Rain fell the night the warning came.
Cold.
Relentless.
Like fate.
Aren was reviewing patrol reports when Lysa burst in.
"They move tomorrow," she said. "At dawn."
"Arrest?" Aren asked.
"Or assassination," she replied. "Depends who wins the argument."
Aren leaned back.
Closed his eyes.
Counted breaths.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"Options?" he asked.
"Run," Lysa said. "North. Ships. Exile."
"Fight?"
"Civil war."
"Submit?"
"Death."
He stood.
Decision forming.
Like steel cooling.
"Call Caelis," Aren said. "And Edric."
"Now?"
"Now."
They met in a forgotten chapel.
Cracked statues.
Faded prayers.
No listeners.
Hopefully.
Caelis spoke first.
"My men will follow you."
Edric hesitated.
"If you move… you're a traitor."
"If I don't," Aren replied, "I'm a corpse."
Silence.
Then Edric nodded.
"I'll help. Quietly."
Plans formed.
Routes.
Safe houses.
Signals.
Escape.
And contingency.
Always contingency.
Aren returned to his chamber.
Packed nothing.
Burned letters.
Destroyed records.
Left only a note:
I never betrayed you.
He did not sign it.
Before dawn, boots echoed in corridors.
Armor clinked.
Orders whispered.
The hunt began.
Aren slipped into secret tunnels.
Built by paranoid kings.
Used by desperate men.
Lysa led.
Torch dim.
Steps silent.
Behind them lay palaces.
Lies.
Friendship.
Ahead lay uncertainty.
And freedom.
Or death.