Chapter 42: Travel Arrangements

Tighter than the cramped self-storage compartment Dimitry leased on Earth, black speckled granite walls surrounded him from all sides except for one. Prison bars separated him from a shadowy corridor through which, among many unpleasant smells, wafted a familiar metallic scent. That of blood rubbed onto skin. The stench accompanied the whimpers and repentant prayers of prisoners, whose agonized utterances interrupted hymns echoing from an upstairs cathedral.

Dense and cold air sapped heat from Dimitry’s body as did the freezing granite bench he occupied. Although the warmth from his butt couldn’t warm his seat, remaining icy for over an hour, the threat of hypothermia troubled him little. This frigid cell wasn’t what made him shiver.

Rather, his shuddering sourced from thoughts of what would happen next. Now that the Church had caught Dimitry and discovered his sacrilegious crime spree in Ravenfall, would a bishop execute him? Crucify him? Enslave him with an enchanted collar?

And what of Saphiria? Dimitry had convinced her to abandon him, but knowing her, she might assault the cathedral and end up a fellow inmate. To suffer here alone was tragic. Knowing he led another to suffer alongside him would be tortuous. Praying the girl’s rationality trumped her principles, Dimitry palmed his face and massaged his eyelids.

“Boy,” said the old man pacing the cell across from his. “Try not to worry so much. Everything will be fine.”

A glimmer of hope burned within Dimitry. He glanced at his neighbor and whispered. “You know a way out?”

“A way out?” Ignacius held up the gray-glowing iron gloves that suffocated his hands. “Even if I did, I couldn’t crawl my way out of a hole or cast a defensive spell. They’ve got me good.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“There is no plan.”

“Then in what way is everything going to be fine?”

“I was just trying to be supportive and uplifting, my boy. It’s the duty of the elderly to put at ease the minds of the young.”

Feeling neither supported nor uplifted by a geriatric who continued to pace his cell like a panicked old-timer fretting the obstetric complications of a grandchild’s risky birth, Dimitry’s trembling intensified.

He scoured his thoughts once more for anything that could help him flee. Magic wasn’t an option; Saphiria had his vol pouch. She also held his bag, which contained every surgical tool he might have used to pick the cell’s lock. Not that he regretted entrusting his belongings with her. The bishop that strip-searched him would have found the broken collar fragments, arming the Church with concrete evidence of his crimes.

Once more every thought led to a dead-end, and once more dread gripped Dimitry’s lungs, suffocating him. But he couldn’t sit idle. Although an immediate escape held little promise, gathering information that allowed him to take advantage of a future opportunity took priority.

Dimitry glanced at his neighbor. “Do you know what they’re going to do to us?”

Ignacius shrugged. “Since you’re here for freeing a servant, you’ll stand trial in The Holy Empire. As for myself, I’m sure I’ll stand trial as well, but I’m guessing we’ll end up in different cities.”

Although thankful for the civility provided by a judicial system, Dimitry doubted a religious court would show leniency for his crimes. “Do we get a lawyer?”

“You’ll get a gospel.”

“That doesn’t sound very useful. Can we at least defend ourselves?”

“Defend ourselves?”

“In court, I mean.”

“As I’ve said, try not to worry too much.” Ignacius’ tired gaze fell to a black granite floor. “I know you want to see the little miss again, but you should take comfort that your girlfriend isn’t here with us.”

Dimitry sighed. The old man, this world’s worst motivational speaker, only reminded him of his second biggest fear. “She wasn’t my girlfriend. She just wanted to show me Malten.”

Ignacius’ head shot up. “Malten?”

“That’s where she comes from. Apparently, it’s a lovely place.”

A slow and hopeless chuckle departed the old man’s mouth. “Strange how we were both going there at a time like this.”

“What makes now so special?”

“It’s just that no one’s really sure what’s happening in the Gestalt Empire right now, my boy, but it seems we all had our reasons for going.”

Curious as to the motivations of a wizard, Dimitry leaned back against a wall, resigning to enjoy his last moments of ‘freedom’. “What were your reasons?”

“Just wanted to see my family again.” Ignacius wore a nostalgic smile that had abandoned all hope. “My daughter used to make the loveliest chicken pies. A crunchy crust, sweet samul, and savory juice seeping through the dark meat—nothing like it in The Amalthean Kingdom, I promise. And my granddaughters are the sweetest. I imagine they’re married by now. The oldest is a promising enchantress. I’ve instructed Angelika and Emilia in thaumaturgy too, but they were were still children when I left.”

