As the two underlings roasted pieces of Cassian's flesh over the fire—carelessly chewing and drinking the poisoned blood they had taken before healing him—Cassian, now fully healed, slowly looked up. Though his weapons had been confiscated, the red sword, inside from the drop-shaped mark on his warrior circle, still remained within reach. So was his war armor, bound to his instinct. With a thought, it materialized over him.
With a sharp flick, he sliced through the metal cuffs in a single, clean arc—his crimson blade pulsing with raw energy. In one fluid motion, Cassian twisted his body, flipping backward and landing squarely atop the very branch they'd once used to bind him, now standing above them like a ghost risen for revenge.
The two cultists didn't even notice. Still poisoned, sluggish, and distracted by their sadistic feast, they hadn't expected him to move—especially with wounds they had left open to keep the blood flowing.
