Hells Escape: A Journey of Redemption

It had been a week since the cohort descended into the Canyon's depths. The place was vast, sunless, and strangely hollow. Aside from the spiders that skittered along the canyon walls and the occasional horde of lizard riders, there was... nothing.

Wheeeeeew!

Well—except that.

Every few hours, without fail, a sharp, unaturally long whistle would pierce the air.

They hadn't heard a single sound like it the night they'd camped above the abyss.

But now, whenever that whistle rang out, it carried a weight, like a blade dragged across stone. Chills would ripple down their spines, breath would catch, and eyes would dart toward the shadows.

And for just a moment, fear took hold.

Then, as if under some spell...They'd forget.

For some reason, Damien never forgot.

The whistle echoed in his mind long after it faded from the Canyon—but the others? It was as if the sound slipped through their memories like water through a sieve.

He learned quickly that the spell, whatever it was, didn't bind him like it did them.

Whenever he brought it up, they just stared at him with blank expressions. James, of course, never missed a chance to call him insane or worse, remind the others how untrustworthy he was. So, he now kept it to himself and tried to solve the mystery.

At the bottom of the abyss, morning never quite reached them. The sun's light thinned long before it hit the canyon floor, leaving the world in an endless half-dark. Although from the faint glow above, Damien could tell it was day.

He'd actually managed a few hours of sleep in his tent before the shifting, sweating monk ruined that.

On the bright side, the blinking white beacon overhead grew closer by the day. The gateway to paradise no longer felt like a dream. It was within reach.

Damien sat on the jagged stone that blanketed the canyon floor, except for the river slicing it in two. A chunk of ration bread rested in his hand, courtesy of their oh-so-generous overseers.

"We're missing more!"

Ah, there it is.

Third time this week.

Joseph's voice echoed down the canyon, full of righteous fury. He wasn't yelling at anyone in particular, just venting, furious after tallying the supplies in his wooden crate and coming up short.

His first time getting robbed.

A rite of passage.

James rushed over like a faithful lapdog, scraggly beard now choking more of his face.

Repulsive.

"That's the third time this week!"

Hey, I just said that.

Damien didn't bother hiding his smirk as he chewed.

James turned toward him with all the grace of a hound catching a scent—eyes bloodshot, face twisted in accusation.

"I know it's you!"

With a sigh, Damien set down the bread.

"How many times must I remind you?" he said mildly. "I can't lie."

The words tasted like ash, and his shackle answered instantly, searing his insides with holy fire. But, as always, Damien just smiled through it with no hint of the agony burning behind his eyes.

James's gaze darted toward the Monk and Jenna, seated nearby and quietly eating, clearly next on the suspect list.

Time to plant the seed.

Before James could open his mouth, Damien spoke calmly and accusingly.

"You do a lot of accusing, James. In my experience... the loudest voices tend to be the guilty ones."

James snapped back to him, fists clenched, arm twitching with barely-restrained violence.

"Oh yeah?" he snarled, winding up to strike.

Joseph stepped in, catching James by the arm.

"Enough. Both of you." His tone was firm, but his gaze lingered on Damien. "We know Damien can't lie because of his shackle, and I trust you, James. Wholeheartedly."

It sounded sincere.

But Damien had seen enough eyes flicker with doubt to know when the seed had taken root.

"Hey, what's going on?"

Blythe's voice chimed from beside Damien, sweet and casual. She cradled six water bottles awkwardly against her chest, one even tucked beneath her chin like a newborn.

Joseph glanced her way, only for a moment, before quickly averting his eyes.

"Nothing," he muttered.

Ever since the cliff incident, things between them had shifted. Cracks had already formed—jealousy, stress, the weight of Riley's absence, but that soft, unconscious "thank you" Blythe had whispered to Damien was the final fracture.

She didn't push the tension, just shrugged with a soft smile.

"Okay. Well, I brought water for everyone."

A collective glance passed through the group.

When James had saved Damien by scaling the cliff, the three crates he'd been carrying had tumbled and shattered—dozens of supplies lost to the abyss. Blythe had restored the boxes with her power, but not their contents. Restoration couldn't bring back something that still existed, even if it were irretrievably gone.

Which was why the thefts mattered so much now.

Rations were tight, and morale was thinner.

Damien reached for a bottle. "Thank you," he said, unscrewing the cap.

The others followed suit, grateful for something to quench their thirst.

Then—

Cough—!

His throat flared with fire.

Cough. Cough!

He doubled over, choking. The water scorched on the way down, like it had been laced with acid. His vision blurred as he gasped, lungs rebelling. Around him, others fell into the same fit—gagging, sputtering, unable to breathe.

Only Blythe stood still, smiling faintly.

But her smile wasn't hers.

It didn't belong on her face.

Damien's hand shot to his neck, clawing, while his pulse thundered in his ears. Joseph, red-faced and trembling, managed to croak:

"Where... where did you get this?"

Blythe's head tilted slowly to the side, an eerie calm on her face.

When she spoke, her voice wasn't hers.

It was low. Hollow. Inhuman.

"The river," she said.

Then, Damien's mind went dark.

Not with fear or not confusion, just absence.

A blank hush fell over his thoughts, and without knowing why, his legs began to move—one foot, then the other. Mechanically and obediently, he followed the river's edge, dress shoes dragging through the dust without resistance.

Behind him, Jenna and the Grey Monk fell in step, their eyes vacant, breath shallow. Further back, Joseph and James followed too, swaying slightly as if the world had tilted and they were sliding downhill.

They marched like ghosts pulled by invisible strings.

And then—

"Wheeeeeeeew!"

The whistle sliced through the air, high and sharp like something hunting.

But this time, it didn't echo from the depths of the Canyon.

It came from Blythe.

Her lips pursed in that familiar, rising note, and her eyes gleamed.