22
Her Voice
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Somehow, he always felt hot within the Citadel’s depths. It was as if he’d opened a door and abruptly walked into the midst of a summer afternoon, with the sun bearing down over him. The warm, still air bit at him, making sweat drip down his brow. Günther huffed and sighed, fighting back the urge to fan himself, and focused on the path ahead.
He moved through the dim corridors, his footsteps echoing, and his eyes straining to see in the gloom. He knew that he wasn't meant to be here—Not now, when Vault had just summoned all the others. But he didn't want to stop. Maybe he couldn't stop himself at all.
Günther rounded the corner, and saw the familiar sight of his destination. Without the aberrants that usually guarded it, the entrance to the dungeon seemed completely unimpressive. It was little more than a set of doors, set flush with the cobblestone floor. He approached them and pushed one open. The hallway beyond the entryway stretched away, the darkness broken only occasionally by the glows of torches. He stepped inside, and his feet led him easily along the worn stone, as he had done several times before.
The walls were made of smooth, polished stone, and the ceiling sloped down to meet the ground. Without the escort that usually accompanied him, the walk felt longer, somehow, but there was nothing to do about it. He kept moving, past the empty cells, and towards the only occupied one, at the very far end of the dungeon. Within, the two captives sat.
They were beautiful.
For all the hatred and spite that many held for them—Indeed, himself included—Günther could not deny it. They were a pair of perfect specimens of femininity. Both of them slender, with their rich brown skin and lustrous hair and long, pointed ears, and...
It was only when the blonde one turned her frightening red eyes upon him, that he realized that he'd been staring. With a grunt, he stepped towards the far side of the cell, where there was no chance she could reach him, and slid the two bowls forward into the cell.
"There," he said gruffly, nodding to the steaming soup. "Eat. You're lucky I even came tonight in the first place."
The girl did not reply, but instead simply stared at the food, and the bowl, to Günther, to the empty hall around him, and finally back to him.
He understood, then, the conclusion she had just reached, and shrugged in response. "Yeah, just me. Makes no difference, though. Eat up, or starve."
Almost as soon as he'd spoken the words, she snatched the bowl and brought it to her lips, and began to eat. The sound of crunching and chewing filled the air, and the smell of hot, thick broth wafted across the room. She never looked away from him, however, still fixing him with those unnerving fucking eyes. Günther felt something rise within his chest, and realized that he probably hated her just as badly as she was hating him.
He took a step back, and leaned against the wall. The scent of the soup, so tantalizing, almost caused him to forget the uncomfortable heat washing over him. He finally broke eye contact with the blonde, and focused his gaze on the other prisoner—The Dark Queen herself.
She didn't move, or even look in his direction. Her posture was relaxed, hands resting atop her lap, her eyes closed as they always seemed to be. Strangely, he came to realize that he'd never seen her eyes. For that matter, he'd never seen her eat, either, and that thought almost made him snicker. Was it some sort of fancy, cultural Dark Elf thing, such that she wasn't allowed to eat in the sight of common folk? Or was it just stubbornness on her part, refusing to even let him see her do something that mundane?
He stopped holding himself back, and let out a low chuckle. "You're just ridiculous, lady," Günther said, as he let his eyes continue to roam over her. After all, if she was going to ignore him and remain motionless, who was going to stop him?
He found himself admiring the way her black hair framed her face, and how it seemed to flow, like a dark river, down to her waist. He traced the curve of her cheekbones, high and proud, and the strong line of her jaw, and her dark, slender neck. Her shoulders shifted in time with the rhythm of her breathing. How would it feel, he wondered, to kiss along that neck of hers? He wanted to touch that long, black hair, to feel its soft texture between his palms, to run his fingers over those delicate-looking ears.
Günther let out a breath. Gods. With all the past months of marching and fighting and just barely surviving by the skin of his teeth, just how long had it been since he'd last been with a woman? Certainly, since before they'd even arrived at Geofu—With all the urgency and panic at the imminent aberrant invasion, there simply hadn't been time for any one of the Hounds to so much as visit a cathouse. And now, here were these flawless visions, right in front of him. There was no denying the deep ache that—
A sharp intake of breath. The clatter of a bowl falling to the floor. He snapped his head around, looking for the source.
