

Still the wound was massive - and blood soaked through the bandage almost at once, until the titian melted again, and flowed over the arm. The liquid metal squirmed over the surface of his arm until it reformed as a tight brace, putting pressure on the wound and easing the pain.

Right.. that should hold for now.

...

Elrik looked down at his arm, testing it.

Then he looked back at the door.

This was it.

This was their chance to get out of here.

It's the sensible thing to do. Rest and regroup. Find help and come back with some support

It would be insane not to escape now

He was hanging on by a thread. His left arm was sending signals of pain his brain was doing its best to ignore.. His ribs still hurt. Everything still hurt.

He was all by himself. All he had was Sherlot - who was barely upright. The boy looking like a slight wind would knock him over.

So.. why amn't I walking through that door?

Why am I still standing here?

The thing was.. he was tired of things happening to him.

Ever since he'd arrived in this world, all he'd done was desperately run from one crisis to another. If he ran out that door - sure enough, Ambrose would be after him. He'd find himself ambushed, or trapped or back in some cell - or dead.

Running away now was the smart thing to do

That was the thing about running away. That was the thing about being smart.

It never felt like a choice.

It was always certain defeat. It was always certain death. There were always a hundred good reasons why running was the smart thing to do..

It was only later that you realized you'd cornered yourself. You'd run from bad odds to worse ones. Then you kept running.

It was only later, tens or hundreds of choices later that you realized you'd been choosing all along.

That there was - that there had always been a choice.

And the choice was always the same one - fight now or run forever.

I told myself I was done running.

"You're not escaping.. You're going to find him now - this Ambrose"

Sherlot wasn't asking

Elrik nodded, "I can help you get that door open. Get you out of here"

Sherlot gave him a slow smile, "No. I'm with you corporal. Let's finish this"