Chapter 409 -409 Escape
It was just an instinctive command, born from the haze of urgency.
But what happened next made Michael seriously wonder if, should his undead ever turn against him, it would simply be the end of him.
It felt like Thor’s hammer had slammed straight into his stomach.
His entire world lurched.
For a split second, every sense—sight, sound, touch—fractured into white-hot shards of pain. His vision exploded into a wash of blinding light. His breath fled his lungs in a hoarse, strangled gasp.
The illusion collapsed.
Michael’s awareness snapped back to his body so abruptly he nearly vomited. He barely registered the cold stone floor beneath him as he doubled over, retching dryly.
The real floor. The real air.
Gasping, he forced his head up.
His hand was clutched to his abdomen where Spartan had struck him—and even through the agony, part of him noted with grim gratitude that the armored undead had shown restraint.
If that was restraint.
Because if there’d been even a hint more force behind the blow, he wasn’t sure he’d be alive to appreciate it.
And, he realized, painfully sucking in air—he wouldn’t have to endure another strike.
In the illusion space, the moment Michael’s awareness left, something subtle shifted in the atmosphere.
The second prince’s eyes snapped to the empty space where Michael had stood a heartbeat before. His pupils contracted, just slightly, and then he let out a slow exhale through his nose.
“…Well,” he murmured. “It appears he found his own way out.”
A Marquis’s mouth fell open. “What….what just happened?”
The Count, who had been gripping his own arms as though to reassure himself he was still real, looked around wildly. “Did he…..did he die?”
“No.” The prince’s tone was as cold and precise as ever. “If he had, the illusion would have reacted differently. That was a severance. A clean one.”
He glanced at the Duke, whose face was momentarily blank with shock.
“He succeeded,” the prince continued quietly. “He managed to forcibly reassert his awareness. Which means…”
The Duke’s eyes regained focus, and for the first time since the illusion had begun, there was a glint of something like hope in them.
“But how?” another Marquis demanded. “He was here one moment—and the next—”
“He was not,” the prince said flatly. “Which tells us he leveraged the tether we sensed earlier. He must have had…some means of applying stimulus to his body.”
The Count swallowed. “But we don’t.”
At last, one of the marquises shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting between the empty space where Michael had vanished and the second prince’s impassive face.
“…If he escaped,” the marquis said slowly, “perhaps he will attempt to free us as well.”
His tone carried a thin thread of hope, but it was hesitant and uncertain.
The prince’s eyes flickered to him.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I wouldn’t wager your life on it.”
“You don’t think he will?”
“I think,” the prince replied, voice cool and flat, “that any man with sense will use his freedom to ensure his own survival first. And if he has that much sense…he will stay far away from this place.”
He looked back at the tunnels, his gaze distant again.
Duke Evermoon finally exhaled a long, quiet breath. Even he, who had more cause than the rest to believe Michael might help them, did not look convinced.
Their connection was…cordial, yes. But brief.
It couldn’t be said to be strong at all.
Though no one said it aloud, every man in that space was thinking the same thing.
If he chose not to help, but instead to strike at them while their bodies were unguarded and defenseless…
It would be so very easy.
They were all powerful, respected men, yes—but here, caught in this trap, they were nothing but prizes waiting to be claimed.
Eventually, the second prince drew in a measured breath and straightened, as if to banish any further speculation. His gaze swept across the group, steady and authoritative.
“Enough,” he said quietly. “Whatever he intends, we can do nothing about it from here. And speculation will not get us free.”
He turned back to the seven tunnels that waited in the gloom.
“We proceed as discussed,” he continued. “There is no guarantee that standing still will spare us. If this is a contest of progress, then delay only benefits our enemies.”
One of the marquises looked reluctant. “Splitting up—”
“—is our best chance,” the prince cut in firmly. “We must cover ground quickly. No fewer than two in each group. Should one fall behind or become compromised, the other may relay warnings or attempt rescue.”
He paused, as if daring them to protest. When no one did, he inclined his head.
He gestured to the tunnels—three on the left, four on the right.
“Duke Evermoon,” he said, voice measured, “you will accompany me.”
The old duke nodded slowly. Of all of them, he looked the least surprised to be chosen.
“The rest of you—pair yourselves as you see fit,” the prince continued.
Michael did not linger on the floor long. He couldn’t afford to.
He forced himself upright, one hand still clutched to his bruised abdomen. His vision pulsed in and out of clarity as he drew slow, ragged breaths.
Arianne and Lyra were still behind him.
They were both still standing exactly where he’d left them, eyes open but vacant—staring at nothing.
Michael’s jaw tightened. He straightened fully, ignoring the tremor in his muscles, and lifted a hand to Spartan.
“Carry the elf,” he ordered, voice hoarse. “I’ll take the girl.”
Spartan bowed silently and moved to obey.
Michael did not wait to see it done. He made his way and bent over Arianne, one arm sliding beneath her knees, the other supporting her shoulders. She did not react as he lifted her—she didn’t even blink.