The girl fell to her knees, eyes wide, both of her bound hands futilely trying to reach for her throat. She met Günther's gaze, and he saw the fear there, and the desperation.
"H-hey..." he began, "what's gotten—"
A shudder passed through her, from the top of her head, to the very tip of her toes. Then, she began to scream. The sound was choked and agonized, and the echo bounced off the stone walls, almost ringing in Günther's skull.
"Chloe!" The Dark Queen cried out, rushing over to the girl's side. She was on her back now, her body violently convulsing as drool leaked from her mouth, and her eyes rolled up into her head. "No... No! Help her!" The queen screamed to Günther.
He wasn't sure when exactly he began to move, one hand desperately fumbling towards his belt for the key, as he mumbled, "Shit! No, fuck, no!" It took him far too many tries, but he managed to get the lock undone, and the door swung open. As he rushed inside, Günther brandished his cudgel with his free hand, and waved it in the Dark Queen's direction. "Back off! Back off to the wall right the fuck now!"
Amazingly, she did so, stepping back to the cell's wall and giving him plenty of space to approach.
He knelt down, a cold sweat soak his spine and brow. The girl—Chloe—was still trashing, her legs kicking, hands clawing uselessly at the air. Her screams were horrifically quieter now, reduced to a mixture of gasps and sobs. Günther cursed endlessly under his breath as he took her shoulders in his hands and pushed her to the ground. He lifted his left hand to her throat, pressing his fingers against the artery there.
Abruptly, she stopped. Those eerie red eyes focused again, locking on to his.
Chloe burst into motion, her legs rising and snapping around Günther's neck, both her hands locking his left hand into place. With a grunt, she pulled him close, her teeth bared, and squeezed. Günther felt his windpipe constrict, and his vision begin to blur. He reeled back, trying to pull himself out of her hold, but Chloe only tightened her legs' grip. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of shimmering steel, and screamed when the knife penetrated into his shoulder. He tried to twist away, but she still had all the leverage. He was yanked forward, and she stabbed him again, the pain in the wound flaring like fire. She stabbed him a third time, and the blade sank deeper, piercing the muscle and almost certainly shattering the bone.
Desperate, and nearly blinded by the pain and the lack of oxygen, Günther swung wildly with his right arm, managing to catch her side. Though the motion was clumsy, and he didn't quite have the strength nor the balance for it, it was enough to stagger her. For a moment, she loosened her grasp, and he kicked his feet out, scrambling backwards.
She lunged after him, though, and brought the blade to bear.
Günther swatted again with his cudgel, this time towards the incoming blow. He aimed well, or maybe it was just good fortune. Either way, the strike connected, and the weapon was knocked from her hands, the momentum of the swing nearly knocking him over. He regained his footing, and swung the cudgel at her face, though she managed to duck under it, and retaliated with a shoulder tackle. The impact sent him reeling, and he stumbled, and then fell, the Dark Elf landing atop him.
They rolled, and Günther found his advantage. His greater weight and size gave him the upper hand, and the two of them struggled, and thrashed, until they ended up in a heap. His knee crashed into her stomach once, twice, and she grunted, coughing and gagging. The two of them rolled away from each other, and Günther scrambled back onto his feet, clenching his teeth.
"Gods... Cunt!" he growled, wincing as he glanced towards his left shoulder. He was bleeding freely, his shoulder a mess of torn flesh and red. Briefly, he tried to make a fist, and found that he could barely move his fingers without a hot, throbbing ache. He gritted his teeth, and turned back to Chloe. She stared back at him, with hateful godsdamned eyes. "I'm gonna kill you," he snarled, his voice hoarse. "I'm gonna knock those eyes outta your fucking head!"
Stepping forward, Günther raised the cudgel—Or, at least, he attempted to.
Strangely, his right arm refused to obey him. Nor could he feel it in the slightest. He glanced to his right, and saw a hand resting on his arm, almost like a gentle caress. Belatedly, he noticed that his skin was frightfully pale, almost taking on a blue hue.
"Ah," Günther gasped, once the realization caught up to him, and he stumbled away from the Dark Queen's hand. He felt cold. Colder than he imagined was ever possible for a person to feel, and halfway through a shiver, he felt a deep warmth spread within him.
