The fortress walls shuddered with every distant impact, dust drifting from the cracked ceiling like falling ash. Kaelen's lungs burned as he sprinted after Orien, the clamor of pursuit echoing from the corridors behind them.
"Left—no, this way!" Orien hissed, doubling back so quickly that Kaelen nearly slammed into him. The man's eyes glinted unnaturally in the torchlight—too sharp, too steady for someone running for their life.
They plunged into a narrower hall, the sound of armored boots receding for a moment. Kaelen took the chance to catch his breath.
"You seem to know this place… too well."
Orien didn't meet his gaze. "I… remember pieces."
"Pieces?" Kaelen pressed, but they didn't slow.
They ducked under a half-collapsed archway, rubble crunching beneath their boots. Orien moved with uncanny precision, never once misstepping, never once glancing at the maps Kaelen had stolen earlier. He always knew where to turn.
"Were you here before?" Kaelen asked.
A shadow of a smile ghosted over Orien's face. "Something like that."
They burst into an abandoned courtyard lit only by moonlight. The air here was sharper, carrying the metallic tang Kaelen had smelled in the blackened hall weeks ago.
Behind them, a shout went up—closer now.
Kaelen grabbed Orien's arm. "If you know a way out, tell me now."
Orien looked at him then, truly looked, and for an instant Kaelen felt… wrong. Like Orien's gaze wasn't looking at him, but through him—down into the marrow, the memories, the fears he tried to bury.
"I can get us out," Orien said quietly. "But it will mean they'll know exactly what I am."
Another crash shook the fortress. The gate they needed to reach was still far across the courtyard.
Kaelen's grip tightened. "And what are you?"
Orien opened his mouth—then stopped.
A strange shimmer rippled across his shadow on the ground, stretching longer than it should, moving just slightly out of sync with his body. Kaelen blinked, and it was gone.
"You'll know," Orien said, turning away. "Soon enough."
And then they were running again.
The clatter of boots drew nearer, voices barking orders in the fortress tongue. Kaelen could feel the noose tightening—too many corridors, too few exits.
They vaulted over a low wall into a cloister choked with weeds. Moonlight spilled through broken arches, painting jagged shapes on the flagstones.
A crossbow bolt hissed past Kaelen's ear and thudded into the wall beside him. He stumbled, instinctively ducking. Three more bolts followed in quick succession—one grazing his shoulder, tearing the leather.
Before he could recover, a figure dropped from the shadows above—one of the fortress sentinels, blade drawn.
Kaelen braced for the strike—
—but Orien was already moving.
It wasn't speed. It was something else. The world seemed to slant, and Kaelen's ears filled with a low, thrumming hum. Orien's hand shot out and caught the descending blade by the edge. No cry of pain, no blood. His grip tightened, metal groaning under his fingers until the sword bent like soft clay.
The sentinel's eyes widened in horror. "You—"
Orien twisted, and the man was on the ground, gasping.
Kaelen's heart hammered. "Orien… what did—"
"No time." Orien hauled him toward a narrow postern gate at the far end of the cloister. "They'll have seen that."
Indeed, the shouts behind them had shifted, urgent now, tinged with fear.
Kaelen risked a glance at Orien's hands in the moonlight. For just a moment, the skin there seemed to ripple—like dark water stirred by unseen winds—before settling back into its normal shape.
"What are you?" Kaelen demanded again, this time sharper.
Orien didn't answer. But Kaelen noticed that he no longer cast a shadow at all.