Oliver
He wanted the emptiness to swallow him whole, to let him finally drift away from this nightmare.
He wanted to die.
He could smell the infected gashes across his skin, oozing with a sickly mix of blood. He could feel the dried blood crusting on his split lip, but he couldn’t summon the energy to care.
The emptiness had numbed everything. It all felt so far away—the pain, the hunger—none of it seemed to matter anymore. His wrists burned where the chains had torn into his flesh, but even that felt like a distant sign of a life that might as well have belonged to someone else.
He heard the clang of the cell door opening, but he barely lifted his head.
There was a figure—familiar, but it took him a moment to register who it was.
Gideon. His brother. The sight made something flicker within him, a small twitch in his fingers against the chains.
He wanted to care, wanted to fight, but his body refused to obey, as if it had already accepted the end.
“Why are you in here?” Gideon’s voice broke through the haze, and Oliver blinked, slowly raising his head.
Before he could answer, Gideon was already moving toward him, determination etched across his battered and bloodied face.
Oliver watched, detached, as Gideon gritted his teeth and grabbed at the chains binding his wrists.
The rusted metal ground together, screeching loudly enough to make Oliver wince, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t.
Gideon’s hands throbbed as the jagged edges bit into his palms, drawing blood, each movement sending sharp pain up his arms. Oliver could see it—the way his brother’s hands trembled, the way his muscles strained, but still, Gideon didn’t stop.
The chains snapped with a sharp crack, the vibration of the release making Oliver flinch. Gideon staggered, clearly in agony, and Oliver felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut.
“Why are you doing this?”
Gideon wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him upright.
The sudden movement jarred Oliver’s entire body, sending fresh waves of pain radiating from every bruise, every cut.
He tried to help, tried to push himself to his feet, but his legs felt like lead, unresponsive and weak.
He could feel Gideon’s weight against him, the way his brother struggled to keep them both upright.
“We have to move,” Gideon muttered, his voice low and strained. Oliver nodded, though it felt hollow. Move where? To what end? “Now we’re even.”
Oliver forced a laugh, the sound coming out more like a rasping cough. “If we’re keeping count, I likely owe you a thousand… but I doubt I’ll get the chance to pay it back,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. The words felt empty, but it was all he could offer.
Gideon nodded, his throat visibly tightening, but he kept his expression firm. “We can worry about evening it out later,” he said, his voice almost convincing. Almost.
Oliver leaned heavily on Gideon as they made their way out of the cell, each step sending a jolt through his aching body.
He didn’t have the strength to ask where they were going, or if they even had a plan.
He simply moved because Gideon needed him to, because his brother’s arm around him was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
Suddenly, a tremor shook the very walls of the dungeon, and Oliver’s head snapped up, the fog of exhaustion momentarily lifting.
He heard the explosion of power from Max’s cell, the shockwave sending dust and loose stones raining down.
He felt Gideon falter, the force of the blast pushing them back, and for a heartbeat, Oliver thought that perhaps this was it.
That whatever power had erupted would be their end.
But then the king’s voice echoed through the chaos, sneering, triumphant.
She didn’t kill him.
Oliver’s heart sank. They had hoped—some part of him had hoped—that Sin could end it. That maybe they wouldn’t have to fight anymore. But it was never that simple.
Before he could fully process the thought, three of the king’s soldiers materialized before them, their bright armor glinting like polished steel against the darkness of the dungeon.
Oliver’s eyes widened, dread settling in his gut.
He felt Gideon shift beside him, his brother’s body tensing as he prepared to fight.
Gideon had to drop him, and Oliver slumped against the wall, his legs giving out beneath him. He watched, helpless, as Gideon faced the soldiers. The clang of steel echoed violently, each strike reverberating through the narrow corridor.
Oliver clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay conscious, to witness what was happening. He could see the exhaustion in Gideon’s movements, the way his grip slipped, the blood slicking his hands. Every part of Oliver wanted to help, to fight, but he was too weak, too broken.
Gideon parried a blow, then ducked another. Oliver’s vision blurred as he tried to focus, tried to make sense of the chaos around him. He heard the gasp of the soldier as Gideon’s blade found its mark, saw the flash of steel as another enemy fell.
Gideon didn’t hesitate, turning to the next with a fierce determination that Oliver envied. He watched his brother fight, every movement a testament to the strength of will that Oliver no longer had.
With the soldiers defeated, Gideon reached for Oliver again, helping him to his feet.
They moved together, painfully slowly, toward Max’s cell.
Oliver could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, the fatigue pulling at him like a heavy tide.
They approached the door, the earthy smell of magic still thick in the air.
Just as they crossed the threshold, a deadly wave of power came barreling toward them, a force that seemed to warp the very air around them. Oliver’s eyes widened in shock, his instincts kicking in.
He grabbed Gideon’s arm, his voice raw as he shouted, “Gideon, move!”
The roar of power grew deafening as they stumbled, Oliver trying desperately to pull his baby brother out of the way.
Then everything went white.