Regret has a habit of skittering to the surface, an insect with a nagging chitter, when it is least wanted. An uncomfortable scowl sets creases into Sarielle's face as she hauls herself through the jaws of a pair of stalactites, panting hoarsely for breath. Air is more dust than oxygen in here. She suffers through a cough, then hisses the air back in and keeps moving.

If only she'd asked Saiph how long this passage would take to traverse -- or, indeed, where it actually leads. Crawling blindly into the unknown feels far less glamorous and exciting than it did at the beginning. The memory of green flame carries spiderweb trails of resentment. Tender white flakes of skin engulf her right arm, knitted by lines of dried blood, and agony flares as sharp as thorns whenever she dares even twitch a blistered finger. As she wriggles through a tighter section now, the wound nicks a jut of rock, and she blinks back a rush of tears. Perhaps what she should've asked Saiph is why exactly it was necessary to fry an entire limb without warning.

With a tight sigh, she shakes her head. Such questions have no place now. All she has to cling to now is the desire to make it out, to keep pressing on, despite the rips in her skirt or how much the deepening grazes on her thighs and left elbow sting. The falcon feather caught between her fingers is her personal ray of hope, and she carries on because of it.

Several more tedious minutes drag by before the passage grows a little wider. Carefully, she pulls her knees in and shifts around, bit by bit, until her shoulders rest against one wall and she curls haphazardly into the alcove. Her usable hand dives into her pocket. What began as a distant ache in her stomach has risen to a growl, persistent and difficult to ignore. Gratitude floods her as her fingers snag a hard, oaty square; she draws it out and bites a corner off, chewing slowly. She ventured into Polevis's castle with three of the ration squares. This is her last one. It sticks to her throat as she swallows, a warning taste wrapping it.

Moisture drips from the ceiling onto her lip. Her tongue snaps out to capture it, the morsel of cool water soon soaked up by her dusty mouth. She finishes the last of her food, then digs for her water skin, shaking a last sip out of it as its flexible material flattens beneath her hasty fist. She tries not to think too hard as she stuffs the empty container back into her pocket and squirms into the next section of the passage.

Rationing was hard when it began. She remembers those first few weeks as a soldier well: missing home, missing her father, missing the ease of filling feasts and a soft bed, tongue bitten until it was sore for how desperate she was not to admit it. She felt like a fraud. The others in her regiment looked at her like they agreed, much as she eventually found her place amongst them. Even Dalton, for all his polite gestures and smiles, had some bitter storm lurking beyond his gaze within those first few glances. So much has changed since then that Sarielle can barely believe it. They used to label her princess, and now her sword sheath rakes along toothed rock, dragged like a stiff, loyal serpent, more a part of her than royal dresses and banquets ever were.

But not all of her, surely? She never hated the dresses, tolerated the ceremonies only as much as her father did. She was never a princess, but her heart swells with longing for the return of that life all the same.

It occurs to her that -- if this tunnel, this ordeal, this war, any of this has any kind of end -- she doesn't quite know where she wants her path to lead next. Who is she now? It's harder to work out with every moment that passes. The world is so big and complex. It feels somewhat limiting to live out only one role within it.

Crook of her arm aimed at the shadows and feather caught in her teeth, she levers herself up and down a bump in the passage, shaking the rain-shower of thought off until it puddles in the back corner of her mind. Later. In the present moment, Sarielle knows what she is: explorer, fighter, perseverer. Rescuer. Hopefully, rescuer. Prayers sweep like dunes of glittering sand through her chest, hard to catch, scratchy and gritty to the touch, yet clouding every inch of her.

The passage abruptly drops away.

With a yelp, Sarielle catches herself, hands braced on what is suddenly the lip of a sharp ledge. She peers out, lifting her head to cast emerald light over the new discovery. It's a corridor -- a wider, more normal corridor, though similarly abandoned. The bare-rock floor is perhaps two and a half times her height below, far enough to be dizzying when viewed in only dim-lit rings but not so far that the fear is paralysing. It's an ocean wave, rough and frothy but possible to ride out.