"Ah," he gasped again, for he could no longer form any tangible words. As his sight blurred and darkened, Günther looked at her. He couldn't help himself. He wanted to look at her.
Her eyes were golden, he realized. Golden and bright and intensely more terrifying than the girl's could ever be. He didn’t want to know what she would do if he so much as blinked, though he doubted he even had the ability to do so anymore.
Within moments, the frost reached his brain and ended his life. Soon after, his body solidified into a single mass of ice, and subsequently shattered.
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The chamber where the rest of the Hounds waited was a great, circular space, easily twice as big as the antehall, and perhaps the size of a cathedral. The walls, like the rest of the Citadel, were made of a black marble, polished to a glossy sheen. They curved inward, ending in a domed ceiling overhead. Along the walls' perimeter, stone columns rose up from the ground, supporting the roof. Each column was carved from a single block of obsidian, and they formed a perfect grid, a solid line stretching from wall to distant wall. Many smaller doors nestled in the alcoves between the columns, though they were currently shut. The only open portal was the one through which we had entered.
Dozens of long tables were arranged around the space to seat the mercenaries. They sat, talking loudly among themselves, or drinking from the many pitchers of wine, or simply playing with dice or knives. Though, the spaces near the walls were empty of any furniture. Instead, some men and aberrants lounged around the perimeter, chatting with each other, or just leaning against the walls, idly watching over the crowd.
The room could have easily fit several thousands of people, but likely not all eight thousand of us who remained. And even then, by my brief estimation, there were barely more than a thousand of us here. I guess I wasn’t quite that late at all.
As I walked, some of the Hounds caught my eye, men whom I recognized. A few waved to me, and I smiled and returned their greetings. Though, I linger long—I headed towards a table I'd spotted almost from the moment I'd entered. There, just a ways away from the entrance, I spotted Edwin, Hicks, Ryam, and some of the others.
"Hey,” I greeted as I approached the group. "All you guys beat me here, huh?"
"Ah, it's to be expected, Ansel," Ryam said, with a smirk. "You've always been a tad slow."
"A graceful ox and a swift gazelle, that's me," I answered dryly.
Edwin chuckled, and moved, making space for me to sit next to him. "Sit yourself down, gazelle."
"So, since you're all already ahead of me, then," I asked. "What've you learned? Any idea what this whole thing is about?"
Hicks shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "That depends; what do you know?"
"Just that Vault wanted us all to gather up, and talk to us about... Something."
He nodded. "Oh, good, then you know exactly as much as we do."
I glanced between them, questioning, but only got shrugs and shakes of the head in response. That didn't fill me with confidence. Still, I could see that they at least seemed confident in whatever it was that would be announced. "We've been here for well over a month since the invasion. Do you think we'll finally return south now?" I asked, repeating the same question I'd asked Keane.
Hicks glanced at me, frowning, but it was Ryam who answered. "Gods, I hope so. This damn wasteland's no place to be. Day in, day out, we're just sittin' on our thumbs. Ain't even a Legion to fight anymore. I swear, if I have to spend one more day in this godsdamn Citadel, I'll just walk right off one of the towers." With that, Ryam set his head down on the table with a dull thud.
"Melodramatic, much?" said Oleg Vargas
"I’m honest. Beats being boring, at least," Ryam muttered. We chuckled at his response, and the others went back to talking amongst themselves. A few more sat down at the table, taking seats nearby.
Still, though, I found it hard to disagree with Ryam's sentiment. I understood it, in fact. Ever since Vault had returned from hunting down the Legion's remnants, we'd done nothing but wait, and wait, and wait. Each day proceeding with a monotonous routine, and they only seemed to grow longer and more dull as time passed us by. How could anyone not feel restless like this?
I looked around the room, watching the other Hounds, seeing how everyone reacted. Some of the men were smiling, or laughing, while others were tense, and nervous. All of us had friends, families, and lives to go back to.
I found myself thinking of my earlier conversation with Keane, then, and that cryptic moral dilemma he'd presented. Why had he even asked it in the first place, just out of the blue like that? It was almost a challenge, a dare, to make me choose. And, maybe, to test me.