Ignacius’ eyes clouded over. “But the Church left the Gestalt Empire eight years ago, and as for what happened since, there are all sorts of rumors.” His wrinkled fingers slid down the granite wall of his cell. “I hope they’re alright.”

The old man’s worries had justification. Malten was part of the Gestalt Empire, and if the Church had left, that meant the city fought off heathens on its own. Although troubling, Saphiria mentioned that Malten produced some of the best weapons in the world such that even farmers could dispatch the monsters. Life there would have been safe. More accurately, without a need to hide from the Church, life there would have been great!

But that mattered no longer.

Steel boots stomped down the dungeon’s central corridor and stopped in front of Dimitry’s cell. A metal heel pummeled into the iron bars.

Ear-splitting reverberations coaxed a wince from Dimitry. He glanced up to find a kid whose fingers reddened from clenching gray-glowing handcuffs with excessive force.

“Why’d you do that?!” Reece yelled. “You were kind enough to heal Selene, but what corrupted devil tempted you to harm bishop Marianne?! And as for this… this Saphiria Pesce. How could you disrupt a sinner’s repentance?! That was her chance at salvation, but you damned her to eternal purgatory!”

Ignacius’ mouth dropped open. “S-Saphiria Pesce?” Mumbling to himself, the old man retreated to a corner.

Dimitry yearned to tell the kid that his views were too narrow, that Celeste’s guidance wasn’t the all-encompassing truth he thought it was, but any attempt to dismantle the web of contractions that were Reece’s beliefs would only enrage the kid. He instead offered whatever words could earn him sympathy and potentially more lenient treatment. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you?!” Reece shook the cell’s iron bars. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?! How can—”

“That’s enough.” A calmer set of boots strode down the corridor. Bishop Rosaline’s aged visage soon came into view. “Shield Reece, why do you think I brought you here?”

“To see those damned blasphemers for the liars they truly are?”

She shook her head. “This is what happens when we don’t defend our principles. Despite every attempt to guide the people, they spit falsities in our faces, deceiving us as if possessed by the ancient evil itself.”

“Will we exorcise him?”

“No. Not us. This is a matter for the judicators in The Holy Kingdom. Detain them both and prepare them for transport.”

“Both?” Reece asked.

Rosaline glanced at Ignacius. “The deserter channeling mule, too. They were on the ship together. We believe they cooperated in Saphiria’s damnation, but only their combined testimonies under servia can reveal the truth.”

Evening set upon the desert city. A red sun lowered in an orange sky, half-frozen pools of bedpan fluid fouled the air, and insulated windows slammed shut above Saphiria’s head as she rushed through east main street. Like in the stories Father once told her, vermilion sand clouds rose from beneath her boots with every frantic stride, yet she hadn’t the opportunity to examine them. Dimitry could have been getting tortured for aiding Saphiria.

Or worse.

What if he waited his turn for a binding ceremony? Dimitry could become a Zeran servant at any moment! For the crime of helping Saphiria! Heart pounding faster, hot and icy waves flushed across her spine. “How is he?”

“Dumitry is still with Old Guy below the cathedral!” whispered the faerie hiding beneath Saphiria’s new dress.

“Are they hurting him?”

“No, but they’re moving!”

“Already?! Where to?”

“How am I supposed to know?! They’re just moving, alright? Maybe if we actually did something instead of running around in circles, buying clothes and bathing, we’d know for sure!”

Saphiria’s jaw clenched, her stressed breaths escaping through gritting teeth as white mists. “Our goal is to secure passage to Malten before we rescue Dimitry. What use is there in liberating him without an immediate escape?”

Precious pinched Saphiria’s earlobe. “Is that your excuse for taking a luxurious bath at an inn while he might have been getting executed?”

“You know it to be necessary. No merchant guild would believe me to be nobility were I to introduce myself with grime upon my face and clothes smelling of refuse.”

“I really, really hope you’re right,” the faerie’s voice trembled. “I still need him to feed me and stuff. Dummies like him don’t come around often.”

“He’ll be safe,” Saphiria said despite intensifying pressure crushing her shoulders. Praying the strategy succeeded, her grip around Dimitry’s bag tightened. “I’ll make sure he’s safe.”