Once the surprise settles, she inches forward, ledge digging into her chest, then throws her legs around. With a complex bit of shifting and a lot of wincing as her burns brush up against the passage's sides, she's able to roll onto her stomach. Her legs kick outward and dangle over the edge. Bracing herself, she wriggles backward, gripping the ledge with her good hand.

More of her weight tips over. Her arm's strain doesn't last long; the moment her chest drops into free air, her fingers slip, palm scraping over the sharply-cut stone, and she's tumbling into emptiness.

Her stomach flips, though thankfully the drop isn't far enough for panic to truly begin to whir. Her feet hit the ground before she's fully processed it. On instinct, her knees bend to take the momentum, though the bones in her calves still jar enough to flash lightning rods of pain. She stumbles into the wall and holds herself there for a minute, breathing in and out, steadily calming the loose threads of adrenaline tickling her senses.

The thudding of her heart rises to the fore. Wariness snaps sharply to life, and she whirls around, snatching the feather from her mouth to wave it at the shadows. Her right hand flits close to her sword hilt and away again. She can't fight. That realisation pounds hot and heavy, floating to the very top of her head in reeling, misty form. She can't hold her sword, not when her right hand is practically unusable. She never trained with her left.

Her jaw sets. Another thing to regret. Perhaps that's one goal she can set herself for if and when this all ends.

For now, though, the helplessness buzzes around her. The shadows reveal no hidden figures, not even when she parts from the wall and ventures to the right, but continued tension is sewn into every muscle. There's a room that opens out at this shady corridor's end. A small room, boxy, unfurnished. What were these halls built for? Does her father even know about this undiscovered, underground pocket of the castle? Unheeded curiosity stirs in her gut, swirling with a call to adventure she can never quite resist. She steps inside and casts her summer-leaf light.

It glints off the curved metal bars of a cage.

Her gasp snags in her throat. A thick chain binds the cage to a loop locked into the ceiling, lifting it so that it sways minutely in mid-air, about level with her waist. And there's the bundled shape of a person inside, unmoving and half-concealed by the bars.

Tugging her cloak tighter over her chest to stave off the stale cold, Sarielle approaches, heart in her throat. The tap of her boots fill the otherwise muggy silence, light and hesitant. She darts a glance over her shoulder. Still no-one. She'd think this was merely a tomb for a forgotten corpse if not for the faint, barely perceptible sound of breathing, juddering slow but steady, clearly separate from her own.

Dark red coats grey rags. Pale skin is visible beneath, ashy and sickly. Messy brown hair, ruffled, sticking up at all angles--

Her eyes shoot wide. "Fiesi."

Fiesi whines softly, shifting. Blood-speckled fingers claw dazedly at the cage's floor, fisting air. His eyes squeeze tighter shut. His face is more dirt and dust than skin, though his skin itself is like death.

Desperation performs a spinning dance with relief in Sarielle's chest. Her hand won't quite fit through the bars, so she grabs one and shakes it, the chain above rattling as the cage is hauled into motion. "Fiesi. Fiesi, wake up."

His breath catches, its pattern adjusting. "I can't," he mumbles. "I..." His tongue slips into whispered incoherence.

The sound of his void nearly springs tears to her eyes, scratchy and fading as it sounds. She scans the room's entrance again, feather whirling to provide her light, then risks raising her voice. "Fiesi. It's me."

His eyes blink open. They're bloodshot, and they shine with fear as he cringes away, hand shoving weakly up against his ear. The other pushes at the floor next to him to twist him around. His gaze locks onto hers, and his expression clears. "Sarielle."

The tears do come then, pricking their way free as her lips curl a smile in spite of them. Cast in green light and squinting through it, he looks terrible, but the azure glow in his gaze is the same as ever. Her left hand wrestles through the bars, feather dropping from her fingers as they stretch out. "You're alive," she breathes.