"Pffft! Hah!" Edwin's loud bark of laughter broke me out of my thoughts, and I looked up at him. He nudged at my side with his elbow, grinning. "Hell, Ryam, you're right! He really does get that look on his face when he broods, doesn’t he?”
"Wha—? I wasn't brooding!" I protested. "I was just thinking!"
Kelso, who sat across from me, joined in with chuckles of his own. "Yeah, sure you weren't, Red. 'Cause normal people think while glaring at a wall like it scolded them."
Hicks clasped his hands together and brought them up to his cheek, feigning a swoon as he batted his eyes. "~Oh, Sir Ansel!" he cried out, taking on a high pitch, in a poor imitation of a woman's voice. "You’re sooo handsome when you brood, what with your furrowed brow and constipated face! I wish I could stare into those dark, stormy depths of yours forever and ever—Oh! But I digress. I'm sorry, I should never interrupt. Please continue, sir. Your musings are quite fascinating~!"
I turned away with a scoff. “Alright already, that does it from you idiots."
"Oh, you wound me, sir!" he said. "My love for you is so pure and innocent! How could you ever think I- hah, I meant... anything—Heh... Hahahaha!" Hicks burst into laughter before he could finish the sentence, and the rest of the table joined in.
"Whatever, man," I grumbled, as I shoved at his shoulder, and then found myself laughing along with them despite myself. I couldn't help it.
After that outburst, the mood lightened even further. Conversation grew louder, more boisterous. Stories were passed around, jokes told, and my friends bragged back and forth about something or another.
I forgot about my questions and doubts. Here and now, I didn't need to worry myself with any choices.
"...Who is that?"
Edwin's whisper was barely audible against the din, but something about his tone, about his words, grabbed hold of my attention and refused to let go.
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"What?" I asked, leaning in towards him.
I'd often heard plenty of people use the term, 'he looked as if he'd seen a ghost,' but I'd never really understood what it meant. Not until that moment, not until I saw it firsthand. I realized then that the metaphor didn’t do justice to the reality.
Edwin's mouth was agape, and his eyes so wide that I feared they actually might just pop out of his head. I followed his gaze to the other end of our row, and saw... nothing. Only more Hounds, lounging in their seats. I recognized most of them by sight, if not by name, and none of them were anything out of the ordinary; just simple mercenaries.
"Edd, what—"
He shot up from his seat, so abruptly that everyone next to him yelped and started to back away. He nearly even knocked the whole table over as he rose. The commotion caught the attention of everyone at the table, and even drew a few stares from other groups.
"Hey man, what the hell?" Hicks yelled, taken aback.
Edwin didn't respond. He walked away, still staring straight ahead, and others had to move out of his path as he did so.
"Hey!" I called after him. "Edd, wait!" I got up and followed, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What're you doing?"
"Ansel," he said, his voice low, almost breathless. He stopped walking, and pointed directly ahead of him. "You don't see her? You don't hear her?"
I looked where he was pointing, and again, I saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary. "No one's there, Edd," I told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "...You're just tired, aren't you? Come on, let's sit back down."
"She's right in front of us," he insisted. "That girl... is" He trailed off, and turned to look at me. His eyes were wild, and his ruddy complexion quickly paled. "Something's wrong."
At that instant, before I had even a second to process his words, the set of double doors leading into the chamber swung shut.
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There’s no way.
Some distant part of his mind had realized that before the big lad had made a scene, before they'd all been told to meet in this one room. Perhaps, he'd realized that days—Even weeks—beforehand, but it was only now that Hicks consciously began to accept that fact.
Hicks felt it, deep within his gut. It was an instinctive, primal reaction, and he knew that he couldn’t ignore or deny the feeling. Hicks stood, and the rest of the table followed suit. Some of them glanced at each other and exchanged confused words, before looking back to Hicks. As if he had any answers to give them.
He pushed his way out of the crowd, nudging some revelers aside as he went, and headed towards where Ansel and Fat Edd stood, near the center of the room. As he drew nearer, it was easy to see that something was seriously off with the big lad: Unmoving, he stared ahead with glazed eyes, fixed on something no one else could see.
"Hicks," Ansel said, snapping his fingers in front of Edd's face. "Any idea what's gotten into him?"
