The night was thick with the scent of damp stone and distant chimney smoke as Velrik and Gareth crouched stealthily in the shadows outside the Count’s grand estate. Moonlight spilled through gaps in the drifting clouds, casting shimmering reflections upon the slick cobblestone streets. The estate loomed ominously ahead, a regal structure of aged stone adorned with tall iron-barred windows, its presence both magnificent and imposing. Lanterns flickered at strategic points along the outer walls, their warm glow struggling to penetrate the frigid night air. Guards patrolled in pairs, their boots crunching softly against the gravel paths, the armor they bore clinking with every measured step.

  Velrik's ears twitched, picking up the faint rhythm of their movements. He exhaled slowly, concentrating on the task at hand. They had orchestrated this mission carefully, but he knew full well that no plan survived the first mistake.

  “The west side,” Gareth murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Less light, fewer guards.”

  Velrik nodded, already analyzing the path ahead. The main gate was out of the question—far too exposed. The outer wall stood tall, yet it was not insurmountable. The real challenge was getting Gareth over without alerting anyone.

  He stretched his shoulders, feeling the worn leather of his armor against his fur. “There’s a window near the back,” he whispered, angling his head towards a section of the estate where ivy clung thick to the stone. “It’s small enough that no one’s guarding it. I can slip through and unlock a side door.”

  Gareth smirked. “You and your infernal climbing. Fine. I’ll wait.”

  With that, Velrik darted forward, his light frame allowing him to move silently. His paws barely disturbed the grass as he rushed to the ivy-covered segment of the wall. Up close, the stone was rough yet suitable for climbing. He tested a handhold and then another before pulling himself up with the practiced ease of a seasoned thief. His claws—typically sheathed—extended just enough to grip the cracks in the mortar. The ivy aided his ascent, though he had to be careful not to disturb it too much.

  The window was narrow, barely wide enough for his shoulders, but that worked to his advantage; no one anticipated an intruder who could fit through such a tight passage. Flattening his ears, he angled himself sideways and slipped through the opening. The moment his feet touched the floor inside, he froze, listening intently. Silence. Only the distant murmur of voices drifted through the halls, too far away to present an immediate threat.

  He released a slow breath and moved swiftly, his steps silent upon the marble floor. The room was dimly lit and filled with the scent of old parchment and ink—likely a study. A heavy wooden desk stood against one wall, its surface cluttered with quills, ledgers, and an ornate brass lamp. Velrik ignored the treasures for now. Information could wait; Gareth needed a means of entry.

  Reaching the door, he tested the handle—locked and secured by a key from both sides. Of course. Pulling a slender pick from his belt, he worked the mechanism with deft, practiced motions. A faint click echoed in the stillness as the latch surrendered. He opened the door cautiously, checking the hall before slipping through. Dim torchlight flickered along the walls, casting restless shadows. He moved quickly, fully aware that Gareth wouldn’t want to be left waiting much longer.

  Down the corridor, a side entrance led to the courtyard where Gareth stealthily hid in the darkness. This door was bolted, but Velrik slipped the iron latch free and eased it open. Gareth slid inside without a word, shutting the door softly behind him.

  “Took you long enough,” he murmured.

  Velrik flicked his tail, suppressing a smirk. “Next time, you should try squeezing through the window.”

  Gareth huffed but refrained from arguing. They had made it inside; now the real challenge awaited them.

  Velrik moved like a shadow, his small frame gliding through the dimly lit corridors with practiced ease. The estate sprawled out before them, a vast labyrinth of hallways and courtyards, each turn laden with opulence and power. Gareth followed closely behind; his heavier steps softened by years of training. They had breached the outer defenses, but the real obstacle lay ahead.

  The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and aging parchment, the faint aroma of wax from recently extinguished candles lingering in the halls. The stone walls bore elaborate tapestries depicting grand battles—images of noble warriors raising banners and of kings standing victorious over their foes. It was a display of might, reinforcing the Count’s authority even in silence.