His throat bobs. "Yeah." There's a dizzy kind of confusion written into his face. His eyes slip downward in evasion, yet he sits up, reaching out to clasp her offered fingers. His touch is shaky and hesitant, and his hand is freezing -- so different to the warmth he usually exudes. A shallow exhale shudders out. "You shouldn't be here. You were supposed to..." His gaze snags on the feather, and his words trail away. He blinks, hard.

"It's a long story." She wipes her eyes, composing herself, then grabs the feather, holding it high as she steps back. Her gaze roams the edges of the cage, mind racing. "First, I need to get you out of here."

At least the cold of this place is soothing to her burns. A relieving numbness has crept from her tense fingers to every patch of skin the fire ate through, sharpening her awareness and clearing the webbed stickiness from her thoughts. Those bars are thin, perhaps no wider than two thumbs stuck together. With enough force...

Fiesi's leg bounces beyond them. "Why didn't you run?"

"I tried," she admits, venturing forward again to run a couple fingers over the wiry cylinders. "But I'm glad I didn't succeed."

"You should run now." He squirms, all wincing anxiety, flame-lit gaze piercing every green shadow. One hand retreats inward to fist the bloodsoaked material loosely covering his stomach. "He could be back any moment. I-I don't know what he'll do to you." His frantic, unfocused glances finally land on her. "There's no way out of this for me, but there is for you. Just go." He chokes on the final syllable. His lips press hard together, trembling.

Disbelief nearly stutters a laugh from Sarielle. A wry smile tugs into place instead as she watches him, still infinitely glad to hear him say anything at all. She hasn't realised how deep the quiet ache of his absence has been until now. "Now's not the time to get all self-sacrificial on me, Fiesi," she says, lingering humour clashing with a sterner edge that leaks out. "You did that once already. I'm not leaving you again." Making her choice, she grasps a bar with her good hand, calculating the distance between the cage and its furthest wall. "Get hold of something."

"Get..." His frown screws his nose. He twitches, limbs retreating further into his core. "What?"

The cage is lighter than Sarielle is expecting, but still heavy enough to make pulling it one-handed a chore. She takes three large, steady paces backward, dragging it along with her. In the midst of the second, Fiesi catches on. He yelps, diving to the side to grab hold of a bar in each hand, though it isn't enough of an anchor to prevent his feet from sliding with the sudden slope. "Wait, what are you--"

With a parting shove, she lets go.

The cage flies, juddering gracelessly as it picks up speed, the chain creaking, until it crashes noisily into the far wall. Metal clanks and splinters. The prison spirals away in uneven recoil, rocking like a boat cast adrift. Fiesi still clings to one side, panting hard, face white. Sarielle captures it and drags it backward again before either has a chance to recover.

"Sarie, stop," Fiesi starts to say, but he hasn't seen what she has. A beautifully promising dent cuts into the bars. Giddy smile bubbling to the surface, she pushes again.

It takes a further repetition of the ordeal before something truly breaks, though it isn't exactly what she's aiming for. The chain snaps, and the cage plummets downward, tipping in its descent so that it lands with a crunching thud on its side. Fiesi sprawls across the bars. His eyes are closed. Delight winking out in favour of fluttering worry, Sarielle races over, peering desperately inside. "Fiesi! Are you okay?"

A twitch, frown rippling through his expression, and then his eyes open. A cut splits his chin where he must've banged it. He hisses out a soft, "Ow." Accusation steadily draws his eyebrows in as he lifts his head. "Some warning would've been nice?"

"That ruins the surprise," she replies with a wink.

He rolls his eyes, wiping the blood from his chin as a few licks of blue fire emerge to seal the wound. Pain remains prominent in his gaze regardless. He grasps the bars beneath him and pushes up, arms quivering like they're made of brittle winter twigs. His jaw clenches. "Please tell me it at least had a purpose and you haven't gone crazy."

She casts light over the now upper part of the cage, and pride sighs in her chest. "I can't speak for crazy, but it had a purpose."