He studied Fat Edd's vacantly-staring face, and furrowed his brow. "No," he admitted. "Can't say I do."
An idea—an exceedingly dumb one—alighted in his head. Before he could give himself a chance to think better of it, Hicks reared his arm back, then swung forward, his open palm impacting against Fat Edd's cheek with a loud clap. He shut his eyes immediately, awaiting the retaliating strike, but it never came, and he opened them once more to see what he had caused.
Fat Edd still stared ahead, unblinking. He hadn't even flinched. Beside him, Ansel stared at Hicks with an incredulous look in his face.
"The hell are you looking at? I thought it'd work!" Hicks sucked his teeth. "But, shit, I'm fresh out of ideas."
Ansel glanced around the room. More and more people were beginning to notice the commotion, watching with curious eyes. "He... Maybe he just hit his head, or drank something bad?" Ansel suggested. "Gods, I dunno, should we go outside, find someone who can help him out? Maybe Keane?"
"Right. Keane, yeah." Hicks nodded. He glanced about the room, trying and failing to find him. "Good call. Where's he sitting at? I don't see him."
"He's not here," Ansel told him.
Hicks froze. The sensation intensified, tenfold.
There’s just no way.
"...He's not?"
Ansel shook his head. "He walked me here, but he said he had to do something somewhere else, first."
He looked around the room again. This time, however, he didn't pay much mind to the Hounds who were seated, drinking and eating with their fellows. Rather, he focused on those who stood apart from the others. Dozens of men and dozens of aberrants, casually standing along the room's perimeter. They just stood there, watching over the others with quiet interest.
No way. No way.
"You see anyone else leaving?" he asked Ansel, raising his voice only slightly. "Like, at all?"
Ansel paused, thinking for a moment. Then, he shook his head. "No."
The pit in his stomach grew. The back of his throat tasted bitter. "Yeah. Me neither."
No, he reasoned with himself. No, everything's okay. I'm just being paranoid over nothing. There’s no way.
The others from their table finally arrived, forming a loose circle around the three of them.
"What's going on with him?" Vargas asked, pointing to Fat Edd.
"We're leaving," Hicks found himself saying before he even realized he'd made the decision. He then elaborated, "Big lad needs to lay down, or see someone who can figure out what’s wrong with him, or something. So, y'know, let's get him out of here."
Gods, were his hands sweating?
Ryam groaned. "Do we have to? The night's just—"
"No, Ryam! You're not gettin' it,'' Hicks growled, cutting off the man. "We're leaving. Now."
Surprisingly, that cowed the rest, killing any further protest at once. The men took hold of Fat Edd's arms, and slowly began leading him towards the doors. Blessedly, his feet seemed to regain movement, and he began to limp along with them of his own accord. It'd have been a hell of an ordeal to try and drag him all the way.
Many of the other Hounds began to lose interest in them, their indifferent or outright drunken gazes returning to their food and drinks. Yet, the ones who remained standing, almost as if they were guards, followed the group's movement as they made for the doors. Hicks realized that his heart was beating fiercely, his pulse thudding in his ears like a drum.
There’s no way.
The feeling in his gut became nauseating, and he just barely resisted a full-on sprint to the doors only by keeping his pace steady and slow for his friends' sake.
Two brawny men stood at either side of the closed doors. He recognized them—Ralf and Burlin, standing on either side of the portal, folded arms across their chest. As the group approached, Ralf stepped away from the door, lifting a hand to halt them. "Hold on there, longshanks," he said, eyeing Hicks with a frown. "You and your little posse, where d'ya think you’re goin'?"
"Out," he said curtly.
Ralf shook his head, his frown deepening. Strangely, some part of Hicks' mind noted that the expression made him resemble a rather fat bulldog. "Don't see why you'd want to leave," he said. "We've got good drinks, plenty of food, and good company. 'Sides, Vault ain't here yet."
"That's fine and all, but we gotta get Edd some attention," Ansel cut in, jabbing a thumb towards the big lad. "He's not well."
Burlin stepped forward as well, eyeing Fat Edd up and down, inspecting him.
Fat Edd continued to merely stare ahead, his lips slowly moving in silent words.
