Sarielle isn't a stranger to the sensation of running for her life. Nor is she shocked to find that, in these desperate moments, Dalton is her anchor, pulling her along, keeping her grounded in reality lest she be swept away by the fear and the adrenaline. Her feet pound stone. Her injured leg is riddled with pain, but it's a pain she has to fight given the consequences of letting it consume her.

The running isn't the hard part in the slightest. The fear is a sugar, infused with energy to keep her going. If anything, she wishes it was wild and fierce enough to mix up her thoughts, to snip away the tightening leash of guilt.

Somewhere distant, lost beyond the dark halls they dart along, Fiesi screams.

The sound might as well be a blade, or another arrow, one that pierces her heart this time. She screeches to a halt, dragging Dalton with her. Her hands clap to her mouth to seal in the inevitable sob.

"Sarie," Dalton urges, but his voice rocks side to side, strained on the brink of breaking.

Inhaling shakily through her nose, she nods, though her vision blurs. She stretches out a hand, and he takes it with gentle care. He looks at her like she's fragile, and she should hate that, yet right now it's almost comforting to know he acknowledges the brokenness. Cracks lodge in her chest. Her lungs heave, filled with water.

Gripping one another ever more tightly, they keep moving. She should know these halls like the back of her hand, but the layered addition of the dark and her tears make it difficult to put that familiarity to use. She's surprised so much of it is still intact. Outside, the castle was crumbling and broken, but from within this wing it could simply be a particularly empty night, one devoid of the clamour of servants or nobles and their tasks. If someone took a duster and a mop to some of these rooms, they could look good as new in no time.

The thought only adds another lump to her throat.

"In here," Dalton says, and pulls her into a room to the left. His shoulder knocks into the door's edge, shoving it closed, its rusted, broken hinges shrieking as it sways. They both wince in unison. His back presses flat against the wall, his stance stiff and his hand still locked around hers. Her leg twinges, blunt agony's echo grating through the muscle, and she stumbles into him. His arm wraps her chest in a firm hold.

The following silence hurts worse. It seems to run on forever, carving the shape of a sleek, chilling river current that pounds through her veins. Her breath comes hot and fast, mingling with Dalton's, and it rings loud with no other sound to battle it. Her heart is a drumming prayer.

Nothing. In the wake of Fiesi's scream, the castle is an empty abyss. Biting her lip hard enough to earn a sharp pain, Sarielle begs to hear something, anything, some edge of his breathing or his noisy footsteps or the swish of his cloak. His stupid, brash voice. Anything. The tears burn as they wrench free again, and she tilts her forehead to rest against Dalton's chest, another sob convulsing through her.

His fingers lace her hair, soft and quiet in his comfort. Guilt bitters the back of her throat. She shouldn't be using him like this. Her inhale shudders its way to her lungs, but she forces her head to lift, sweeping her tangled hair away from her face. She swipes her sleeve over her eyes.

"He's gone." Stating it just weighs all the more heavily on her chest.

Dalton nods, eyes dimmed to the colour of dust. They sink downward, past her gaze. "He knew what he was doing." He visibly swallows. "Jaci went back for him."

Jaci too. Solitude has never felt quite like this to Sarielle, like a knife in her chest. Gratitude thrums with the warmth of the sun at Dalton's body still pressed against hers. All of a sudden, it really is the two of them against the world.

Gone. Both of them are gone.

"I should've..." She trails into nothingness. What could she have done? What is Sarielle Diraldi, meaninglessly important in name and heritage alone, against the world-ending power of magic and darkness and flame? Fiesi was the only one who could save them, and now the death he feared so much wells deep in the absence of his presence. And Nathan...

Nathan. A great fist takes hold of her chest, squeezing with unforgiving force. This is not Nathan's fault. She could scream that to the heavens and the stars until her voice shattered, but it doesn't change what happened. What is still happening, all around her, without any clear answer.

The castle's silence resonates still. She grits her teeth, looking down at the dim yellow-gold embroidering that etches out the shape of the bird on her chest, just visible beneath folds of her cloak's fur-lined cloth. "This is all so wrong."

The gentle autumn-leaf warmth of Dalton's touch skims her cheek. His fingers slide in to cup her chin. Startled, she lets him urge her head upward, her gaze leaping to his. He looks painfully dull in this muffled light, tan skin draped in ash, the copper in his hair stripped away to leave behind faded, ruffled brown, so far from all the colour he's painted with when out in the daylight. She wants to shake her head at such a silly, irrelevant thought, but it lingers even as she shoves it back. Steely determination shines in his expression, hard and focused as always despite the watery film to his eyes. His lips press a thin line.

His mouth splits open, then closes again, hesitant, cracks spiderwebbing through the hardened look. His gaze flits aside and back again. His hand releases her chin and snatches up her other hand instead, interlacing all of their fingers and tugging her in.

There's no words to accompany the action, but they simmer in the air all the same. At least we're together. At least I have you.

We'll be okay.

She lets out a slow, steady breath, nodding in time to the notion's pleasant tune. This is not a time to give in. Not when her hands sit in his, and not when Fiesi's sacrifice still hangs in shards of ice, not as an invitation to break down and mourn but a reason to keep going, to make it worthwhile. The tears slowly drain away, her heart's resounding thump continuing on.

"Nathan," she says, trying to string together her thoughts into coherence. "He's still in there somewhere. If we can free him from--"

Dalton shakes his head. "We can't."