The desperate dash towards the port continued until a red sandstone building came into view. Sailors rushed in and out the front doors. From the second floor, a massive window watched over Coldust. Composed of stained glass and shaped like a circle, two lines crossed through its center, giving it the appearance of a compass. A design similar to the Blue Compass guildhall in Malten.

Although Saphiria arrived at her destination, she did not immediately enter to deliver her demands. Catching her breath, she combed still-wet hair with curled fingers, adjusted the ceremonial azure dress she bought from the market square, and straightened her spine. Every possible preparation was complete.

But Saphiria could not take a forward step. No matter how many deep breaths she inhaled, an unseen force tethered her boots to the ground.

Premonitions of failure flooded Saphiria’s mind. What if she botched the negotiations, dooming herself and Dimitry? Unlike him, who spoke to strangers with ease, she doubted her aptitude in civil discourse. Castle tutors had once instructed her in the art of negotiation, but the confidence and skill they instilled in her crumbled over the eight years she spent in servitude without the capacity to utter a word in defiance.

A small palm patted her nape.

“You’ll be fine,” Precious whispered. “I believe in you, murderous assassin lady. If anyone can threaten humans into helping us, it’s you!”

Despite the faerie’s unsavory choice of words, the constrictions around Saphiria’s legs loosened, giving her the courage to proceed. Like Father did whenever he visited Malten’s Blue Compass branch, Saphiria casually pushed the front door open and strutted into the guildhall with her head held high.

Contrary to the building’s outer beauty, time withered stone comprised the internal walls, their intricate designs no longer distinguishable. The scent of the sea emanated from the dozens of moist crates that cramped the ground floor. One sailor among many pried open a container with a crowbar and hurriedly emptied the gypsum statuettes within.

The rushing of crewmen and the unpacking of crates to prepare for another voyage even at this time of day lent credence to the rumors: Coldust’s merchant guilds were Remora’s forefront exporters. Only through trade could the people here support life in a desert. Saphiria’s best chance.

Among the commotion, only a mahogany desk stood still. Sat behind it was a woman no older than thirty. Her one hand shot beads across the rods of an abacus while the other scratched letters onto parchment with a quill.

Laying still chattering teeth, Saphiria strode forward.

Alerted by the sound of boots tapping a stone floor, the woman’s head shot up, revealing tired eyes. She centered the black hat she wore over her orange hair. “My apologies, but we don’t sell merchandise directly.”

“It is no matter,” Saphiria imitated the exalted tone she used to hear in Malten’s throne room. She curtsied while holding the azure ends of her skirt-like dress. “This one’s name is Sa—” The words cut off. A harrowing chill washed over Saphiria.

A mistake.

Already.

The merchant winced. “Sa?”

For Saphiria to introduce herself with her true name only invited peril. Merchants commanded vast knowledge, meaning this one likely knew Saphiria’s status as a servant. The Church’s involvement further complicated matters. After arresting Dimitry, a search for the escaped servant that accompanied him could have already begun.

Saphiria’s name held danger, but her identity was all she had! Without her family’s reputation, she had neither the funds nor the authority to commission a long voyage home. Her sole recourse was a risky gambit—the impersonation of an extended cousin residing in Feyt, the city southeast of Malten.

“Pardon my stutter. It has been a long day.” Saphiria’s legs trembled as if to collapse when she curtsied once more. “My name is Elise Pesce, daughter of Franziska Pesce of Farment. I come with a request.”

“I’m Maren.” The merchant hesitated before standing. “Although we are pleased to serve Lady Franziska and her heiress apparent, it would be an insult to her to trust anyone parading her name.” Her brows furrowed. “Especially someone without escorts. Are you here alone?”

Instinct compelled Saphiria to draw her dagger and place it at the merchant’s throat, but she suppressed the urge. Forced compliance through violence would only worsen matters. “Well spotted. I am alone. Most of my guard perished during the journey from the city of Celeste.”

“Do explain.”

“We were traveling across Remora, visiting every shrine in every city and town.”

“A holy pilgrimage, then?”

“Indeed,” Saphiria said. “However, the night before we arrived in Coldust, a wandering tribe assaulted our caravan, killing the men-at-arms and our horses. I only escaped with the guidance of my court surgeon and court wizard. Unfortunately, they sustained injuries. While the surgeon treats the wizard, I have come here to demand passage to Malten. I trust a concession so minor poses no problem?”

