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Stephen is meditating, trying to reach some kind of state of acceptance. He’s been here three months and made no progress with the bands around his wrists that block his magic. His jailers have dispassionately kept him informed on every appeal to prevent his execution, each of which has failed. The date has been set. There’s nothing left but acceptance.
The crash and clatter of stone blocks bursting into the cell startles his eyes open even as he throws up his hands instinctively. No shield forms, but very little of the debris comes near Stephen. As he stares, a familiar red and gold armor steps through the hole, wreathed in dust.
Tony turns. “Stephen,” he says, the relief in his voice obvious despite the distortion of the armor and the impassive faceplate. “Come on, I’m getting you out of here.”
Stephen hurries over. “You’re going to start a war,” he says even as they duck out into open air. Tony gestures with one hand and Stephen carefully steps onto one of the armor’s boots. Tony’s built in a flat place to stand; Stephen quickly finds hand grips as well.
“Unlikely,” Tony says as they take off. “I did a fair amount of economic and political damage before I kicked off today’s festivities. They aren’t going to want to admit how weak they are, but it’ll stop at posturing; they know they wouldn’t win a war.”
“But not impossible,” Stephen says.
Despite the rushing wind threatening to carry his words away, the faceplate turns to face him. “I wasn’t going to let them take you away,” Tony says after a moment
Maybe it’s wrong, but Stephen can’t help the rush of warmth he feels at that declaration. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
Tony nods and turns his attention back to their escape.