The wagon creaked with every rut in the road. Aden shifted under the burlap cloth, the air inside the merchant's cart stifling.
"Don't move too much," Durik whispered, his breath hot against Aden's ear. "You'll make the sacks shift."
"I can't breathe under here."
"Better stifled than stabbed," the dwarf muttered.
Yvaine was curled on the other side, silent, her hands folded over her lap. Even in the cramped space, her posture was straight, almost priestly. But Aden noticed the faint tremor in her fingers.
The cart rolled on, hooves clopping, wheels rattling until at last—
"Gatehouse ahead," the merchant called.
All three froze.
Aden felt the scar on his chest heat faintly. Not burning, not yet—just a reminder.
Through the thin cracks in the cloth, he saw the stone arch of the city gates, the gleam of armored men, their spears lowered as the cart slowed.
Durik's hand slid to his hammer-axe. Aden caught his wrist.
"Don't," Aden murmured.
The dwarf grunted, but eased back.
The merchant's voice carried, casual, rehearsed. "Just flour and barley for the plaza market. Been making this trip fifteen years."
A pause. Boots scraping. Then the clang of a spear butt striking the cart's side. Aden held still.
At last: "Go on through."
The wagon rattled forward again, past the gates and into the city. Only when the din of the plaza swallowed the air did Aden push the cloth aside, slipping out into the press of the crowd.
The city was alive with color and noise. Vendors shouted their wares, the smell of roasted meat and spiced bread hung heavy, and a troupe of jugglers drew laughter from children.
For a moment, Aden almost forgot the chase.
Until he saw it.
On the nearest wall, pasted in rough parchment:
WANTED
Painted likenesses. His own face. Yvaine's. Durik's.
The sketches weren't perfect, but close enough to catch an eye. Bold letters beneath read: Fugitives of the Crown. Associates of heresy. Approach with caution. Reward offered. 500 Flares
Yvaine stopped dead in the street, her breath hitching.
Durik scowled. "Pah, these scribblers have no eye for dwarven beauty. Look at that nose! Crooked as a goat's backside. Doesn't look a whit like me."
Aden shot him a sharp glance. "Quiet. They'll hear."
"Bah, let 'em. I'm far more handsome."
But even as he said it, his gaze darted warily around the plaza. Too many eyes. Too many whispers.
Aden tugged his cloak tighter, pulling Yvaine's hood up over her head. "Keep walking. Don't stop."
They pushed through the press of bodies, past stalls of dried herbs and brass trinkets. Aden's heart hammered with every step. He could feel the weight of stares, even when no one looked.
A small hand tugged at his sleeve. Aden froze.
A boy no older than ten stood there, holding out a folded paper. "Extra sheets, sir? Fresh from the scribes."
Aden stared down at him. The boy's eyes were wide, unknowing, innocent.
He took the sheet with steady fingers.
And there, in bold ink across the front page, their faces stared back. The same sketches, sharper, clearer. Beneath it: Enemies of the Faith. Suspected accomplices of forbidden powers.
Aden folded the paper once, slid it into his cloak. "Thanks."
The boy scampered off.
Durik muttered, "This is bad. Worse than I thought."
"You expected less?" Aden asked, voice low.
The dwarf scratched his beard, frowning. "I expected posters, aye. But not this fast. Not this wide. Kingdoms don't waste parchment unless it's urgent."
Yvaine's voice was barely above a whisper. "They're… hunting us everywhere."
Aden's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He pulled his hood lower, guiding Yvaine and Durik toward the edge of the plaza where the alleys coiled like veins. The air felt heavier, charged. Even the bustle of merchants seemed to falter when the clang of armored boots echoed through the square.
The guards were coming.
A horn split the air, sharp and accusing.
"By decree of the crown! Enemies of the Faith are among us!" the captain bellowed, raising the parchment high. "Surrender them, and you will be rewarded!"
Heads turned. Faces sharpened with fear, others with greed.
Durik cursed under his breath. "Bloody vultures."
"Move," Aden hissed, pushing them forward.
They cut through the crowd, weaving fast, but the tide of people made it slow. The guards pressed harder, steel flashing as they shouldered through.
And then Aden saw it—
a child, no more than seven, frozen in the middle of the street, clutching a wooden hoop. Wide eyes, trembling lip. The boy couldn't move, couldn't even cry.
Durik barreled forward, not seeing him.
Aden lunged. He caught the boy by the collar just as Durik's massive boots thundered past. With one arm, he lifted the child, spinning him toward the crowd. "Go! Run to your mother!"
The boy blinked, startled, then bolted into the press of bodies.
Aden didn't stop to watch. His cloak whipped as he caught up with the others.
"Didn't know you had time for charity," Durik grunted, eyes flicking.
"If I didn't, you'd be wearing him on your boots," Aden shot back.
No time for more. The horns shrieked again—closer now.
They ducked into a narrow lane, but the enemy was already there. Steel slammed against steel as one guard swung down his halberd. Aden twisted, shoving Yvaine aside, the blade screeching against stone where her head had been.
"Go!" Aden barked, slashing the guard across the gauntlet to knock his grip loose.