"And will you--ow!" Fiesi's left arm slips, his elbow clanging against metal. He shoots a spiteful glare upwards, though the aimless malice in it is quick to fade. "Oh."

The dent has widened to a crack, one forceful enough to cut right through three of the bars. A fourth loops in at an alarmingly flexible angle. Significant damage as it is, it's not an escape route, not yet. Sarielle paces over to it and leans over, pushing at one of the broken bars. It isn't going to budge with her weak, one-handed effort. Perhaps a few kicks might shift it? She scans the cage, trying to work out how she might climb atop it.

"I'll do it." Fiesi's voice breaks through a wheeze, diminishing it to a scraping whisper. He flops onto his back, arms braced behind him, and pauses to suck in a shuddering inhale. Sweat glistens on his forehead. His hand finds his stomach again, though he seems to flinch at his own touch.

"Are you hurt?" The question seems painfully dim of her the moment it trips from her tongue.

He flashes her a grim smile, the mockery she expects dulled to almost nothing. "Just a little." Dark, sour fear snaps and pops in his movements like an aura. "I'll... ah, survive."

His furrowed expression betrays more thoughts he isn't sharing. Giving his head a sharp shake, he resumes attempting to stand, and she bites off any more questions. Concern sloshes in her stomach at the sight of him so visibly weak. It doesn't feel right. Does Nathan -- Shaula -- hold so much power that Fiesi's magic is practically nothing? Where is the fairness in that?

Her gut twists. Perhaps what really, truly, scares her is where she sits in that hierarchy. Even a tiny taste of fire felt like liquid agony, one more drop primed to render her dead. What can she do?

Fight, she reminds herself. I can always fight. I can't stop now.

Her burned fingers flex. Having faith in fighting, in rebellion and its eternal justice, would be easier if she could clasp the hilt of her sword.

Fiesi balances with the finesse of a newborn foal atop the sideways bars. His feet are bare, and his toes wriggle and curl uselessly, rocking from side to side as his arms fly out. Tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, he eyes the broken bar above his head, then lunges upward and snatches it. Blue flames blaze along his forearm, mirrored in his eyes. He yanks, his lip curling back and muscles trembling as the bar slowly, slowly, bends.

"So," he says through gritted teeth, voice straining, "do I get to know why you're carrying around green flame? We're not secretly related, are we?"

"Definitely not," Sarielle says with a chuckle, though the sound is chipped at by wariness. She looks around again, but still the shadows are flat and unfilled, hiding no lurking figures. She turns the feather over in her fingers. "Do you... know of a white falcon named Saiph?"

Fiesi's fingers slip. He stumbles, just catching hold of a bar to stop himself from toppling over. He meets her eyes wildly. "Saiph?"

She nods, curious.

"She's actually..." His fingers bury in his hair, muddy strands grazing his forehead as he shakes them. "Stars, I can't think." He stretches the hand up instead, straining to reach the hole he's created. "Help me out?"

"Of course." Leaning over, she scrambles to snatch up his hand, and together they work to haul him through. It's a slow, strenuous process; aches squeeze the muscles in her arm and pull sharply on her shoulder, claw-nailed fingers jabbing at the joints, but finally Fiesi gets his upper torso up through the hole and is able to drag his way out. He half-crawls, half-slides down the cage's outer side and lands in a crumpled heap on the floor, panting heavily, a dark red stripe painted over the bars marking his escape route. Sarielle tries not to look too closely at it, though her heart pounds. Is he still bleeding?

With visible effort, he rolls onto his back, gaze unfocused. "Sweet freedom," he murmurs. His hand lifts and waves vaguely in her direction. She catches on a moment later than she should, but eventually hurries over to pull him to his feet. He sways, flashes her a grin, and then falls face-first into her chest.

Letting out a noise of exclamation, she works hard to catch him. At least he's not as heavy as she might have expected. His arms clumsily wrap her in something close to an embrace. He shivers out a sigh, face burying in her cloak's fur padding. "Oh, you're warm." His voice slurs, wordless and content, drifting.

