She didn't argue. Mirelle bolted for the stairs, past the commander, who made a grab for her but missed by inches. Roen threw the lamp at the older woman-not expecting it to hit, just needing a distraction. The glass shattered. Oil splashed across the floor. And for a moment, fire bloomed in the hallway. Not the commander's fire. The lamp's fire. It caught the oil, spread across the floor, created a wall of flame between them.
Roen ran. Down the stairs, through the smoke, past shouting soldiers. Behind him, he heard the commander's roar of rage, felt the heat of a Gold VWeaver's fury as she called on her power. A fireball struck the wall beside him. Stone exploded, shards of rock cutting his cheek. He kept running.
Another fireball. Closer. He dove through a doorway, rolled, came up running.
Mirelle was ahead, heading for the back entrance. Two guards blocked the way, swords
drawn. She didn't slow down.
She barreled into the first guard, low, using her small frame to take out his knees. The
second guard grabbed for her, but Roen was there, his knife in his hand, slashing at the
man's arm.
Not to kill. Just to make him let go.
The guard howled and stumbled back. Roen grabbed Mirelle's hand and they ran, out the
door, into the night.
Behind them, the garrison was in chaos. Soldiers shouting. Fire spreading. The
commander's voice rising above it all, ordering pursuit, ordering the gates closed.
But they knew Ashford. Knew the alleys, the shortcuts, the places where a person could
disappear. By the time the soldiers reached the streets, Roen and Mirelle were gone,
swallowed by the warren of the old town.
They stopped running only when they reached the northern edge of town, where the road
split toward the Pale Mountains and the wider world beyond. Roen's lungs burned. His legs
trembled. Blood dripped from the cut on his cheek.
But they were alive. And he still had the pouch.
"We can't go back," Mirelle said between gasps. "They know your face. They'll be watching."
"I know." He looked at the road ahead, dark and uncertain. "We do the job. We deliver the
package. And then..."
"And then?"
He didn't know. He'd spent his whole life in Ashford, surviving one day at a time. The future
was a luxury he'd never been able to afford. But now, standing at the edge of something
bigger, he felt it: the pull of a thread he couldn't see.
"We'll figure it out," he said. "We always do."
He opened the pouch. Just a peek. He needed to know what he was carrying, what had
nearly gotten him killed twice in one day.
Inside, nestled in cloth, was a small crystal sphere. No bigger than a fist. Dark, almost black,
but when he held it up to the moonlight, he could see something moving inside.
Shadows. Swirling like smoke.
"What is it?" Mirelle asked, her voice hushed.
"I have no idea." He tucked it back into the pouch, suddenly unwilling to look at it any longer.
"But someone wants it bad."
"The Pale Mountain monks?"
"Maybe." He started walking. "Only one way to find out."
They walked through the night, leaving Ashford behind. Roen didn't look back. There was
nothing for him there but debts and danger. Ahead, at least, there was a job. A purpose. A
thread to follow, even if he couldn't see it.
By dawn, they'd reached the edge of the Ashen Moors proper.
The landscape changed gradually at first—the cobblestone road giving way to packed earth,
the packed earth to rougher trail. Then the scars of ancient wars began to appear. Crumbling
fortresses on distant hills. Overgrown battlefields where wildflowers grew in soil still rich with
old blood. The bones of armies long forgotten, bleaching in the sun.
"We'll need supplies," Mirelle said practically. "Food. Better clothes. Weapons that aren't
falling apart."
"We'll find them." Roen squinted at the horizon. There was a village in the distance, maybe
half a day's walk. Smoke rising from chimneys. "We'll figure it out as we go."
"That's your plan? Figure it out as we go?"
"It's kept me alive this long." He grinned at her. "Have a little faith."
She rolled her eyes and smiled. Just a little.