The corridor beyond the shattered arena stretched long and narrow, the walls carved from a pale, veined stone that seemed to drink in light. The four swordsmen moved without speaking, their footsteps echoing softly. Each bore fresh wounds from the battle—torn robes, bruised knuckles, bleeding gashes—but their eyes remained sharp, wary of the next trap the maze might spring.
Julian led the way, saber sheathed but ready to be drawn in an instant. Behind him, Kael lumbered like a war beast barely caged, his massive frame still coiled with tension. Desmon moved with practiced grace, one hand resting on his sword hilt, the other hovering near a pouch of medicinal salves. Lira brought up the rear, steps light but purposeful, his youthful features drawn tight with determination.
They had survived the Nascent Soul puppet. Barely. That kind of victory left marks—not just on the body, but on the soul.
"Quiet," Julian murmured, slowing. "Do you feel that?"