  Velrik’s sharp ears twitched at the distant sound of boots echoing along a nearby passage. A guard patrol was near. He held up a hand, signaling Gareth to halt. They pressed themselves into the shadows between a row of suits of armor, their forms blending seamlessly into the darkness. Velrik counted the footfalls—three guards, judging by the pattern and weight of their steps, accompanied by soft voices.

  “Third shift’s almost over,” one muttered. “Can’t wait to be done with this.”

  “Doubt it will ever end,” another grumbled. “Count’s been paranoid since those rumors began circulating.”

  Velrik mentally noted this information. The Count’s paranoia worked to their advantage; guards riddled with fatigue and frustration made errors. When the patrol passed, he exhaled and motioned for Gareth to follow. They slinked through the hall, their feet ghosting over the marble floors.

  Ahead, a grand archway loomed, leading into another open-air courtyard. Moonlight streamed through the latticework above, casting slanted shadows on the stone. The garden lay meticulously manicured, with hedges sculpted into elaborate designs and a central fountain bubbling softly. Benches lined the perimeter, and beyond them, large glass-paneled doors led into another wing of the estate.

  Velrik crouched by the edge of the archway, studying the space ahead. “Too open,” he whispered. “There’s no way across without being seen.”

  Gareth nodded thoughtfully. “What about that balcony up there?” He pointed toward an overhanging walkway connecting the two wings. “If you can climb up there, you might be able to drop down on the other side. I have plenty of invisibility scrolls.”

  Velrik’s eyes followed the stone columns supporting the balcony, determination coursing through him. “I can climb it.”

  Gareth knelt, motioning for Velrik to climb on his shoulders. With careful ease, Velrik did so, and grasped the stone ledge to pull himself upward. His claws scraped against the surface, but his grip remained steady as he ascended.

  At the top, he swung over the railing and dropped into a low crouch. The walkway was lined with flowerpots and decorative lanterns, though most remained unlit. He moved swiftly to the far end, spotting another set of vines winding up the adjacent wall—his descent point.

  Below, Gareth had already begun moving towards the far side following his use of the invisibility scroll, seamlessly evading the guards’ watchful gaze. Velrik climbed down quietly, landing lightly before slinking into the next hallway. Gareth joined him, Velrik only catching a glimpse of the door lightly cracking open again before hearing Gareth’s soft steps approaching. They had delved deeper into the estate—closer to their objective.

  The hall they entered felt distinctively different. Here, thick carpets adorned the floors, and the walls were embellished with delicate paintings. This was no longer a space designated for servants or passing guests—this was where the Count and his inner circle resided.

  Velrik’s gaze flicked to an open study. Through the crack of the door, he spied a desk laden with documents, gold inlays glittering in the candlelight. He hesitated for half a breath. Important papers, indeed. If Lucien had provided reliable information, the true prize lay elsewhere, but there would always be room for extra leverage.

  Gareth must have noticed the glance because he murmured, “Focus.”

  Velrik nodded, determination hardening in his chest, and they pressed on through the hall, past rooms filled with rich tapestries and glass cases showcasing delicate artifacts—some possessing a faint hum that hinted at magic. His fingers itched with temptation. A lesser thief might have pocketed a few intriguing trinkets, but Velrik had learned better. Greed was the pitfall that ensnared the unwary. They had a job to do.

  They stopped before a grand wooden door, the very one Lucien had described. Velrik ran a hand along the frame, feeling for hidden traps. Gareth stood nearby, keeping a watchful eye, hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

  “Anything?” Gareth asked.

  Velrik shook his head. “Nothing obvious.” Pressing an ear to the door, he listened intently. Silence. Either the room harbored no occupants or someone lay asleep within. He glanced at Gareth. “Ready?”

  Gareth’s curt nod signaled agreement. Velrik slid his lockpicks from his pouch and set to work. The tumblers inside were older, but well-maintained. A few seconds passed before he felt that blissful click. He eased the door open, slipping inside first, Gareth following close on his heels.

  The room was spacious yet not overly lavish. A large oak desk occupied one corner with papers tidily arranged upon it. Cabinets lined the walls, some locked while others stood slightly ajar. A single lantern flickered low on a side table, casting elongated shadows across the room while the air was thick with the scent of ink and aged parchment.

