Chapter 58: Trapped in the Sloped Passage!

Footsteps echoed in overlapping layers within the sloped passage, the stone walls amplifying each tread to twice, then thrice its original volume. Cecil walked toward the back of the group, with Gwendolyn perched on his shoulder, her blue eyes glinting faintly beneath the rune lamps lining the tunnel walls. Ahead, Vera led Lena, while Martha and Eamon strode side by side. Victor took point to scout the way forward, followed in turn by Freddy, Lydia, Oliver, Edwin, and Leon. The eleven of them filled the narrow passage completely, their boot soles crunching densely against the flagstones.

Midway down the slope, Gwendolyn’s tail suddenly went rigid.

"Stop," she said.

Cecil halted at once. One by one, the others froze behind him, like pieces on a board that had been paused. Vera turned, her amber eyes narrowing slightly in the dim light. Victor stopped at the front too; a dark purple bat poked its head out from his collar, the silver veins on its wing membranes flaring brighter.

"What is it?" Cecil whispered.

Gwendolyn hopped down from his shoulder onto the stone floor, her four paws settling on the slab as her blue eyes fixed on the wall beside the bend ahead. The rune lamp on that wall still burned, yet its hue had shifted — the warm white glow had faded into an extremely faint, barely perceptible dark red. The difference was easy to miss if you were not watching closely.

"Someone is rewriting the passage," Gwendolyn said. "From the outside. A new set of commands has been layered over the runes."

Cecil crouched to look at her. "What does that mean?"

"It means this sloped tunnel was meant to lead through, but whoever is at the exit has reconfigured the runes. If we keep going, we might not emerge into the Old Library. We will be rerouted somewhere else."

Vera walked back from the front and knelt beside Gwendolyn to study the wall’s runes. "Can you reverse it?"

Gwendolyn did not answer immediately. She stretched a forepaw to touch the dark red overlay on the stone, scraping lightly across the runic surface. A small tear split the crimson glow, revealing the original pale blue-white lines beneath. But within seconds, the crack sealed itself back over with dark red.

"The overlay repairs itself," Gwendolyn pulled her paw away. "Someone outside the exit is pouring a steady stream of magic to sustain it. I cannot undo it unless —"

"Unless what?"

"Unless I reach the source and cut it off. And that source is beyond the exit."

Cecil stood and glanced at Vera. She met his gaze, calculation racing behind her amber eyes.

"Likely the Church," Vera said. "Flint told us they arrived two days ago. If they tracked down the Old Library and found the portal, they would almost certainly set a blockade out here."

"It could be Flint herself," Victor strolled back from the front, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. "When she gave us the list, she said someone would be waiting after nightfall. It is not dark yet; she has no reason to alter the passage now."

Eamon stepped forward from the rear, Silvereye perched on his shoulder. The grey hawk’s pale golden eyes locked onto the crimson layer covering the runes. "Whoever it is, we cannot press onward. If they are lying in wait beyond the exit, walking out would be walking straight into a trap."

Cecil fell silent for a few heartbeats. He knelt again, pressing his right palm to the passage floor. Cold seeped out from his skin, snaking along the cracks between the stones toward the exit. The frost met resistance when it neared the source of the overlay; the crimson magic burned warmer than his ice, the two forces clashing briefly beneath the stone before the cold was forced back.

"The source is three to five paces outside the exit," Cecil said. "Someone is standing there, maintaining the magic continuously."

"How many?" Vera asked.

"I cannot tell. At least one."

Lydia pushed forward from the back, Ivy coiled around her wrist, the serpent’s emerald body tensing. "If it is only one, we can fight our way out."

"And if there are more?" Freddy countered. "If the Church has established a full defensive line around the Old Library, charging out will get us killed."

Vera paused for a beat, then spoke in a steady, decisive tone. "We retreat first. Back to the Trial Grounds. We will rethink our plan there."

