The Once-ler flinched as the blade embedded in the wall next to him. “Someone really needs to revoke your knife privileges,” he snapped irritably. He considered grabbing the knife, but Soma was pulling him back towards the entrance. He sighed. Giving up was not something he liked doing, but Soma was the one who needed the cure, and if she was so adamant on leaving, there wasn’t much point in continuing to argue.

He hesitated when someone yelled out in pain near the entrance to the hall. The Once-ler frowned. When Lingormr had slashed him the first time he’d made a similar cry, and though it was impossible to tell the illusions from the real one by mere sight (a fact he’d learned rather painfully), the fakes had never been able to hurt them. Whatever had attacked the man at the entrance had to be very real.

“Your friend’s the only thing attacking people in this hall, right? And he can only be in one place at a time, yeah?” The Once-ler gestured at the entrance. “Sounds like he’s left us for now.”

He tugged Soma gently. “Look, neither of us is in good shape. We’re both bleeding, and you’re sick to boot, and I really don’t want to give Stabby another opportunity to cut me by waltzing on past him.”

The man clenched his teeth as he pressed the wad of cloth harder against the stab on his waist. “We should get to that cure. There’s probably a first aid kit or something there, too. We can grab those and patch up before going to this storage closet you mentioned.”

He gave Soma what he hoped was an encouraging grin.

“I said we still have a shot at this. Let’s take it.”