"Move," Lysandra whispered, the word sharp as a razor blade against the humid air of the cramped boarding house room. She didn’t look back at the others, her eyes fixed on the heavy, grime-streaked velvet curtains that barely blocked the moonlight."What do you mean, move?" Merovin stammered, scrambling to grab his leather satchel. His hands were shaking so violently that he fumbled the clasp twice before it clicked shut. "It’s two in the morning. We checked in under aliases. Nobody knows we’re here."Alarion stood by the corner, his presence as hollow as a collapsed lung. He didn't turn to address Merovin; he simply tapped the floorboards with the toe of his boot. "The rhythm has changed," Alarion said, his voice flat. "The street outside. Three minutes ago, it was the sound of distant carriages and the occasional drunkard. Now, it’s the sound of measured, synchronized leather soles. Four pairs, counting cadence. That isn’t local law enforcement, and it certainly isn't the city watch

"We’re not going to make it to the Northern District if we keep stopping to argue about the geography of our own ruin," Eldric snapped, his hand tightening so hard on his scabbard that the leather groaned. "Keep your heads down. The ferry at Oakhaven is the only crossing for fifty miles. If we bypass it, we’re trekking through the marshlands. We won't survive the rot-fever, let alone the Board’s sweepers."Lysandra adjusted her shawl, pulling the rough, scratchy wool higher over her nose to hide the sharp, aristocratic lines of her face. "Fine. But Eldric, stop checking your blade. You look like a man expecting a duel, not a traveler.""I am a man expecting an ambush," Eldric countered, his eyes scanning the horizon where the sun was beginning to bleed a sickly, bruised purple over the low-hanging trees.Alarion walked in the center of their small, haggard formation, his gaze fixed firmly on the churned-up mud of the path. He looked like a shadow of the man he had been a week ago—his

"Keep walking," Merovin whispered, his voice barely audible over the relentless, rhythmic slapping of his boots against the churned earth of the trade path."We haven't stopped in three hours, Merovin," Lysandra shot back, not breaking her stride. She didn't look at him; her eyes were fixed on the gray, misty horizon where the Northern District lay like a dormant beast. "And unless you’ve suddenly sprouted wings, your exhaustion isn’t going to shorten the distance."Merovin stumbled, his heavy leather satchel shifting against his hip with a dull, metallic clatter—the sound of history hitting bone. He clutched the strap tighter, his knuckles bruised and bloodless. "It’s not the distance. It’s the weight. Every time I think we’ve reached a clearing, I hear the ink scratching. I hear the ledger entries. I can feel them, Lysandra. The Board didn’t just write down their logistics; they etched their cruelty into parchment. And I’m the only one carrying the mirror.""We aren't a traveling li

The interior of the barn smelled of damp rot and forgotten seasons, a stark contrast to the sterile, ozone-heavy air of the capital they had fled. Alarion slumped against a central support beam, his breathing shallow. The color had returned to his face, but his hands—those hands that once wove the very fabric of reality—remained clenched into tight, trembling fists. Lysandra paced the perimeter, her boots crunching on brittle hay. She paused by the door, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. "We’re exposed here, but we can’t move until the storm breaks. Eldric, check the southern window. If a patrol tracks us this far, we need to know before they breach the threshold." Eldric didn't argue. He moved with a practiced, heavy grace, pulling back a moth-eaten canvas sheet that covered a gap in the siding. He peered out into the gray, swirling mist. "Nothing but mud and misery out there, Lysandra. The roads are turnin

"Hunger is a more persistent hunter than any Board enforcer," Eldric said, his voice cutting through the hollow silence of the barn like a dull blade. He stared at the empty pack that had once held their rations. "If we don’t eat, we’ll be too weak to stand, let alone run." Lysandra stood by the cracked barn door, the rain outside still lashing the earth with relentless, freezing intensity. She didn’t turn around. "You’re talking about raiding a merchant carriage. We discussed this, Eldric. It puts us in the open. It makes us exactly what they’ve painted us to be." "They’ve already painted us as monsters, Lysandra," Alarion spoke from the shadows, his voice raspy and drained of its former melody. He didn’t look up from his hands, which were still twitching with phantom energies he could no longer channel. "Does it matter if the paint sticks?" "It matters to me," Lysandra snapped,