She shoulders him awake. "Come on." Impatient desperation tangles in her chest, and she bites the inside of her cheek. "Here, I'll carry--"

"No! No." Hastily, he shoves himself off her before she can adjust her grip on him, staggering back into the broken cage. His hand snaps out to catch him on a bar. "I can walk. Lead on." His chin jerks in a random direction not quite aimed at the exit.

She stares at him for a second, sighs, then swiftly slings her good arm around his shoulders, guiding him towards the path she arrived through. His squawk of protest is quick to fade. His weight leans into her.

"Thanks," he mumbles.

"Just keep hold of me," she says, pulling him through the exit. She threads the falcon feather from her fingers to his, inviting him to hold it aloft, illuminating the rings of darkness that pool ahead of them in the passage. "Do you know the way out of here?"

He stumbles, green flame flickering as his feet drag, and casts a wide, incredulous gaze her way. "You don't?"

"Not one that's easy." She isn't sure she can manage fighting her way through that tiny tunnel again, much less dragging an injured Fiesi with her. She forces their pace to increase, biting back a sigh, panic clenched firmly somewhere deep and ordered not to rise. "We'll find a way."

"That doesn't sound incredibly promising." His voice wavers.

She pauses, glancing around the curve of a corner, then nudges him into the turn. The shadows toy with the edges of her vision, swimming in and out. They feel eerily bottomless, but still she marches ahead into their chilling embrace. If Saiph urged her to come this way to save Fiesi, then there has to be a way out, doesn't there? Baffling as it feels to hang all her hope on a magical falcon, it springs a smile to her face.

She listens to the steady wheeze of Fiesi's breath, the uneven tap of his feet, the faint, shifting warmth of his body pressed against hers. The feeling of another determined heartbeat set alongside her own. "A little promise is all I need."

"Do I hear a little songbird dare talk of promise?"

Fiesi's breathing cuts out. Sarielle's gasp rushes in to fill the silence. Her gaze whirls over her shoulder, searching.

"Bold of her, considering the futility of her fragile, silly little promises."

Nathan's voice has an unsettling prance to it, a song-like texture, and it dances cold claws up her spine. It's wrong. Everything about it sounds utterly wrong, so imperfectly him. Her heart squeezes. Her gaze scans for him, desperate, but the pillars of darkness are his loyal soldiers. He remains hidden.

In a chaotic surge, Fiesi's tight, breathless quiet is replaced by an almost choking pant, seething in and out, panic sprawling from his jittery grip on her. The light he clutches swings wildly as his hands claw their way to her side, yanking on her tunic. Flinching, she turns and finds his gaze pinning hers, eyes wide as silver coins.

"Come on, Sarie," he begs, chest heaving rapidly in and out. His feet nearly slide from underneath him as he jerks backward before he dizzily rights himself. "We need to run. We need to..." The words run out of air and collapse in on themselves, but the fear in his expression is brighter than any she's seen.

It takes all her effort to shake her head. She will not run, not this time, and she conveys that with a hard stare, compiling all the forceful calm she can into the look. It has no effect.

If anything, he worsens. His eyes glint teal in the flecks of green light, tears welling in their corners. "Please."

Teeth trapping her tongue, she wraps a protective arm over his shoulders, pulling him against her as she scans the shadows. Her voice sticks to itself. She peels it apart carefully, burns smarting and pain running rings around the joints of her fingers, right hand open with the will to have her sword sit in it. Vulnerability is a prowling predator, rustling imagined undergrowth as it paces its circle around them. She guesses her shakes are Fiesi's and not her own, yet it doesn't make her feel any less unstable, her feet not quite firm enough on the ground.

"It'll be okay," she whispers to Fiesi, then raises her voice, chin lifting to summon some scrap of nonexistent confidence. "Is that you, Nathan?"

