Once he felt ready, Owen waited for the next night. Strangely, the guard outside his room had been relieved several days before—since his confrontation with his father. He first went to the armory, where he “borrowed” a sword suited to his size and fastened it to his belt.

  His heart pounded, torn between worry and excitement, as he made his way to the dungeons, descending the floors the same way he had a month prior.

  When he reached the guard, he gave him no chance to raise the alarm. He slipped into the man’s mind, as he had learned to do, twisting a pleasant memory into a nightmarish vision. Confused, the man collapsed to the floor, prostrate, ignoring Owen as though he did not exist. Once the path was clear, Owen took the keyring from the guard’s belt and entered the hall of cells.

  Relief flooded him: his mother was still there. She seemed prepared, her clothes nearly new. Her meal, however, had been nibbled by rats. Her face was gaunt and closed, her exhaustion evident. At his arrival, she did not react, not even opening her eyes.

  “Mom?” Owen called softly, turning the key in her cell’s lock.

  No movement.

  Anxiety surged within him. He stepped inside and sat beside her.

  “Mom?!” he repeated, a little louder.

  Her chest rose faintly, a nearly imperceptible breath. Owen grabbed her arm and shook it—first gently, then insistently. Her skin was cold.

  Seeing her still unmoving, he held her close and said in a trembling voice,

  “Mom, please… wake up! I’ve come to get you, just like I promised!”

  He stayed like that for a few moments, eyes tightly shut, as if to banish the terrifying sight.

  “Mom… please… tell me I haven’t come too late…”

  After what felt like an eternity, he felt the slightest movement in his arms. She opened her eyes slightly and whispered,

  “O…wen? Is… that you?”

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  “Yes, Mom! What’s happening? Are you sick?”

  “I… I’m tired… I’m… sorry…”

  “No, Mom! You can’t give up now, we have to leave! It’s time!”

  She did not respond. Her head fell gently back, as if she had drifted to sleep again.

  Noise echoed from the dungeon entrance. The guard seemed to be regaining awareness.

  “No… not now…” Owen muttered, desperate, tears in his eyes.

  The guard, noticing the open door, rushed into the hall. But when he saw Owen, he froze, trapped within his own mind.

  Owen’s gaze, burning with anger, seemed no longer his own. Without thinking, he plunged into the man’s mind again. This time, he reshaped the memory to compel him to protect his mother.

  Hypnotized, the guard stepped forward and lifted the girl in his arms with surprising gentleness. He exited the cell, Owen at his side. Together, the three left the dungeon as the prisoners’ cries echoed behind them.

  ???

  Owen led the way. They climbed several staircases, reaching the level of his apartments on the ground floor, without encountering a soul.

  He held his breath, knowing the patrols would grow more frequent. The guard carrying his mother was tiring, and Owen feared he might regain his will too soon.

  When they came across a patrol, he imposed the same mental effect: one of them carried his mother, the other stood ready to defend them. The dungeon guard, unable to resist Owen’s psychic command, remained rooted to the spot, absent-minded. The simultaneous exertion of his powers made Owen stagger momentarily, but determined, he recovered instantly.

  They continued toward the palace entrance hall. Silence was broken only by the clinking of armored footsteps. Owen would have preferred discretion, but he had no choice: in her condition, his mother could not walk, and there was no way she would endure another night in that cursed place.

  He would have liked to take her to a healer, but there was no time. If his father discovered what was happening, nothing good would come of it. He pressed onward, senses honed for this moment, intent on using every ability at his disposal.

  They reached the audience hall. The vast room could hold a crowd, and there stood his father’s throne—the very reason Owen feared this place above all others.

  The small group moved swiftly toward the grand entrance doors. The hall, dimly lit, lay eerily empty and silent.

  Owen prayed that no one would appear, but as they were about to pass through the doors toward the exit, a calm voice called from behind:

  “Tell me, where dost thou go?”

  Owen closed his eyes, a shiver running down his spine. Slowly, he turned to face the one person he truly feared: his father.