“Holy undead, Drake! Were you even aiming? You nearly took us out along with the tenerants,” Finn wheezed, rubbing his bruised back — the chest had hit him hard.

  “Well, if you’re complaining, Finn, then I must have done it right.”

  “For the love of sanity, you could’ve warned us!” Elvira snapped.

  “I did. I said, ‘Down.’”

  “Yes, perhaps next time shout it minute before the detonation,” she muttered. “We could have been flattened.”

  “Could have,” he agreed calmly. “But weren’t.”

  Infuriating man.

  He scanned the hall, eyes sharpening.

  “And now,” he said coolly, “explain why students are in a sealed wing.”

  “Academic tourism,” I muttered.

  He didn’t even try to smile.

  “This isn’t a place for sightseeing. We need to leave.”

  His tone made it sound less like advice and more like an order. We moved on. I walked beside him, trying not to stare too obviously.

  He moved with far too much confidence. Not like someone who had “just happened to be passing.” Not like someone in a forbidden area for the first time. He turned without hesitation where the corridors looked identical, never slowed as if unsure.

  As if he’d memorised the place. I frowned. The tenerants… no, that wasn’t him. The tenerants are undead. Only a necromancer can summon one. Drake is an elemental mage. Different school. Different nature of magic.

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  God.

  Was I seriously suspecting him? I glanced at his profile. Calm. Composed. Not a trace of panic. Still… He knows the hidden passages too well. He appeared exactly when we needed help. And now he was leading us through a sealed wing like a guide in his own home.

  Elvira stopped suddenly.

  “These are fresh,” she said, crouching over stains. “And these. Something or better say “someone” was dragged.”

  “They weren’t here last week,” Drake said.

  I turned slowly.

  “You were here last week?”

  “Passing through.”

  A cold twist formed in my stomach. No, he couldn’t have summoned the tenerants — that’s necromancy. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know who could have…

  Moorka appeared suddenly.

  First came the scrape of claws on stone. My heart performed an impressive leap. After everything we’d encountered in these catacombs, no sound felt harmless anymore. I braced myself for something with teeth. Or too many legs.

  Instead: cat. Yes, demonic, but still a cat.

  “Oh, there you are, traitor,” I muttered as some of the tension eased. “How did you find us?”

  “I doubt she was looking for you,” Finn snorted. “More likely she’s exploring her new territory and marking everything she can reach.”

  Moorka ignored us all with regal indifference. She walked past us as if we were furniture and stopped by a wall.

  Drake’s hand shot up.

  “Do. Not. Touch.”

  His voice was quiet. Hard. Dangerous. We froze.

  “Oh no,” Finn whispered, paling. “Moorka… please don’t mark anything else. You already marked a gargoyle and woke it up. Let’s skip the sequel. No new disasters. No apocalypse. No—”

  Moorka flicked her tail, sniffed, then casually brushed the wall. A faint violet spark ran across the stone, the air around us grew heavier instantly. Drake exhaled through his teeth.

  “Too late.”

  Thin lines flared across the stone surface, as if ancient magic had awakened beneath it. And the walls… began to breathe. The air thickened. Turned colder. The network of glowing lines closed around us, pulsing, tightening slowly and methodically.

  “A containment trap,” Drake said, and for the first time, I heard strain. “Responds to magic and movements. The more you cast, the faster it tightens.”

  The glowing lattice shuddered and drew closer. Our relief after surviving the smoke-entity had been wildly premature.

  We’re still underground.

  And apparently someone down here has very strong opinions about visitors.