Shadows of the Rescuer
When George finally drifted back into consciousness, the world was a blur of cold stone and throbbing pain. Every inch of his body ached, his muscles stiff from the freezing subterranean dip and the grueling climb. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself across the uneven floor toward a cluster of Heartnotisha plants he spotted near a damp crevice. He plucked several of the iridescent, heart-shaped seeds, the restorative juices staining his fingers as he ate. Almost immediately, a warm hum began to vibrate through his veins, the plant's essence kickstarting his depleted mana circuits. He slowly stood up, his legs shaky but holding. He needed to find them, but the trail was cold—or so it seemed to the mundane eye. George closed his eyes, centering his focus, and channeled his aura into his optic nerves. When he looked again, the world was bathed in the subtle hues of residual energy. There, lingering in the stagnant air like a tattered ribbon of smoke, was a faint, shadowy wisp.
"Kayn," George whispered, his heart leaping.
It was the unique signature of Kayn's shadow magic, a trail left behind either by accident or as a desperate breadcrumb for George to follow. George began to track the trail, his movements cautious as the maze continued its rhythmic, tectonic shifting around him. He looked toward the horizon where the ethereal clock tower floated. The numerals glowed with a predatory light: four days, one hour, and fifty minutes. Panic tried to seize his chest—the realization that nearly a week had slipped away while he was unconscious or climbing was a physical blow. Time was no longer their ally. He moved with a renewed, desperate speed. Along the way, he encountered groups of scattered skeletal golems, but he didn't slow down to engage. He moved like a gale, firing off precise, condensed wind blasts that shattered the bone constructs into dust before they could even turn their hollow gazes toward him. The shadow trail eventually led him to a large, sunken plaza reinforced with ancient pillars. George climbed a jagged section of the wall, moving with the silence of a predator until he reached a high ledge overlooking the encampment. He lay flat against the stone, peering over the edge.
Below, the rival candidates had made themselves at home. The lead captor—a man with a cruel, angular face and eyes that flickered with a volatile spark—paced in front of Nana, Kayn, and Arthur. They were bound in magical suppressants, looking battered but defiant.
"You have a simple choice to make," the leader drawled, his voice echoing off the stone. "Either you join us and help us cull the rest of the candidates to ensure our victory, or you stay here and rot. Or," he grinned, a dark, sharp expression, "we simplify the process and end you now." The leader stepped toward Nana, reaching out to tilt her chin up with a gloved finger. "You know, you're not bad to look at. A bit too much fire in the eyes, but we can break that."
Nana didn't hesitate; she jerked her face away with a snarl of disgust. The leader merely laughed, a dry, grating sound. "Don't worry. You'll come around. They always do."
"I'll never join a coward who hides behind ambushes," Nana spat, her voice ringing with the pride.
The leader's smile vanished instantly. He turned and, without a word, unleashed a concentrated fireball directly into Kayn's chest. The impact was sickening. Kayn, already weakened, let out a gutteral cry of pain as the flames scorched his skin. The leader didn't stop there, using minor elemental shocks to torture the three of them, testing their resolve.
"How long will it be before you start begging to join me?" the leader asked, his voice now a cold hiss. He turned and walked toward the center of the camp, leaving them to the mercies of his subordinates.
George watched, his knuckles white as he gripped the ledge. He saw one candidate holding Arthur's silver sword, marveling at the weight and the regal craftsmanship. Two others were nearby, bickering over who would get to strip Arthur of his teal and gold armor once they finally executed him. The sight sent a surge of protective fury through George, but he held it back. There were too many of them for a frontal assault. He had to be the wind—unseen and everywhere. Moving like a shadow, George snuck down from the ledge and began to circle the perimeter of the camp. He stayed low, timing his movements with the flickering of their campfire and the distracted laughter of the guards. Creeping behind the pillar where his friends were bound, he focused his mana into his fingertips. With surgical precision, he unleashed thin, invisible blades of pressurized wind. The air hissed softly as it sliced through the heavy ropes and magical bindings, freeing his friends' limbs while they remained slumped, feigning captivity until the signal was given.