After a moment, Burlin shrugged his broad shoulders. "Nah, he seems alright to me. Might just be that he drank too much, or something," he said. "Listen—You guys should stay, have some more fun. The whole thing'll get started soon."
Yeah, and that's precisely the godsdamn problem.
"He seems 'alright?' Are you serious?" Hicks scoffed. "Look at the guy! At this rate, I'm half expecting him to start drooling and pissing all over himself! In what world is that even close to 'alright?'"
The two men looked to each other, then back to the group. Burlin began, "Vault—"
"Vault this, Vault that!" Hicks broke in, voice rising. "Gods! We've been sittin' here for days! If that motherfucker’s got something he wants to say so badly, then he can walk his ass over here, instead of keepin' us with our thumbs up our asses! You gonna move outta our way, or what?" His heart was pounding with an almost nauseating strength, threatening to burst through his ribcage.
He glared at the two of them, and they glared right back.
He noticed their postures, then. Both were tensed up, shoulders raised, backs hunched slightly forward. Their eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, sweat beading their foreheads. Ralf's hand had fallen to his side, his fingers trembling as they unconsciously wrapped around the handle of his sword.
Hicks drew in a sharp breath—
"Hicks."
A hand settled on his shoulder, and he whipped his head around to find himself staring into Ansel's eye. His expression was tense, his brow furrowed. But still, he managed to flash Hicks a small grin. "Cool it down, alright? We'll get outta here soon enough. No point in getting yourself all worked up over it."
—Finally, he understood. The reality of the situation, which he'd refused to face, became clear as day to him.
He looked past Ansel. His shouting had gathered a lot of attention. Damn near everyone present was staring at him now, with expressions ranging from nervous, to concerned, to confused, to straight up anticipation.
"Gods... What the hell was I thinking?" he managed to mutter with a weak laugh. "...This whole time, I've just been surrounding myself with nothing but idiots."
He felt a strange sensation—Or, rather, he felt that lack of one. That roiling mass of instincts screaming at him faded, because it was no longer necessary. There were many men present there, many whose names he'd never bothered to learn, and many who he was familiar with.
Astor. Klein. Caspar. Ungers. Vargas. Ryam. Fat Edd. And Ansel Eschenwald, standing there all bright-eyed and honest, holding him back with a comforting hand.
But Keane wasn't there. Nor Kieran, nor Logren or Harvey, and certainly not Vault himself.
After all, why should they be there? The only ones who were meant to be in that room were the good men.
The honest warriors. Men who had joined with the company because they had no other way to make ends meet. Men who had left the army, so that they could strike directly at the Legion, because they had something to protect or to avenge. Men who looked for redemption by dedicating their hearts against the great archenemy, or perhaps had simply nowhere else to go.
Good men, every last one of them. Solid, reliable men.
Loyal men.
He thought that he was ready. He thought he’d have more time. He thought that there was a way to bring at least one of these men—his comrades, his friends—into the fold.
But he didn't. Perhaps, he never could have.
It was finally happening, right there and then. And Hicks had been found wanting.
Glancing back at the two Hounds who'd guarded the doors, he saw in their faces a grim sort of determination. Hicks let out a long sigh, scratching at the back of his head. He gulped, then forced a crooked grin he didn't feel in the slightest, and met Burlin's eyes. "...Vault ain't coming here at all, is he?"
They paled in an instant. "I— I don't..." Burlin stammered, desperately fumbling for words that would deny the truth they all already knew. Ralf was much quicker on the uptake. In one swift motion, he yanked his sword from its sheath, and raised it high above his head as he lunged towards Hicks.
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Slowly, Chloe rose onto unsteady feet, wiping the drool from her lips with the back of one hand. She almost tripped as soon as she stood—the pain in her stomach, from the manling's kick, still pulsed, nearly doubling her over. She had to grab the wall to steady herself, and found purchase. Her limbs felt heavy, as if they were filled with lead, and she was sure she'd never been this tired before. But, she knew that this strange enervation wasn't borne from something as simple as fatigue.
She looked down at the manacles binding her wrists to her neck, and grimaced. "So, they're enchanted after all," she muttered in between labored breaths. "If I had to guess... They're weighing me down somehow... making it hard for my muscles to move."
