The moss beneath her bare feet was slick and cold, squelching between her toes. Behind her, she heard Karse make a disgusted sound—something about the smell—but she didn't care. Eliam was there, just across this empty chamber, just—
Movement.
Not sudden, but wrong. Shapes that had seemed like shadows or stone pillars began to shift. Straighten. Turn.
Six Withered stepped into the moss-light.
They'd been standing perfectly still against the walls, so motionless she'd mistaken them for architecture. Now they moved with that horrible wrongness—too smooth, too synchronized, like puppets on shared strings. Their antlered heads turned toward the intruders in unison.
Briar's blood turned to ice. They were between her and the cells. Between her and Eliam.
The nearest Withered took a step forward. Where its foot touched, the moss blackened and died, leaving a perfect print of decay. The temperature dropped, her breath suddenly visible in small puffs.
"Well," Karse said behind her, heat already radiating from his body. "This should be fun."
The Withered didn't speak. They never did. They just started walking forward, closing the distance with inevitable purpose, their robes dragging through the moss and leaving trails of rot in their wake.
"Six of them," Ferria whispered. "Too many."
"Speak for yourself." Karse's voice had gone hard, eager. Fire flickered between his fingers, casting dancing shadows on the walls. "I've been cold for days."
The lead Withered raised one decrepit hand, reaching for Briar. She could see the flesh hanging loose on its fingers, could smell the sweet-sick scent of decay rolling off it in waves. The warmth in her chest flared, defensive, but she knew it wouldn't be enough. Not against six.
"Move!" Karse shoved her aside as he unleashed a torrent of flame.
The fire hit the Withered straight on, and for a moment the creature was entirely engulfed. The heat washed over Briar's face, so intense after the cold that her eyes watered. When the flames cleared, the Withered was gone—nothing left but a pile of ash and ancient bone.
Five left.
They didn't react to their companion's destruction. Didn't pause or reassess. They just kept coming, spreading out now to surround the group.
"Can you do that five more times?" Ferria asked, her hands already weaving illusions that Briar knew wouldn't work.
"We're about to find out," Karse said, grinning wickedly.
The Withered spread out, flanking them with that eerie synchronization. One reached for Ferria, its decayed fingers stretching toward her face. She jerked back, throwing up an illusion of herself that stepped sideways—but the creature's hand passed right through it, still reaching for the real her.
"They don't see illusions," she gasped, stumbling backward.
"Then stay behind me." Karse stepped forward, fire roaring from both hands now. Not the concentrated blast that had destroyed the first one, but a wall of flame thatforced two of the Withered back. The moss on the floor charred and smoked, filling the air with an acrid stench that made Briar's eyes water.
But the other three kept coming from different angles. One moved toward Briar with that horrible gliding walk, its antlered head tilting as if considering her. She backed up, her bare feet slipping on the wet moss, and her hand found the rusted remains of a cell bar on the ground—broken off, about the length of her forearm.
Without thinking, she swung it at the creature's reaching hand. The moment the metal connected, the Withered recoiled with the first sound she'd ever heard one make—a hiss like air escaping from a punctured lung. Where the metal had touched, its flesh smoked.
"Iron!" she shouted. "The iron hurts them!"
But there was no time to process this discovery. Another blast of fire erupted from Karse, this one aimed at the cells themselves. He was trying to clear a path, but the angle was wrong. The flame hit the bars of one of the occupied cells, and the metal glowed white-hot before starting to bend.
"Karse, wait—"
Too late. The bars twisted and warped, the ancient metal giving way. Part of the cell wall collapsed inward with a grinding crash.
"Was that supposed to happen?" Ferria asked.
From inside the damaged cell came movement, then Thaine appeared in the twisted opening, having to duck through the half-melted bars. He looked terrible—days without food or water had left him unsteady, his usually immaculate clothing torn and stained, dried blood matting his hair from some unseen wound.
"Were you aiming for me," he rasped, "or was nearly incinerating me just a bonus?"
