2.2 — Dungeon of the Possessed

— What a strange creature you are… — the girl says, as calm as the surface of still water.
— You can think about that later! Save us now!

All the other creatures are already hanging lifeless. Green smoke obscures everything. Lyttia is suffocating. Her lungs are fighting for every milliliter of air.
— My magic is useless. — the girl says, without even choking.
— There’s no such thing… — Lyttia gasps. — Every kind of magic… means something…

The girl finally looks in her direction. The bandages conceal her eyes, but something changes. She sees determination. Fire. Something… she herself does not know.
Hope.

— Why…? Why do you care so much…?

Lyttia can no longer speak. The answer catches in her throat.

The silver-haired girl makes a decision. There is no time to waste.

The bandages tear apart. Light bursts from her wings. An additional pair of arms sprouts from beneath her armpits, and with them she tears the chains apart. The entire cell explodes with energy, shattering the ceiling with light like thunder. Lyttia’s chain tears into pieces.

From behind the door comes a terrified voice:
— What was that?!

The confused guards have no idea what to do, no plan whatsoever, and that gives Lyttia only the tiniest opening, one she has to seize — she drops to her knees, clutching her mouth as though trying to suppress the urge to vomit, as though the entire situation has just struck her with its full force, but she cannot allow herself to be weak, not now, so despite her trembling legs, she rises from the floor and reaches her other hand into her hair, feeling the thin ring hidden between the strands, closes her fingers around it, pulls it free, and immediately summons the sword — the weapon takes shape in her hands, and she instinctively crouches beside the door, feeling that it is the only thing still standing between her and death.

She does not thank the silver-haired girl — not because she is ungrateful, but because there is simply no room for it right now, no time for emotions, reflection, or any kind of hesitation, because the air in the room has already almost completely run out, and every second of delay could cost her her life.

The heavy steel doors, thick enough to resemble a half-meter-thick barrier impossible to breach, slide open with a prolonged groan, revealing a panicked guard who has entered wearing a gas mask, but is in no way prepared for what he is about to see.

He looks around nervously. For a moment, all he sees are the motionless bodies of the other creatures, and for a moment it seems that nothing could surprise him — until his gaze stops on the figure of the girl, small yet standing proudly, her back straight, wings spread, two additional arms protruding from them; she looks like something between a fallen angel and a vengeful being that has just risen from hell.

He is already opening his mouth to call for reinforcements, already preparing to react, but he does not get the chance — Lyttia, standing barely a step behind him, drives her sword straight into his back, the blade piercing his heart and emerging from the front of his chest, while a stream of blood spills across the floor with surprising force and warmth, which she feels against her hand.

I killed him. I did it.

The guard collapses without a word, and she almost immediately pulls the mask from his face and puts it over her own, struggling to draw in her first full breath of air in several long minutes.

At last, she can breathe.

She is about to move, about to run ahead and leave all of this behind, but she looks back one more time… and sees her — the silver-haired girl, who despite all her power is still standing where she was, as though she had accepted her fate and was waiting for the inevitable, as though she wanted to die.

— Hurry! More of them will be here any moment! We have to escape! — Lyttia shouts, her voice muffled by the mask, sounding like an echo, distorted but clear enough to be impossible to ignore.

Unfortunately — it is already too late.

“ALERT! GAS LEAK IN CELL 402! ALERT!” — a mechanical voice roars, echoing through the dungeon, vibrating through the walls like a funeral bell.

Several more fully armed knights rush into the corridor, but none of them are wearing masks — they were not prepared, they never expected anything like this to happen. Three of them stop helplessly before the open cell, staring into the smoke and trying to understand what has just happened.

— What the f…?!

Lyttia gives them no time to react — she leaps from behind the door with her sword ready to strike, her body moving as though instinct has taken complete control. In one fluid motion, she cuts all three across the neck — their throats split open, blood sprays, and they collapse to their knees, screaming in pain and shock.

I… I really did it. I cut their throats.

— AAAAAH!

The wounds are not fatal — she did not aim to kill them — but they are deep enough to immobilize them. There is no room for sentiment in her eyes anymore.

Without looking back, without a word or hesitation, Lyttia runs down the corridor, still gripping the blade — racing forward without even knowing where the corridor leads, with no plan whatsoever, only one thought: survive.

I don’t know where I’m running. I don’t even know if there is anywhere to run to.

But she does not manage to escape for long. After a while, the corridor splits, and more guards emerge from around one of the corners. She turns, wanting to go back, but more are approaching from behind.

I’m surrounded. This is it for me.

One of the knights swings his sword — Lyttia dodges, but the movement is clumsy, she loses her balance and falls onto the cold stone floor.

— D-do we kill her…? — one of them asks.

— No. Let’s capture her. We’ll wait for Lady Fidelia. — the other replies in a calm, cold tone.

Suddenly, the silver-haired girl emerges from the thick mist still hanging in the cell.

The silver-haired girl, supporting herself against the wall with one hand with every step, weak but alive. And the moment she touches the wall, something impossible happens — frost spreads from the place where her hand meets the brick, an icy ornament with razor-sharp edges that races through the entire corridor, wrapping around the floor, the walls, the ceiling — and the knights’ legs.

— W-what kind of magic is this?! — one of them screams, but before he can move, his body freezes completely.

One after another, they turn into statues of ice.

The temperature drops violently. The air becomes so cold that every breath hurts. An ordinary person cannot survive long in such conditions.

— Run. You gave me a reason to die with dignity. — the girl says in a calm, almost dreamy voice.

— What about you?! — Lyttia cries, unable to believe that she still wants to stay.

— I’ll be fine. You have to survive. I can feel strength within you. Extraordinary energy. — Her tone remains gentle, but firm.

Lyttia rises from the floor, still trembling.

— Tell me… tell me, what is this energy? You’re not the first person to say that! What is it?!

— Not now. The royal knights will be here any moment. My magic won’t work on them.

— Please! Tell me! It’s important to me! — she cries, placing a hand against her chest as though she could pull the answer out from within.

— Just… be careful with it. Don’t let it take control of you. And now… go.

A woman with light-purple hair emerges from around the corner — tall, elegant, and deadly.

— Go! Run! — the girl cries, raising her hand toward her one last time — Lyttia!

But Lyttia cannot move. She can’t. She cannot leave the person who saved her. In the next second, the silver-haired girl collapses to the ground. All of her limbs are severed in a single, fluid, invisible slash.

No… No!

Her scream echoes off the walls, but no one hears it. It is already too late.

Lyttia turns and begins to run. She does not know how. She does not know where. But she runs, even as tears well up in her eyes, even as the air once again begins to run out.

She passes dozens of knights’ bodies, unable to withstand the sudden change in temperature. She nearly trips over one of them, dropping to one knee, but she does not stop — her body may not want to go any farther, but her soul knows no other option than to flee.

Run. Or the silver-haired girl’s sacrifice will have been for nothing.