They closed the distance quickly.
"Left," Elara called, her voice cutting cleanly through the chamber.
Raska broke right at once, claws flashing as she accelerated. The boy moved the opposite way, knives held low, boots skidding slightly on the damp stone. At the chamber's center, the cloaked figure did not move. His cloak barely stirred as he watched them come.
Elara struck first. Her sword descended in a precise overhead arc, steel humming as it cut the air. The figure shifted at the last instant—no more than a step—and the blade passed his shoulder close enough to stir the fabric of his cloak.
Raska followed through with her momentum, driving her fist toward his ribs. He turned into the blow and let it slide harmlessly along the armored edge beneath his cloak.
The boy lunged low, knife angled for the gap.
The figure's arm rose and struck.
The impact rang like a bell.
Metal clanged against metal, the sound echoing sharply through the chamber as the boy's feet left the ground. His body snapped backward, arms flailing, knives slipping from fingers gone numb. He struck the stone hard, dust bursting outward as he slid across the floor and came to rest near the far wall.
Ten meters away, he lay still, chest heaving, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls.
"Regroup!" Elara shouted.
The figure turned from the fallen boy, his movements unhurried, almost casual.
Raska came in low, claws raking in a tight arc. He stepped aside and let her momentum carry her past. Elara pressed immediately, her sword work tight and disciplined—slash, reset, thrust—steel singing as sparks leapt from near misses.
He did not block. He did not retreat.
Each adjustment was minimal: a shift of weight, a turn of the shoulder, just enough to let each attack pass within inches of his body.
Time seemed to stretch. Elara's breathing grew heavier. Raska's strikes widened, precision bleeding away.
The figure's head tilted.
His hand shot out and closed around Elara's descending blade.
Steel rang as the sword stopped dead in his grip. Elara pulled; the blade did not move.
He yanked.
Her balance broke. Before she could recover, his other hand caught Raska's extended arm mid-swing and dragged her in.
His knee rose.
The impact cracked through the chamber. Raska's head snapped back as her body lifted from the force, spinning once in midair before his boot struck her stomach and sent her flying. She hit the stone several meters away, rolled once, and came to rest near a collapsed pillar.
She growled, blood threading from her lip, and tried to rise. Her arms shook and gave out beneath her.
The boy pushed himself onto one knee, breath tearing painfully from his chest, legs refusing to hold him.
Elara stood alone.
She reset her stance, sword raised, guard tight, breathing controlled despite the tremor running through her arms. The figure waited.
She moved, committing fully to a horizontal slash.
He met it with his bare hand, the flat of her blade scraping across armored skin as he redirected the strike past him. His other arm followed through in the same motion, the back of his forearm catching her temple.
Her head snapped sideways. Her body followed.
Before she could fall, his boot drove into her chest. She struck the stone hard, armor shrieking as she rolled and came to rest on her side. Her hand reached for her sword, fingers brushing the hilt before slipping free.
He kicked it. The blade clattered across the floor.
She didn't rise.
The space she'd been holding simply emptied.
Silence settled over the chamber.
Three bodies lay scattered across the stone, all breathing—barely.
The cloaked figure stood at the center. He turned toward Elara and began to walk, each step measured, unhurried.
Raska forced herself upright with a rasping breath and charged, abandoning form entirely—only momentum and fury driving her forward.
He turned and caught her by the throat.
He lifted her with one hand. Her feet left the ground, legs kicking uselessly as her fingers clawed at his wrist, slipping against armor. Her shoulders jerked as her breathing thinned.
A shout tore from the boy as he staggered to his feet. His gaze dropped to the ground where Elara's pack lay, straps loosened, Phantom Vine visible within. He seized it and turned.
"Hey."
The word came out raw even as his legs shook beneath him.
The figure's head turned. His grip on Raska neither tightened nor loosened.
The boy raised the pack and shook it once. The vine shifted inside.
"You came for this, didn't you?"
The chamber seemed to hold its breath.
Behind him, the pit yawned—dark, deep, and endless. He swung his arm and released the pack. The strap snapped as it sailed into the darkness, the Phantom Vine spilling free before vanishing from sight.
Silence followed.
The boy met the figure's gaze.
"Hope you enjoy the dance party with Minotaurs."
Something shifted in the figure's posture—subtle, but unmistakable.
He threw Raska aside. She struck the stone and rolled, gasping, clutching her throat.
The figure turned fully toward the boy and advanced, no longer unhurried.
Fast.
"Right. I'm screwed. Why am I not surprised."
The boy stumbled back, one step, then another, stone scraping beneath his boots.
***