Zyon didn't hesitate for even a second.
He bent down, scooping Amelia into his arms with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the bloodstained and broken battlefield surrounding them.
Her breathing was faint, shallow, but thankfully present. That alone was enough to anchor his rushing mind.
"We're getting out of here," he muttered, more to himself than to Art.
Art, however, lingered.
His golden fireballs still hovered in the air, casting flickering shadows against the cracked walls and broken chains that littered the room.
He turned his head, giving the scene one last, silent look—taking it all in, committing it to memory.
Then, he spun around and followed after Zyon.
They climbed the narrow staircase with urgency in their steps.
The light grew brighter as they neared the surface, the warmth of the outside world slowly replacing the cold void they had descended into.
