—JAY—

  "You're not going to abandon a damsel in distress, are you?" The words, laced with a familiar, mocking drawl, came from Lyra's cell. The self-proclaimed witch.

  Before I could even formulate a suitably cutting reply – something along the lines of "damsels who offer nothing but sarcasm aren't high on my priority list" – D was already plastered against her bars, practically vibrating.

  "Of course not!" he chirped, his voice far too loud for our current clandestine operation. "You're coming with us, right Jay? We can't just leave her!" He looked at me with those wide, pleading puppy-dog eyes that usually preceded some monumentally stupid decision on his part.

  Damn it. I should have freed Z first. Less moral quandaries.

  Click.

  Z’s lock gave way. He shuffled out of his cell with all the enthusiasm of a man being led to his own execution, which, arguably, was still a distinct possibility for all of us. He blinked owlishly in the dim corridor.

  "We don't have time for this," I hissed, keeping my voice low. My gaze flicked towards the small, barred window at the end of the corridor. The faintest hint of pre-dawn grey was beginning to tint the oppressive blackness. "A couple of hours, at most, before this whole town is stirring."

  "But Jay, she could help us!" D insisted, still fixated on Lyra. "She knows this place! And… and it’s the right thing to do!"

  "The 'right thing to do'," I countered, my patience fraying, "is to get ourselves out of this fortified town before that 'Mystic Sword' arrives and decides to use our intestines as party streamers. Adding another unknown variable, a self-confessed witch with a clear disdain for authority and a penchant for insults, is not strategically sound."

  "Hey! I'm right here, you condescending prick," Lyra snapped from her cell. "And for your information, this 'unknown variable' might be the only reason you three nitwits don't end up decorating the town square."

  She pushed herself off the bars, her eyes glinting in the gloom. "Look, it's painfully obvious you three wouldn't know a goblin from a garden gnome if it bit you on the arse. You're clueless about this world. This town, Oakhaven? It's a border fortress. Constantly on edge with Elbaria. The guards here are trigger-happy, and the walls are thick. You try to waltz out of here on your own, and you'll be caught before you can say 'stupid plan'."

  She paused, letting her words sink in. "I, on the other hand, grew up in the cracks of this town. I know the blind spots. The quiet alleys. The ways out that aren't on any map. You get me out of this cage, and I'll guide you out of Oakhaven. Deal?"

  D looked at me, his face alight with a triumphant 'I told you so' expression. Z just looked resigned, which was his default state for 'agreement'.

  I weighed the options. Her assessment of our chances was, unfortunately, accurate. My knowledge of medieval siege tactics was rusty, and my ability to navigate a hostile, unfamiliar town was non-existent. Lyra, despite her abrasive personality, represented a tangible asset. A risky one, but an asset nonetheless.

  With a sigh that conveyed the full depth of my reluctance, I knelt before Lyra's cell door. The bone pick, Z's unfortunate contribution, felt slick in my hand. "Fine. But if you try anything, I'll leave you for the wolves. Or whatever local equivalent passes for summary justice."

  "Wouldn't dream of it, handsome," she purred, though her eyes held no warmth.

  Working on her lock was marginally easier. My fingers, though clumsy, had gained some familiarity with the crude mechanism from my own. Twenty minutes, by my internal, stress-fueled clock, and her lock clicked open. She slipped out, nimble and quiet, a predatory grace to her movements that was unsettling.

  "Alright, geniuses," she whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Follow me. And try not to breathe too loud."

  The escape itself was a nerve-shredding exercise in controlled panic. We moved like ghosts through the sleeping underbelly of the jail. Lyra led, her bare feet making almost no sound on the cold stone. I followed, then D, with Z bringing up the rear, a silent, shambling shadow.

  The main corridor was blessedly empty. We crept past the jailer's office – a small, messy room where a single candle guttered, illuminating a snoring, pot-bellied figure slumped over a table, an empty wine flagon beside his hand. My heart hammered against my ribs with every creak of a floorboard, every distant cough. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, unwashed bodies, and a palpable tension that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  We reached the outer door, a heavy, iron-banded affair. Lyra examined the bolts, her brow furrowed. "This one's trickier. Internal latch, probably barred from the outside too, but maybe…"

  "No need."

  The voice came from behind us. Cold. Alert.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  We froze.

  Slowly, I turned. A single guard stood at the end of the corridor, the one we’d hoped to avoid – young, reedy, but with a spear held at the ready and eyes wide with alarm. He hadn't been there moments ago. He must have been on a roving patrol.

  Our luck had just run out.