Cecil looked at her. "If we go back, the shard mechanics in the Trial Grounds are still active. The shards were redistributed after we left. Returning might trigger another round of matches."

"Let it trigger," Vera said. "It is better than walking into an ambush at the exit."

Cecil considered it, then nodded. He stood and waved to the others behind him. "Turn back. Return to the Trial Grounds."

The eleven of them pivoted and headed back up the sloped passage. Gwendolyn leaped onto Cecil’s shoulder once more, her tail draped over the edge of his collar. After roughly twenty paces, the archway leading back came into view. But it was no longer the gateway they had stepped through earlier. All the rune lamps lining the arch had gone dark, and the rippling water-like veil at its center had turned opaque dark red, like a sealed wall.

Cecil stopped before the arch. Gwendolyn jumped down to the ground, her blue eyes fixed on the crimson barrier.

"It has been sealed," she said. "Locked from the inside, from the Trial Grounds side."

Vera stepped up beside him. "There are still people inside the Trial Grounds?"

"If there are, it is the group that stayed behind," Victor said. "When we left, roughly seven or eight others remained on the grounds. They were probably participants for the next match cycle."

"Why would they seal the gate?" Freddy asked.

No one replied. But a thought settled heavy in Cecil’s mind — the Trial Grounds’ rules stated that shards could be seized. If those inside knew Cecil held the crimson shard, and knew it served as the key to these lower tunnels, they might have sealed the exit to trap the shard within the arena.

"We are trapped in between," Eamon said. His voice stayed calm, yet carried a deeper weight than usual. "The forward exit has been tampered with, and the rear entrance is locked. This sloped passage is a dead end."

A hush fell over the tunnel. The rune lamps on the stone walls flickered, stretching everyone’s shadows long and erratic across the rock.

Cecil stood before the arch and laid his right hand against the crimson veil. Cold radiated from his palm, frosting the surface with a thin layer of white rime. The frost was burned away by the red barrier after a few seconds, yet Cecil sensed its nature — it was not solid stone, but a compressed wall of magic. Its strength depended on the caster’s reserves; when their magic ran dry, the barrier would dissipate on its own.

"This barrier will not hold forever," Cecil said. "It drains magic from whoever sustains it. If we wait, it will weaken."

"How long?" Freddy asked.

"I cannot be certain. Maybe half an hour, maybe longer."

Vera leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "We do not have time to wait. If the Church scouts the Old Library, they will send men to seal this tunnel too. Then even this dead end will be taken from us."

Victor walked forward, his dark purple bat perched on his shoulder, its deep brown eyes studying the crimson veil. "I have a plan," he said. "But I will need all of you to help."

Cecil looked to him.

Victor tapped the wing membrane of the bat on his shoulder. "My colony can emit high-frequency sound pulses. Focused on a single point, the resonance can shatter magical barriers. But sound will not travel well through open air — the veil will scatter it. We need a solid medium pressed against the surface to carry the vibrations straight through."

"What medium?"

Victor’s gaze shifted to Gwendolyn. "Ice. Denser ice conducts the sound far better."

Gwendolyn crouched at Cecil’s feet, blue eyes watching Victor, her tail swaying slowly. She neither agreed nor refused at once.

Cecil glanced down at her. Gwendolyn tilted her head up to meet his eyes. "I can forge a slab of high-density ice to press against the veil. But his bats have to fire the pulse the exact moment the ice forms. Even half a second off, it will fail."

"I will coordinate the timing," Cecil said.

He knelt before the arch and set his palm to the veil, gathering frost. Gwendolyn hopped onto his knee, resting her forepaws atop his hand. Two currents of cold — his and hers — surged together, condensing into a palm-sized sheet of ice against the barrier. The ice was darker than usual, near navy blue, extremely dense, its surface smooth as polished glass.

"Now!" Cecil shouted.