The rippling echoes of Nathan's chuckle are louder than the sound itself. He steps out as if from between curtains of the void, carrying a poise and precision of step that suits him only in a jarring, unfamiliar way. Thin midnight-black cloth drapes him in a cloak, shimmering dress-length tunic, everything. Even his fingers hide within strands of dark fire, and his face is dotted with black markings, too large to be freckles. His hair fans out like a dark mane. He runs his hand through it, combing it back from his face.

"Nathan," he muses, rolling the name over his tongue. White fangs flash as he curls his lip. He wags a finger. "You, you made a promise to Nathan once. You promised to return. You vowed to deliver his freedom." He spreads his hands in a grand gesture, smile too sharp to reach his eyes. "Unfortunate that, in the end, freedom is something I had to find for myself. What does that say about you and your little promises, songbird?"

Something about that strange nickname laboured over by his voice, held steady as if it carries some heavy meaning, pricks at her heart. Pincers crawl over her skin, leaving her itchy. In her arms, Fiesi twists, feather still pulsing out flickers of light where he clutches it close to his chest.

She sets her jaw. "I'm not going to do this. We've made our peace and said our apologies. You know that." She swallows, hard. "This isn't you, Nathan. I won't argue with you in this state, nor will I fight you."

Nathan's smile drops into a scowl. He steps closer, three paces away, two, light bouncing off his papery skin. "This... state?" He speaks the word as if it disgusts him, spitting it free like an unwanted toy tossed over a cliff. Hissing flame twines his arms. "I'm free, songbird. I'm finally free. That upsets you?"

Upset is the least of it. The twisted anger in his voice is sandpaper, the fangs that don't belong sunk into her heart. She pins him with a desperate stare. "This isn't--"

"Shh." In a flash, his finger -- calloused and bitterly cold as ice -- presses to her lips, squashing her protest. Fear thrashes through her at his touch. Her burns scream, but she's rigid, stuck waiting until he peels it away, still trapped in her own tense knot of strings at how close he remains. His gaze roams her jawline with animalistic intent, a grin cracking his face once more. "You are right. Our arguments dance circles." The black ring encircling his eye has a leathery texture, and it twinkles, shining ebony and twisted her way as he turns his head. "It is time," he calls into the darkness, as if issuing a command.

Stiffly, Sarielle follows his gaze. Someone else moves in the shadows. Two people, one guiding the other, clarity gracing their features in dust as they draw nearer. One shoving the other, rather. A prisoner.

His hands are bound behind his back. He staggers under a rough push, and a stroke of light cuts across his face.

A shock so sweet shouldn't have such a dreadful aftertaste.

Shaky fingers tug again at her side. Fiesi, squirming against her supporting hold on her, fighting with the weak haste of a claustrophobic dog trapped indoors. His whisper is nothing more than a whine in her ears, all but drowned out.

"Father," she breathes.

Her father's hair is the colour of damp sand, hanging limply in his face. A narrow gash burrows in amongst it, winding precisely from his forehead. His formerly neat waistcoat is shreds. Horribly dark, ill-coloured stains blotch it. His eyes are half-lidded and downturned. It deflates her lungs to see their hazy focus struggle to lift, stumbling over each angle before they find her face.

A mirror image of her own feelings splash across his face. Wide eyes, a too-fleeting smile crumbled into blunt surprise, pain etched into every nook and cranny.

Nathan's steady nod gradually enters her awareness, chin dipping with a self-assured pride, an acknowledgement of a correctness only he can see. "Yes," he says, thoughtful. "I think this will better prove my point."

At her side, Fiesi ducks free of her relaxed hold, and emptiness billows numbly in his wake.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Hooray, they reunite!! And almost succeeded in prison break but also completely failed.  Rip.

Considering how many times I've imagined the scenes I'm getting to now, it's kind of funny how much I'm just demolishing my outline. This chapter is nothing like I planned but hey, hopefully it's better this way. Maybe, idk. You should probably know to expect messy first-draft plots from me by now.

- Pup