"Yes," Bastien says.

The answer to will it hurt to run would be different. The answer to will you make something worse, long term, if you run would also be different. But those weren't the question.

He's on his feet. He only limps because there's no reason not to right now. No need to fool or impress any of the other people in the room. Marcian's blood is pooling out around his crumpled form. Talin has the keys—the most important thing, right now—but it won't take both of them to open the other two cells. Bastien crouches beside the young man's not-yet-entirely-dead body and turns him onto his back.

Giving him a little more dignity is a side effect. It's mostly to reach his pockets. His belt buckle, with the sheath and sword attached to it. But there's still a fading light in his eyes, faint shades of panic and disbelief as his attempts as his attempts to gasp air turn into more hectic twitches, so Bastien looks him in the face in the meantime.

"Don't fight it," he says quietly. "It's all right. Think about home."

As captors go, the boy wasn't so bad.