Victor’s bat launched from his shoulder, its purple form hovering for an instant in the air before releasing a sharp, nearly inaudible pulse. The sound cut through the air and struck the ice slab dead-on. The ice shuddered, channeling the vibration directly into the veil.

A crack split the crimson surface. The fissure spiderwebbed outward from where the ice touched, like thin ice underfoot. A second pulse followed immediately, widening the rupture. After the third pulse, a fist-sized hole tore open at the center, the edges crumbling continuously.

Light spilled through the breach — the familiar warm white glow of the Old Library.

Cecil reached out and pried the ice slab free from the opening; it crumbled to fine powder in his grasp. He squeezed sideways through the hole, his shoulder brushing the fraying edge of the barrier, and landed on the flagstones of the Old Library. The rest filed through one after another. Victor’s bat flew out last, folding its purple wings to settle back on his shoulder.

Cecil stood in the center of the library, surrounded by tilted bookshelves and moldering volumes scattered across the floor. Moonlight streamed through a broken window high above, casting silver patterns on the stone. But something new marked the edge of that light — footprints. Fresh, mud-caked boot prints, leading in from the side door of the library and stopping roughly five paces from the portal they had just emerged from.

Someone had been here. More than one someone.

Gwendolyn dropped to the floor at Cecil’s feet, her tail rigid. Her blue eyes locked toward the tracks, nose twitching as she scented the air.

"Church knights," she said. "Leather boots with iron studs in the soles. Standard issue for Church Inquisitors."

Cecil’s gaze followed the trail toward the half-open side door. Faint torchlight flickered in the corridor beyond.

"They have not left," Vera came to stand beside him, her voice lowered so only the group could hear. "They probably left watchmen posted outside."

Cecil nodded. He looked back at the eleven huddled within the library, their spirit beasts staying quiet, none making a sound. Lena cupped her butterfly gently in her palms; Freddy clamped a hand over Turner’s muzzle; Ivy stayed still wrapped around Lydia’s wrist; Oliver’s Robin folded its wings tight; Edwin’s rust beetles retreated into the back of his collar.

"We will take the rear route," Cecil whispered. "There is a fissure in the back wall leading out to an abandoned warehouse. It was the first location listed on Flint’s manifest."

Vera eyed him. "Are you certain that path is not blocked?"

"No," Cecil said. "But it is better than charging straight out front."

He bent to lift Gwendolyn back onto his shoulder. Her cool presence rested steady against his neck. He took the first step toward the crack in the library’s rear wall, the ten others falling in behind him. They kept their footsteps as quiet as shadows creeping through the night.

The fissure in the back wall was narrower than Cecil remembered, with fresh chips of stone flaking from its edges. He squeezed through, his shoulder scraping rough rock, while Gwendolyn jumped ahead to wait for him on the other side. When he landed on the dirt floor of the old warehouse, moonlight poured through a gaping hole in the roof, painting an uneven silver circle on the ground.

One by one, the eleven of them slipped through the crack. Cecil stood in the warehouse’s center and listened for movement outside. Distant footsteps drifted by, sparse yet unmistakable. Torchlight seeped through the gaps in the warehouse windows, flickering on and off.

Gwendolyn perched on his shoulder, tail draped over his collar. Her voice was barely a breath. "Northwood trail."

Cecil nodded. He pushed open the warehouse’s back door, cold wind rushing inward. Moonlight spilled over the woodland on the academy’s rear hills, the trees looming thicker and darker under nightfall. A faint path stretched northward in the distance, vanishing deep within the trees.

"Move," Cecil said.

The eleven slipped into the forest. Fallen leaves and humus muffled their tread, leaving only the soft sounds of breathing and fabric brushing against branches. Cecil led at the front, Gwendolyn on his shoulder, her pale blue-white scales shimmering in the moonlight like a small, unextinguished lantern.

The rest followed behind. The trail wound steadily north, the woods closing in tighter on either side. The silhouette of the academy faded behind the treetops, until it vanished entirely from sight.