She frowns. "Why not? We have to at least try."

His smile is strained, but he offers it. "We don't know what we're doing, Sarie." The barest laugh hangs off his words. "I'm not saying it's impossible, but we can't risk trying, not right now. First, we need to get out of here."

"And then we can go to the other Tía for help." Her voice emerges breathless. "They have to know something." Even a group as stuck up their own backsides has to see the urgency of this kind of situation, don't they? Even Gelani Kynig must see reason to act when his own son is dead.

Realisation tears a bitter breeze through hope's flickering candle. "Their solution will be to kill Nathan, not to save him."

"We can argue that case when we're safe." He holds her gaze, steady, reasonable. Anchor indeed. She bites her tongue, swallows the spiky fear and discontent, and simply nods.

"Of course. You're right."

Relief pours into his gaze like he'd been expecting her to fight back. It brings back his smile, and her heart warms, the candle burning bright. "Do you know of another way out of the castle?" he asks.

Her mind sprints over her internal map of the castle, rummaging through all her childhood memories, heartstrings twinging at the sound of her father's voice buried within them. There isn't time to save him, either, not until they have backup. "The basement passage," she settles on. "It was built as an escape route for King Cyneric and his family."

"And you can find it?"

"I think I can." Visual memory is where she's always excelled, and tainted as that will be by the collapsed part of the castle, she still has faith in it. "As long as the passage hasn't caved in," she adds with a wince.

"I'll take that chance." His eyes glitter warmly. "I do trust you, Sarie."

"I know." She smiles back, a small twitch of her lips, the brush of a butterfly's wing that dies away the moment she lets herself touch it. Bittersweetness leans more towards the former end of the word than she expected.

Dalton inclines his head, urging her to lead the way, and she obliges. The door creaks but holds firm as they slip through. He keeps a loose grip on her arm, steadying her as her injured leg wobbles her step. Darkness shrouds the hall, but there's enough cracks in the stone ceiling and leaking slits of windows to trickle in enough light to see by, and it's by that sliver of light that she orients herself. Perhaps the unfamiliarity of this region is a clue. When she lingers and draws back to properly map out the little cubby-hole rooms, the way they clutter in tight and close together, she realises that they've delved deep into the servant quarters. And if she's right, then they have a long way to go.

Dalton's hand intertwines with hers, and she stamps on the pushy pessimistic thought. A long way, but she knows the way, and they'll make it. Bracing herself for the spike in her leg's ache, she veers sideways and stumbles into a brisk half-jog, Dalton close in beside her to offer support.

Their uneven footsteps echo hollowly through the cavernous halls. She nudges a left and then a right turn, delicately weaving through each passage, heart beating in her throat. Dalton pauses them at every corner. He wards her back with a protective arm each time, stormy gaze sweeping the shadows, before he nods and guides her onward. They are codependent, reliance tying them together. It's an easy pattern to dance, a smooth, unbroken flow of movement, yet still a resentment for the gnawing ache in her leg builds in her chest. She itches to draw her sword. Her hands feel naked without it, but the increasing unsteadiness the pain grants her makes the risk too great.

The servant quarters slide away, and while the rooms become more spacious, the damage worsens. Cracks sprint over each stone brick, some of them gaping enough to trap several fingers. White-washed walls are crusted with bloodstains. Dust drifts in thick clouds, deepening the crawling sensation of decay and the cold, shivering fear that these corridors are a single breath from collapse. Every wall seems to groan and whimper. Debris litters the dirty tiles and torn-up carpets, spilled like a sea of forgotten toys discarded by a spoiled child.

As Sarielle picks her way over a fallen chandelier, wobbling as her aching feet edge too close to glinting shards of glass, another tide of grief wells up inside her. She makes it to the other side of the obstacle and claps a hand over her chest. Dust tickles her throat, mixing with the salty, ever-present tang of waiting tears.

Not yet, she tells herself, holding out a hand to aid Dalton as he traverses the same path. I can't cry yet. They're almost out by now. The throne room is only a matter of paces away, and if she's calculated this all correctly, their escape is hiding equally nearby.

Dalton reaches her, but gives her hand a reassuring squeeze rather than releasing it. "You alright?" he whispers.

The question in itself seems to pluck her heartstrings. She sucks in a sharp breath and nods, firmly, convincing herself. "We're almost there. Go left."

The left passage is narrow, strangely so amid the expansive corridor leading to the king's abandoned throne up ahead, and a swift dead end. It confuses Dalton. He stares at her, his faith battling his doubt, but she summons a confident smile to flash his way in return. Relief is a stream teetering above a waterfall. This has to be the right place, doesn't it? It has to be.

Breath held and chin tilted up, she strides up to the blank wall they face and feels along it, fingertips trailing a swirling pattern, the paintwork like a hoard of tiny smooth bumps gliding over her skin without result. A wooden panel slits the lower part of the wall in two. Tentative realisation hovering in the corner of her mind, she crouches down and lets her search drift to scan over the wood grains. Her forefinger pauses on a knot in the wood, and her smile returns, spilling sunshine within her.

"We're free," she whispers, and presses down.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

There's always time to casually be a Dalton simp, even when the world is crumbling apart around you. I'm sure Fiesi really appreciates that. Great mourning, Sarie. He's always wanted to watch you have a soft moment with your ex-boyfriend from beyond the grave.

- Pup