The river carried them in silence.

  Mist clung over the water, thick and pale, wrapping their small boats in a ghostly shroud. It was Silas’s doing. The fog drifted with them, swallowing the quiet rhythm of oars, so that even the smallest splash seemed to vanish before it could carry.

  To any watcher on the banks, they would be little more than drifting shapes in the night.

  No one spoke. Grief had taken the strength from their voices. The only sound was the slow dip of wood into water, and the quiet, broken sobs of Tilda.

  She sat hunched at the bow, shoulders shaking, staring at nothing. Renn’s blood still stained her hands, dark and sticky in the dim light. She had not washed it away. Perhaps she did not want to.

  Marshal rowed beside her, his large frame bent low so the oars would not creak. His breathing was slow and steady, but there was a heaviness in the way he moved. Favian sat at the rear, bow ready, arrow nocked, his sharp eyes searching the riverbanks for movement.

  Tristan moved carefully among the freed prisoners, binding shallow wounds and whispering calm words. His voice was gentle, but there was strain beneath it. The prisoners nodded, yet none of them truly believed they were safe.

  At the stern sat Darius with the Spirit of Death rested sheathed at his side.

  The blade had saved them. Without it, they would all be dead. Yet its presence felt worrying now. It seemed to breathe against his hip, as though aware of his thoughts.

  Silas had warned him. “It will kill you.”

  The words echoed in his mind. He remembered the warrior he had once seen fall under the blade’s curse—bursting into parts, as if something unseen had claimed him.

  Was he ready for that? Was he ready to die like that?

  Darius did not fear death itself; that was the risk every fighter accepted. What unsettled him was the manner of it, the sense that the sword did not simply end a life but consumed it.

  He drew a slow breath and forced the thought aside. There would be time to fear later. Right now, they had to survive.

  Silas lay propped against the side of the boat, pale and shaking despite the warmth of the night. The Mend had sealed his wounds, but the curse that had gripped him left marks no healing spell could erase. Every so often, his eyes found Darius. There was gratitude there—but also fear.

  As though he had glimpsed something terrible in the blade.

  They reached the reeds south of Almeroth an hour before dawn. The city lights were distant now, faint glimmers beyond the trees. They dragged the boats into the mud and hid them beneath thick brush.

  They moved like shades between the trees, supporting the weakest prisoners and keeping their steps light upon the earth. Darius felt the strain in his body now that the river’s current no longer carried him. His side throbbed where a claw had landed earlier that night.

  The Spirit of Death had sealed the wound, yet it had not restored his strength. A strange hollowness lingered within him.

  The cottage came into view, but light did not come from the building. The shutters were closed. And for a moment, Darius feared it had been abandoned.

  But the door opened before they reached it and lamplight spilled across the clearing.

  Cormac stood framed in the doorway, and when he recognised the returning faces, relief transformed him. He stepped forward at once, drawing Kara into a fierce embrace, then Elar, his laughter breaking into tears.

  “You made it,” he whispered hoarsely. “All of you.”

  But Brenna had already pushed past him. Her eyes were wide and frantic, scanning each face in the lamplight.

  “Bryan?” she asked, her voice cracking with hope. “Where’s Bryan?”

  The question seemed to still the air itself.

  Darius felt it strike him. He met her gaze and saw how desperately she waited for answer.

  Cormac released Elar slowly and turned, confusion creeping across his features. “Renn?” he asked. “Where’s Renn?”

  Tilda lowered her head. She did not speak.

  The silence that followed was louder than any shout. Cormac’s face faltered as understanding settled over him. He pressed his palm against his brow and turned aside, shoulders trembling once before he forced himself upright.

  Brenna’s voice rose, thin and trembling. “Bryan. Please. Someone tell me.”

  All eyes turned to Darius.

  He stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow, though the morning air was cool.

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  “We didn’t find him,” he said. “We searched every cell we could reach. He wasn’t there.”

  He did not speak of the Rageler that had worn Bryan’s face. He did not describe the unnatural ritual that had shaped beast into false humanity. Nor did he speak of Renn’s final cry. The truth would come, but not here in the doorway, where danger was still close behind.

  Brenna’s knees buckled, and Tristan caught her before she fell. She clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder.

  “He was right there at the market,” she whispered brokenly. “I should have stopped him.”

  Darius crouched before her, his tone low but firm. “We will keep searching,” he promised. “But the city is waking. By sunrise, soldiers and Valiants will block every road out of Almeroth. If we remain, we will die. We must leave now.”

  Cormac wiped his face roughly and nodded. “He’s right,” he said. “We can’t stay.”

  “We ride for Ardet,” Tilda announced, her voice steadier than her eyes. “It’s our best chance.”

  Without argument they moved Inside the cottage and prepared quickly. Bundles were tied, waterskins filled and weapons checked. They moved with the efficiency of those who had fled before. The freed prisoners gathered what little they possessed.