Hand pressed to her black hat, Maren bowed. “My sincerest condolences for your troubled journey. However, it is my regret that your tale provides little proof of your identity. Do you at least bear the crest of the baroness?”

“I have changed my apparel many times over these months of travel.”

“Then how can I trust your words?”

Saphiria’s grip around Dimitry’s bag tightened. She had little time for trivialities! While her eyes scoured the warehouse for a clue on how to convince the merchant, the temptation to threaten Maren with death intensified within. Saphiria reached for her dagger, but a glance at a dusty pyrite statuette—mimicking gold—quelled the murderous urge.

An idea emerged, and a route for peaceful negotiation remained.

Saphiria pulled up the cuff of her azure dress to reveal a golden bracelet with an engraved sapphire. She held out her arm to display the birthday present she received from Father on her tenth year. “You may look, but don’t touch.”

Maren grabbed a small lens from her desk and leaned in to examine the jewel. She gasped. “The clarity… and the color!”

“Dark violet as is common from the mountains east of Volmer.”

“Such few needle inclusions! A truly fantastic piece!”

Saphiria puffed out her chest. “It’s one of the best sapphires harvested in all the Gestalt Empire.”

“Have you ever commanded the gemstone’s power to cure poisons and miasmas?”

“I hadn’t the need.”

“If you’re willing to part with—”

“Perish the thought,” Saphiria hissed, pulling her arm back. “Well? Is that proof enough for you, or will you demand I bend over backward to please you once more?”

“My apologies.” Maren briefly knelt onto one knee, as was common when greeting imperial nobility. “However, there are several issues we must discuss before I can provide you passage to Malten.”

“Speak.”

“First, I must warn you that our merchant vessels can’t accommodate the lifestyle you may be used to.”

“A shame, but I am in a hurry. It’ll do.”

“In that case, please excuse us for any trouble that may arise on board. Another problem is that of payment.”

Saphiria reached into Dimitry’s bag, grabbed half the contents of his coin pouch, and rolled three gold marks across the merchant’s desk. “This is all that remains of our pilgrimage funds. Once we reach Malten, you will receive the rest.”

“Your destination is another issue. We won’t journey to Malten for another month.”

“And the vessel your crewmen are preparing now?”

“It is headed to Ontaria.”

A problem. Although Ontaria was part of the Gestalt Empire and no longer than half a week’s journey from Malten, Saphiria couldn’t land in a foreign city after lying about her identity. The act would poison her family’s reputation with merchants and foreign dignitaries alike.

“Change the ship’s course to Malten’s port,” Saphiria said. “I still need to visit Malten’s shrine to complete my pilgrimage.”

“Forgive me, my lady! If we reschedule the planned journey, our losses—”

“Fear not. My family will more than compensate you. You may berth in Ontaria on the return voyage if you wish.”

“But we cannot veer off course just to—”

“You must,” Saphiria roared, attracting the attention of sailors rushing around her. “Or do you prefer I deliver word to Coldust’s archbishop that you are unwilling to aid me in my pilgrimage? I have no doubt they will enjoy dismantling your guild’s empire, warehouse by warehouse, for crimes against the gospel.”

“I…” Maren’s voice trailed off. She glanced at the map on her table, jotted numbers, and nodded. “The vessel will leave before morning. Just be ready before then.”

“We will.”

“Psst!” Precious whispered. “Dumitry is leaving the cathedral, Old Guy is with him, and they’re heading north! There’s a lot of people around them!”

Saphiria froze. The cathedral stood on the north side of Coldust, and if Dimitry was being taken further north, was the Church transporting him to The Holy Kingdom? Did they intend to make him a servant, or did they seek to study his strange magics out of sight of foreign nations? No matter. If she didn’t release Dimitry now, he would be gone forever.

“Is all well?” Maren asked. “I trust our agreement is satisfactory?”

“It’ll do.” Saphiria stepped away. “I’ll return with my court’s wizard and surgeon soon. Do not depart without us.”

“Before you leave, there’s one more thing I must warn you about.”

“Be quick.”

“Although we can’t verify their accuracy, there are rumors of increased banditry and aquatic demon attacks around Malten. Should you fail to arrive home safely, we cannot be held responsible.”

A militaristic convoy traversed Coldust’s north main street. Steel boots clanked, wooden wheels croaked, and a bishop hummed hymns in the night, halting only to bark commands at the two dozen warriors under her command. The gold and green enchanted armors of knights and their horses illuminated nearby buildings as they maintained the perimeter of a dozen ox-drawn wagons, each driven by a priestess that constantly glanced back to eye their cargo. Today’s haul seemed to be especially indispensable.