Her master offered no comment in response to her musings, instead opting to approach her. Olga Discordia extended a hand to Chloe’s shoulder, steadying her.
"You are well?" her master asked.
Chloe nodded, leaning away to stand on her own after a few moments. "I am. And yourself? The expenditure...?"
Her master was silent for a moment, before shaking her head. "As I expected, this cell has been warded. Likely, the dungeon and even this entire lower level, have been prepared in such a way as well." She nodded to the jailer's corpse, its myriad shards still encased in crystalline ice. "I touched him—Direct contact. And even this took a far greater expenditure than it should have any right to."
"Then, the wards are likely set against anything but direct physical assault," Chloe said slowly. She resisted the urge to bite her lip. The idea of an arcane prison, expressly designed to hinder those who could harness the power, was a frightening prospect. Though, it was not one she was unfamiliar with. Although she herself lacked the potential, Chloe had striven to familiarize herself with the base foundations of the sorcerous ways. A prison such as this one would be more than enough to contain a mortal practitioner, or at the very least, debilitate them enough that escape would be an exhausting ordeal.
For Olga Discordia, such a thing should have been a laughable obstacle. She had the strength to break free of any and every magical barrier, and the willpower to overcome the most strenuous of trials. It should have been nothing for her.
But now, she—
No.
Chloe shook her head fiercely, killing the traitorous thought. No. She wouldn't let it happen. Not again.
She retrieved the dagger from where it had fallen, and scanned the shattered corpse for a key to her bindings. She found none. There was a small pouch on the man's belt, which contained a single coin and a ring. Both were unremarkable, and would serve no purpose for her. Chloe sucked her teeth as she stood, and turned once more to her master. "My lady, we must go," she said. "If this one was by himself, then this might be our only window of opportunity. I'll lead the way."
Olga arched a brow, her expression unreadable. "In your condition?"
Chloe grimaced, and glanced down at her bound hands. Then, she looked up, and met her master's gaze again. "There's no other option. Even as I am, I can still fight. And most importantly, you can't exert yourself."
"I can't? Am I an invalid now, Chloe?" Olga asked.
“No. You know that’s not what I meant,” she said, and lowered herself to one knee, her head bowed. "But the fact remains that you have a limit. I told you before, didn't I? I swore that I'd fight for you, my lady. So... Even if you take this for an insult, and even if you never forgive me for it, I won't let you be extinguished here. If there is one person in this world that deserves to live, it's you. Please... Let me do this."
Chloe fixed her gaze intently on the floor between the two of them, and waited. Her master was silent in the wake of her declaration, and every passing moment seemed to stretch on and on into infinity.
Finally, breaking the stillness, Olga knelt as well. "...You're right," she said. Slowly, she reached forward, and cupped Chloe's chin in her hand, her thumb brushing over her cheek. The touch was light and warm, the gesture almost maternal. "You're right," she said again, and a faint smile crossed her lips. "I must see this through."
Then, her hand descended, down Chloe's cheek and towards her neck.
Chloe drew in a sharp breath as the realization hit her. "No. Don't—!" she began. Olga ignored her, her fingers closing around the collar. For a moment, the metal shuddered beneath her grip. Then, it ceased to be entirely. The collar at Chloe’s neck, the manacles at her wrists, and the chain that bound them together simply dissolved, as though they were melting wax. The slag-like substance was cool to the touch, harmlessly sliding down Chloe's body, before coming to rest as a silvery puddle at her feet.
She felt the loss of her restraints immediately. The numbness that had gripped her limbs was gone, as did the heaviness. Instead, it was replaced with a surge of energy, like a dam had burst inside her, sending hot urgent blood rushing to her extremities, her muscles flexing with the renewed vigor.
Yet, Chloe found no joy in this regained freedom. Rather, she looked up, meeting Olga's golden gaze. "But why?"
"It is as you said," said Olga. "You are my sword, Chloe, but I have no use for a dulled and rusted blade. If you truly intend to fight for me, you'll need all of your strength." The Dark Queen rose to her full height. And, though her features were set in stone, her eyes betrayed her—They shone. "Come," she said, extending a hand down. "Let us quit this place."
Chloe hesitated for a few moments, before nodding and taking the offered hand. "I will not fail you again," she promised.