The Bloodstone Halls released us like a mouth spitting out something it had failed to chew.
Cold academy light struck my eyes first.
Then sound returned.
Boots on stone. Instructors shouting. A bell somewhere above the dungeon gate. Someone crying too loudly. Someone else trying not to. The first-floor exit chamber smelled of medicinal smoke, wet iron, and panic dressed in official language.
Excellent. Disaster remained punctual.
Nothing helped a near-death experience more than bureaucracy arriving with stretchers.
I stood because sitting would have made people ask whether Cedric Valdrake needed help. My left glove clung to my palm where the burns had reopened beneath the leather. Aether Leeches were dead. Bloodstone Brute was broken. Malcris's little soul-thread collar had shattered under Null Touch and poor judgment.
Correction Event #01 had also decided to learn grammar.
[CRITERION ACQUIRED: THE VILLAIN PROTECTS THE TEAM.]
That line had not vanished.