Some wagons contained stacked barrels of food and water, others carried hogs slurping black glop from a trough, and one upheld sacks and pouches whose clanking contents hinted at plentiful vol and precious metals within, the combined value doubtlessly sufficient to live off of for centuries. However, despite the apparent value, the most guarded compartment trudged forward in the center of the convoy. That wagon comprised an iron cage and the two bound men sat inside.

Dimitry’s mobile prison cell.

An icy gale howled through the metal bars, and just like the shivering old man across from him, Dimitry struggled to wrap a woolen blanket around his body. Two wrists stuck together with handcuffs complicated the maneuver. Although he succeeded after multiple attempts, the scarce warmth did little to thaw his numbed fingers or stop the metal flooring from freezing his ass.

Blue lips trembling, Ignacius glanced at Dimitry and chuckled. “Wish they’d give us hot mead or a pipe for the road.”

“Silence!” hissed the priestess driving their wagon. “Be grateful that Zera provides sinners like you two anything.”

Dimitry sympathized with the old man. Advanced age rendered Ignacius vulnerable to hypothermia, but the gray-glowing iron gloves entombing his hands prevented him from so much as gripping his blanket. Freezing weather swiftly killed elders. A small drop in body temperature was the difference between a regular day and a heart attack.

Manipulating his own cuffs, which similarly carried the gray aura of dispelia yet allowed for hand movement, Dimitry lifted Ignacius’ blanket and threw it over the old man’s shoulders.

Ignacius nodded.

Reciprocating the sentiment, Dimitry flashed a smile before glancing past iron bars to watch a green moon roam a dark sky. He wondered if he could exsanguinate by biting off his tongue. Probably not. While a severed deep lingual artery resulted in profuse intraoral bleeding, a clot would soon form to plug the wound. A nonissue. He could lay down and aspirate on hemorrhaged blood. Death would be guaranteed. The only issue was the pain. Which was worse, an excruciating partial amputation of the tongue or life as the Church’s prisoner?

As Dimitry pondered the question, the wagon rumbled over uneven bricks, through the northern gatehouse, and onto a sandy field. A wide river flowed to the right of the convoy. Huddled around the green moonlit waters were countless tents of animal hide, straw, and rope. Thousands of makeshift homes comprised the sprawling shantytown, which sought to occupy the only arable land in view.

A man carrying water buckets knelt by a passing knight and held up his arm. “May Celeste guide you across the deserts.”

The swollen-bellied woman accompanying him followed suit. “Celeste guide you.”

One priestess alighted the front seat of her wagon, strode towards the pregnant woman, and placed a palm on her abdomen. She muttered soft prayers in the night.

“Zera smells like rotten fent!” a shrill voice pierced the tranquil ambiance.

The knights halted their horses, priestesses reached for vol, and the bishop’s head shot to the left. Peerless fury etched into her scowl.

Dimitry too glanced towards the dark and sandy dunes. He saw no one, but the voice rang familiar. Dread slithered down his spine.

“Imagine being d-dumb enough to praise someone who’s been d-dead for two thousand years?” Shaky laughter followed. “If Celeste can’t even g-guide herself out of the afterlife, how do you d-dummies expect her to guide you?!”

“Blasphemy!” yelled Reece at the front of the convoy.

“Our sister is a fool,” a priestess muttered.

“Does the ancient evil speak through the child?” said another.

“Reece, James, Elaine, and Riley!” the bishop shouted. “Bring the heretic to me. Alive. She needs guidance.”

A small team of knights and priestesses marched in formation towards the voice.

Heaviness weighing down in Dimitry’s gut, his eyes scoured the empty desert, hoping he didn’t find who he knew to be there. The blasphemer wasn’t a misguided child. It was a faerie. Why the fuck was Precious attempting a pointless and suicidal rescue? The Church would murder her without a second thought.

From the side opposite to the commotion, something small and heavy pummeled into Dimitry’s back.

A vol pouch.

The one Dimitry entrusted to Saphiria.

He turned around to see a figure in an azure dress disappear between riverside tents, raven black hair trailing behind her. So that was the plan. While his captors searched the horizon for a tiny distraction, Dimitry grabbed his pouch and slid across the cell’s metal floor towards Ignacius.