  Silas sat on the edge of a cot, too weak to stand for long. When Darius passed him, he spoke in a faint voice.

  “You used the blade.”

  Darius paused but did not deny it.

  “I felt it,” Silas continued. “It was as if something reached into me and tore the darkness out by the roots.”

  “It saved us,” Darius replied.

  “Yes,” Silas said, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “But it also showed me things—visions I wish I had not seen. You cannot carry that forever.”

  Darius held his gaze but offered no answer. He knew the cost. Yet as long as enemies hunted them, he would bear it.

  They left the cottage soon after, mounting their horses and slipping through the narrow back alleys of Almeroth. The city stirred sluggishly around them. The remnants of festival chaos still lingered; drunken revellers staggered home, laughing too loudly to notice a quiet band of riders passing by.

  The southern gate loomed ahead.

  The main entrance was barred for the night, but a smaller sally port near the mills remained open. A dozen soldiers stood guard, lanterns swinging from hooks and spears held upright. Their posture betrayed tension. Word had spread.

  Tilda slowed their approach just within the shadows of the final alley. “We cannot fight through that,” she murmured. “If a horn sounds, the entire garrison will wake.”

  Silas lifted a trembling hand from behind Marshal. “I can manage one more illusion,” he said softly. “It will not last long.”

  He closed his eyes, and the air around them shimmered faintly. Their cloaks shifted in appearance, becoming coarse trader’s wool. Their horses seemed to sag beneath invisible loads. The spell was subtle, but enough to dull recognition.

  “Go,” Silas whispered.

  They rode forward at an unhurried pace.

  A soldier stepped out, lantern raised. “Where to?” he demanded.

  “Home,” Tilda answered evenly. “We came for the festival.”

  The soldier studied her, then allowed his gaze to travel down the line. It lingered on Darius longer than the rest. For an instant, suspicion held in his expression. Darius felt heat prickle along his wrist—a warning by angem.

  The soldier opened his mouth to speak again.

  But behind them, Silas coughed sharply. The illusion wavered for the briefest heartbeat.

  The soldier blinked, confusion clouding his face. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but then he immediately seemed to lose interest. He waved them through with a grunt. “Move along.”

  They passed beneath the gate without further challenge.

  Only when the walls of Almeroth lay well behind them did Darius allow himself a breath.

  Relief, however, proved short-lived.

  Three miles north along a narrow trade trail, Favian stiffened. His bird, circling high above, released a sharp, piercing cry. Favian’s eyes took on a faint glow as he shared its sight.

  “Riders,” he murmured. “Four. Coming fast.”

  Torchlight flickered in the distance behind them. There was no time to hide; the trail was too exposed.

  “Keep moving,” Tilda ordered quietly. “Do not run.”

  The soldiers closed the distance swiftly. “Halt! In the name of the Viceroy!”

  The Spirit of Death stirred at Darius’s side, but he forced himself to leave it sheathed.

  “Easy, friends,” he called, adopting the weary tone of a farmer. “We’re heading north with wool for Highcrag. Long night.”

  The lead soldier studied them carefully, his gaze settling on Silas, who looked far too pale for a simple trader.

  “You match the description of escaped prisoners,” he said coldly. “Dismount.”

  Tilda’s hand edged toward her dagger and Marshal’s shoulders tightened.

  Then Tristan spoke, voice calm and carrying just the right note of irritation. “Look, we’ve got papers. Check them if you must, but we’re losing money with every minute we stand here.”

  He then tossed a small pouch of coins—stolen from the dead guards earlier—toward the soldier. The man caught it and weighed it.

  Tristan watched. Greed should easily win here.

  The soldier smiled and kept the gold inside a pocket in his uniform. Then, he moved his hand, to the hilt of his sword, pulling it with the authority of one ready for a fight.

  “Get down from your horses” He ordered. “Now—”

  He never finished the sentence.

  As the other soldiers pulled out their weapons too, Favian’s bird dove from the darkness and raked its talons across the lead soldier’s face. The man screamed, with his horse rearing.

  In the confusion, Tristan’s darts flashed—two quick throws. The two rearmost soldiers slumped forward, asleep before they hit the ground.

  The lead soldier swung his sword, blood streaming from his cheek. Darius moved before the man could shout. He spurred forward, Spirit of Death still sheathed, and slammed the pommel into the soldier’s temple. The man toppled silently.

  The fourth soldier tried to wheel away. Marshal was already there—having shifted into a massive, silent shape—grabbing the man by the cloak and dragging him from the saddle. One punch, and the soldier went limp.

  Tilda took extra actions to make sure they had died. She stabbed each man in the chest.

  They dragged the bodies into the thicket, took their cloaks and horses to confuse any trackers, and continued south at a faster pace.

  Dawn was breaking by the time they reached the old stone bridge that marked the true edge of Almeroth’s lands. The river rushed beneath it, swollen from spring rains. And Beyond lay an open land of forest and freedom.