  D made a small, whimpering sound. Z looked like he was already composing his own eulogy. Lyra tensed, her hand inching towards a loose stone on the floor.

  There was no time for a fight. No time for a complex plan. My mind raced, searching for an out, any out. Surrender meant certain failure, likely torture.

  Desperation, raw and potent, surged through me. An idea, utterly insane, utterly improbable, clawed its way to the forefront of my mind. It was a hail Mary, a shot in the darkest of nights.

  I met the guard's gaze. I forced my voice to be calm, authoritative, almost… soothing.

  "You haven't seen anything," I said, my tone even, compelling. "You're dreaming, soldier. A pleasant dream. Now, turn around, go back to your post, and think about the warm bed and the buxom serving wench waiting for you at home."

  Silence. The guard blinked. His spearpoint wavered.

  D stared at me like I'd sprouted tentacles. Lyra's jaw had dropped. Even Z looked momentarily perplexed.

  Then, to my utter, profound astonishment, the guard’s eyes unfocused slightly. A slow, almost blissful smile spread across his face. "Buxom… wench…" he mumbled, his voice suddenly thick and drowsy. He nodded slowly. "Yeah… home."

  He turned, still smiling vaguely, and shuffled back down the corridor, disappearing around the corner.

  I stared after him, my own mind reeling. What in the actual hell?

  Then, the familiar, almost unwelcome ding and the shimmering text in my vision.

  [Passive Skill Activated: Serpent's Tongue]

  [Once per day, you may issue a single, simple verbal command to a target of lesser or equal willpower. The target will perceive the command as their own deeply held desire or logical course of action, provided the command does not directly and immediately endanger their life. Success is not guaranteed against strong-willed individuals or those under duress. Attempts to abuse this ability may lead to unforeseen and detrimental consequences.]

  "Holy crap," D whispered, his eyes wide as saucers. "That was… amazing! You just Jedi mind-tricked him! Dude, that's so OP! When do I get my awesome passive skill?"

  I ignored him, still trying to process the implications.

  'Serpent's Tongue.'

  It was… useful. Disturbingly so. The potential for misuse was enormous. The warning about 'detrimental consequences' was also noted.

  This System wasn't just handing out party favors.

  But how had I known my desperate trick was going to work?

  I hadn’t.

  I just… felt it. As if something—or someone—had whispered to me.

  Z’s skill had appeared when he needed it most. And now mine had, too.

  How? Why?

  Shit.

  We knew too little about how this world worked—and even less about how its game mechanics were affecting us.

  "Less gawking, more escaping," Lyra hissed, already working on the outer door's latch. "That farmboy's trance won't last forever."

  She was right. The brief, surreal interlude was over. We were still in mortal danger.

  Lyra managed the outer door with surprising ease, her fingers deft.

  Fuck.

  Maybe we should’ve given her the lockpick bone in the first place.

  We slipped out into the pre-dawn gloom of a narrow, refuse-strewn alleyway. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Freedom. Or at least, the illusion of it.

  "This way," Lyra whispered, darting ahead. "Stay in the shadows. The walls are thinnest on the western side, near the old tannery. Less patrols there too, usually."

  She led us through a labyrinth of sleeping buildings, over rickety fences, and across deserted courtyards. My senses were screaming, every shadow a potential threat, every distant dog bark a prelude to discovery. D kept stumbling, true to form, but thankfully, his clumsiness was mostly silent. Z just… endured, a wraith gliding in our wake.

  We reached what Lyra called the "Old Tannery," a collection of dilapidated wooden structures reeking of chemicals and decay, pressed up against the town's outer palisade. The log wall here did look less maintained, some of the timbers visibly rotting.

  "There," Lyra pointed to a section where the logs seemed to sag, a narrow gap visible near the base. "It's tight, but we can squeeze through. Leads out to the riverbank, beyond the town's immediate watch."

  One by one, we wriggled through the narrow opening, scraping ourselves on rough wood, emerging into the tall reeds and muddy bank of the river. The sky was noticeably lighter now. Dawn was breaking.

  We’d made it. Out of the jail. Out of the town.

  I allowed myself a single, brief moment of relief.

  Then Lyra, who had been peering intently through the reeds back towards Oakhaven, stiffened.

  "Company," she breathed, her voice tight with alarm. "And they don't look happy."

  I followed her gaze. Torches. Dozens of them, bobbing and weaving along the top of the town wall, converging on the western side. And a sound, faint at first, but growing rapidly louder – the baying of hounds.

  They knew. And they were coming.

  Shit. Again. And again.