Michael was careful to keep his stride measured and silent.
Even with the spell broken, he couldn’t quite convince himself he was safe.
The two women he carried were dead weight against his shoulders, their shallow breathing the only sign they still clung to life.
Soon he stepped into the parking lot, but the sight he was met with made him pause.
Michael brows drew together.
He’d expected to see people regaining their consciousness but this wasn’t it.
What Michael was met with was bodies.
All lying motionless where they had stood.
Michael’s lips compressed to a thin line.
He shifted the dark elf slightly over his shoulder and walked forward with deliberate caution, his boots whispering over the cobbles.
Here and there, a low groan told him some still lived—trapped in the fog between sleep and waking.
He stopped by a man in a fine green robe whose cheek was pressed flat to the ground. There was no blood. No visible open wound.
But his chest did not rise.
Michael’s frown deepened.
He turned his head and scanned the parking lot again, more carefully this time.
And now he saw it: the subtle difference.
Some of these people were merely unconscious.
A memory immediately came to him, one of the second prince.
"If you die in the illusion, you die in truth."
Michael’s gaze swept the scene again, lingering on the lifeless shapes scattered across the flagstones.
So that was what had happened.
For a moment, Michael felt a twisted satisfaction that he had been right to force himself free—wrenching his mind back to reality with pain.
And he’d survived because of it.
A quiet exhale slipped past Michael’s lips.
"Rest in peace," he murmured, though there was no particular emotion behind the words.
He looked down at the women in his arms.
At least these two were alive.
He turned away from the rows of bodies and resumed walking.
Michael didn’t slow again until he reached the tall double doors of the auction house.
He shifted his grip on the women—adjusting Arianne’s weight in his arms and the dark elf across his shoulder—and stepped inside.
The air in the hall was thick with the faint scent of candle wax and cold stone.
Michael had barely taken three steps into the entry corridor when he felt it: a slight movement against his chest.
Michael looked down, just as the Duke’s daughter stirred weakly in his arms.
Arianne’s lashes fluttered, her expression tightening with confusion before her eyes finally opened. Her eyes were clear and alert despite the pallor of her face.
Michael could see the moment her thoughts caught up to reality.
Then, realization—her gaze darted to the dark elf draped over his shoulder, then back up to meet his.
And finally, an unmistakable flicker of mortified outrage.
"...why," she began, voice rough and soft all at once, "are you carrying me?"
Michael raised a brow, studying her calm but slightly flushed expression.
"You were unconscious," he said evenly. "Consider this a courtesy."
Arianne seemed about to argue, but she caught herself. Her eyes narrowed instead, searching his face for something she didn’t seem to find.
She exhaled shakily and turned her head away.
This was the first time she had been so close to a man aside from her father and brothers.
Worst part was he still hadn’t let her go.
Michael had no idea of what was going through Arianne’s mind because he felt a second movement.
This time, against his shoulder.
Michael turned his head slightly to look at the dark elf woman—Lyra.
Unlike Arianne, she did not stir or lift her head.
But her breathing had changed—steady, deliberate, controlled.
Michael studied her in silence, and he knew she’d been awake for longer than she let on.
She was still pretending, her eyes closed, her body limp.
Strange woman, he thought.
He didn’t bother calling her out.
It wasn’t as though she was a threat in her current state—and part of him suspected she simply didn’t know how to act yet.
After all, one day she’d been a free assassin.
The next, she’d failed her mission, been captured, enslaved, and purchased by a stranger who carried her around like baggage.
Even for someone trained to adapt, that was probably a lot to digest.
Michael resumed walking down the wide hall, boots echoing off the high ceilings.
It occurred to him, watching Arianne finally lift her head to take in their surroundings, that their gradual awakening told him something important.
That aside from pain, anyone freed from the illusion would, given time, regain consciousness naturally.
And judging by Lyra, it seemed the stronger someone was, the faster they woke—though there was clearly a limit to how much difference strength alone could make.
That was good to know.
He adjusted his grip one last time and made for the inner doors.
Michael had barely reached the threshold of the grand vestibule when Arianne drew a slow, steady breath.
"I’d...appreciate it," she said carefully, her voice cool and tight, "if you would set me down now."
He looked down at her flushed face, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall rather than meeting his gaze.
For a heartbeat, he simply stood there—struck by the belated realization that perhaps carrying a duke’s daughter around like a sack of flour wasn’t the most dignified arrangement.
He felt a flicker of something embarrassingly close to awkwardness—though his expression, mercifully, remained as impassive as carved stone.
"...Ah," he said finally. "Understood."
He bent at the knee, lowering her carefully until her boots touched the polished marble.
Arianne adjusted her cloth with a prim efficiency that suggested she was determined not to think too hard about any of this.
When she looked up, her gaze had sharpened.
"What happened, Sir Mic? I remember seeing myself in some sort of space. Wait, was that an illusion? Hmm. It must be, but...everything after that is a bit blank."