Durik was already in motion, warhammer-axe in both hands. He crashed into another soldier, the alley ringing with bone-crunching force.
But the crowd was thick again at the end of the street, spilling from a nearby festival stage where minstrels had played not long ago. Civilians gasped and scattered—yet some froze, uncertain, unwilling to step aside.
The soldiers surged in behind them.
Yvaine was breathing hard, hand over her chest. "We'll be trapped—"
"No," Aden muttered, eyes locking on a frail, bent old woman caught near the press.
Her cane wobbled as she tried to flee, too slow, about to be trampled by the wave of boots.
Aden's steps quickened. He seized her wrist—startled, she looked up just as he spun her in a sudden motion, sliding her aside with the grace of a dance. Cloak swirling, he half-bowed as though it were deliberate, a gentleman's gesture.
"Forgive me," he murmured.
The woman blinked, confused, but she was out of the way—safe—while soldiers slammed forward into the spot she had been.
Durik let out a short laugh even as he smashed another foe against the wall. "You're bloody daft, lad. Dancin' in a warzone."
Aden's eyes were sharp, not amused. "Better her bruises than her blood."
The soldiers closed in. More horns. More steel.
The crowd swallowed them, but the soldiers were still pressing, horns braying at every street corner.
"Too many eyes!" Durik barked, his hammer-axe haft knocking aside a man who dared block the way.
"Then we need fewer eyes," Aden shot back, scanning the chaos. His gaze locked on swinging wooden shutters, a painted sign of a frothing mug dangling crookedly. A tavern.
"Here!"
He shoved Durik first, Yvaine close behind, then shouldered the door open. The tavern's warmth and noise spilled over them—drunken laughter, dice clattering, the sharp scent of stale ale and sweat. For one suspended heartbeat, everyone inside turned to stare.
Then chaos followed.
Soldiers barreled in after them, swords gleaming. Patrons scattered, overturned mugs splashing amber across the floor.
Durik grinned like a madman. "Finally, a proper welcome!" His warhammer-axe whistled as he swung it low, catching the nearest soldier in the shin. The man toppled with a howl, crashing through a table that splintered like firewood.
"Subtle!" Aden snapped.
"Subtle's for elves!" Durik roared back.
Aden parried a blade aimed for Yvaine, twisting it aside. The girl's voice was a whisper on the edge of breaking. "So many… they won't stop."
"They'll stop when they're buried," Durik answered grimly.
Another soldier lunged. Aden ducked under the swing, grabbed the man's collar, and flung him over the bar. Bottles shattered, the bartender's curses flying louder than the crash.
"Pay for that later!" Aden barked, already stepping into another strike.
The tavern dissolved into a storm—patrons fleeing, some too drunk to care, one old gambler clutching his dice even as the soldiers shoved past.
Yvaine raised her hands, power flickering faintly, but Aden grabbed her wrist. "Not here. You'll bring the roof down."
She trembled but nodded, pulling her cloak tighter as she slipped behind Aden's back.
Durik meanwhile was in his element. He caught a soldier's blade with the flat of his axe, twisted, then headbutted the poor man so hard the soldier flew back into a cluster of chairs. "Ha! Did you see that?"
Aden didn't answer. His mind was sharp, calculating. They couldn't win in here—not without cutting down every soul in the room. And that would stain them deeper.
"There's a back door," he muttered. His eyes caught the faint glow of light seeping through a rear corridor. "We move. Now."
"After I finish this one—" Durik started, before Aden grabbed his arm and shoved.
The dwarf growled but obeyed, bulldozing forward, knocking patrons aside with his sheer bulk. Aden covered their retreat, blade flashing to ward off another strike. He slammed a chair into a soldier's chest, the wood exploding into splinters, then spun and kicked the man back into his comrades.
"Go!" Aden barked.
The trio burst into the narrow rear alley, the smell of rotting refuse and damp stone replacing ale-soaked air. The door slammed behind them, muffling the chaos—but the horns outside had already found them again.
Durik spat. "That was fun."
Aden's glare was sharp. "Fun nearly got us pinned. Keep moving."
Yvaine's steps were uneven, her breath ragged. Still, when Aden steadied her, she gave him a fleeting smile—fragile, but there.
The city became a labyrinth of fire and noise. Guards shouted from rooftops, horns signaling every turn. The trio's breaths came hard, every step echoing against cobblestones.
And above them—silent, unseen—
a shadow moved.
On the rooftops, her golden eyes gleamed.
The white tiger beastkin crouched low, her silver hair catching faint moonlight as she followed with perfect ease. Not a sound betrayed her weight. She had watched it all—the boy saved, the old woman spared, the way they shielded one another instead of leaving the weak behind.
Not like her contracts usually described.
Her orders had been clear: track them, bleed them, bring word. Yet the parchment she carried in her satchel called them heretics, monsters.
Her gaze softened, just for a breath.
"Strange," she whispered into the night air. "They bleed like prey, but… they protect like men."
She remained in the shadows, watching as the trio vanished deeper into the city's veins. She would not strike. Not yet.
For the first time in a long while, the assassin's hands hesitated.