The old man’s glare left the crime scene and focused on the all-too-close surgeon. “What is—”

Dimitry pressed a finger to his mouth, displayed some vol beneath his blanket, and tugged on the dispelia gauntlets stifling Ignacius’s magic. They didn’t come off. The binds around his wrists were too tight!

Ignacius shook his head and glanced at his boot. He struggled to kick one off.

Unsure of the wizard’s intentions but trusting his expertise, Dimitry removed a shoe.

With a bare foot, Ignacius stepped onto a vol pellet. The green rock vanished into his sole, and the gray auras of dispelia around his and Dimitry’s handcuffs faded.

Was he casting magic through his leg?!

Then came the smell of burning wood and fiber.

Tent after tent burst into flames.

Alarmed tenants stumbled from their ablaze homes and rushed towards the river with buckets and ceramic jugs in hand. Among them was Saphiria, who pretended to help transport water while setting more fires. Discombobulated screams erupted from the shantytown.

The knights and priestesses squirmed as if begging to join the fray.

“The heretics have an arsonist amongst them!”

“Shall we help the townspeople, Reverend Mother?”

“Maintain your formations!” The bishop held out a palm towards the town. “Revealia!”

Green bursts, identical to those Dimitry saw aboard The Dirty Matilda and on the night of repentance, appeared in the riverside town. They faded in and out of existence like tiny stars. The lingering exhaust proved that Saphiria was igniting tents the same way she lit campfires—with ignia.

“There are mages among the heretics!” the bishop shouted. “The untempered will patrol the transport! The rest will follow me to subdue the sinners! Our priority is rescuing the citizens!”

“Yes, Reverend Mother!”

Priestesses jumped off of wagon seats, grabbed pouches of vol from the cart of valuables, and plowed through sand alongside knights. Only a third of the convoy’s guard remained behind.

“Boy,” Ignacius whispered amongst the clamoring of panicked residents and yelling Church soldiers.

Hoping Saphiria and Precious stayed safe, Dimitry dragged his attention away from the commotion to find the chains linking his cuffs have melted off. He could move his hands!

Nice!

The old man pointed to the nearly empty vol pouch beneath his blanket.

Fuck!

Only one pure pellet remained, and they still hadn’t escaped their cell. Dimitry pointed at a distant wagon—one that carried valuables. “That sack is full of vol. Can you pull one pouch closer with propelia?”

“That’s not how propelia works, my boy. Reach out of the cell and get ready to catch.”

Dimitry complied.

The last vol pellet drained into Ignacius’ foot, and he aimed his gauntleted hand at the luxurious cargo.

As if pulled by a powerful magnet, a fat pouch launched from a cart ahead of them, past a young priestess mesmerized by flames growing higher, and into Dimitry’s outstretched hands.

Wondering whether that spell was the attractia the performers in Ravenfall used, Dimitry squeezed his loot past metal bars and tossed it under Ignacius’ blanket. “We need to melt off the cell’s lock before my friend gets caught.”

“Hide us.”

Dimitry tossed his blanket over Ignacius, who plucked vol off the floor and thrust out his wrinkled foot towards the cell’s padlock. Its shackle liquidized drip by drip.

Eyes darting from civilians to priestesses to Church members searching for an arsonist while helping citizens douse fires, Dimitry shuddered. He might survive! Just a little longer and the padlock would fall off!

A knight glanced in their direction.

“Ignacius!” Dimitry warned the old man.

As the knight’s horse rushed closer, the padlock fell off, and Ignacius’ foot swerved sideways. Bubbling sand beneath the animal’s feet caused it to trip.

High-pitched neighs attracted attention from a priestess. She approached to investigate. Although she shoved a hand into her garbs and chanted spells, none seemed to have any effect.

“Boy!” Ignacius consumed pellet after pellet. “I’m about to cast silencia to mute our escape.”

Understanding the wizard’s plan, Dimitry grabbed vol. “Invisall!” Searing pain shot through his chest and limbs, but neither his whimpers, the ruffling of his shirt, nor the cell’s metal gate sliding open in front of him could be heard.

Two invisible men fled towards distant dunes.

Behind them, a downed knight pointed at an empty cell, but his lips moved in vain. The warnings didn’t manifest into sound. Neither did those of the nearby priestess. Although their panic eventually caught on, resulting in a wide search, by then, it was already too late.