  Velrik moved directly to the desk, quickly scanning the documents. Financial records, letters—some bearing the Count’s unmistakable seal. He rifled through them with speed, searching for anything of consequence.

  Gareth approached one of the cabinets and tested its lock. “This one’s tightly shut.”

  “Give me a moment.” Velrik crouched by the desk, searching for a key. He discovered a small compartment along the side and slipped his fingers inside, pulling out a set of ornate keys. One of these surely fit.

  Tossing them to Gareth, he watched as Gareth deftly caught them, testing each in the cabinet lock. The third one clicked open. Inside lay stacks of sealed letters, each adorned with noble crests. Gareth pulled one out and read a few lines before releasing a low whistle. “This is exactly what Lucien wanted.”

  Velrik stepped closer, peering at the papers over Gareth’s shoulder. Names of noble families, discussions of debts and alliances—evidence of political maneuvering that could spell the Count’s downfall.

  Then Velrik’s ears perked. A noise. Faint yet unmistakable—the shifting weight of someone on the wooden floor just outside the room.

  His heart hammered. He turned sharply toward Gareth, who had already drawn his dagger, gripping it tight.

  “Someone’s outside,” Velrik whispered urgently.

  The door handle started to turn.

  The door creaked open, revealing a dark silhouette standing in the threshold, a sword glinting menacingly in the dim candlelight. The figure stepped forward, eyes narrowing in disbelief at the sight of an intruder rummaging through the chamber.

  Gareth reacted in a flash. His blade arced through the air, steel flashing as it found its mark. The figure gasped—a gurgling, wet sound—as Gareth's sword plunged deep into his chest. A swift twist, and the man collapsed lifelessly onto the floor.

  Silence enveloped the room for half a breath, before Gareth cursed under his breath. “Damn it all…”

  Velrik, still crouched near the desk stacked high with papers, turned sharply at Gareth’s tone. His gaze darted to the body sprawled on the floor; recognition struck him like a hammer to the chest. The Count.

  The mission had already been dangerous, but now? This had spiraled into the worst possible outcome.

  “Tell me that isn’t—” Velrik began, but the answer was already evident.

  Gareth clenched his jaw, urgency gripping his voice. “We need to move. Now.”

  Before Velrik could respond, a distant clang echoed through the corridors, the sound of armored boots reverberating off the walls. Then came the horns—one sharp note heralding an alarm that rippled through the estate. Within moments, the sound resonated beyond the walls—the city’s watch responding in kind.

  They were trapped.

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  Velrik's heart raced. The Count’s lifeless eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, and the damning documents he had hastily stuffed into his satchel now felt inconsequential. He shoved that thought aside—survival first.

  “We can’t go back the way we came,” Velrik whispered, frantically scanning the room. “They’ll bottleneck us in the main hall.”

  Gareth growled, wiping his blade on the Count’s robes before sheathing it. “Then we’ll carve another way out.”

  Velrik’s ears twitched at the pounding footsteps drawing nearer. He snatched a brass candleholder from a nearby table and hurled it at the lone window in the room. Glass shattered, shards raining down onto the stone floor. Cold night air rushed in.

  “No good,” Gareth shook his head. “It’s too high up. We’d break our damn legs.”

  Velrik’s sharp eyes flickered across the chamber, spotting a secondary door likely leading to the servants’ corridors. “There.” He dashed towards it and pressed an ear against the wood. No sounds from the other side—a risk, but perhaps their best shot.

  He shoved it open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit passage. Gareth followed behind, shutting the door softly just in time.

  The main door burst open as guards stormed into the Count’s chamber. Alarmed shouts and cries of rage filled the room.

  “The Count has been killed! There’s an assassin in the estate!”

  “Find them! Lock everything down!”

  Velrik didn’t wait to hear more. He took off down the passage, moving quickly like a shadow, with Gareth at his heels. The narrow hallway twisted sharply, leading them deeper into the heart of the estate.

  The sound of their pursuers spread through the walls like a hive of angry wasps.

  “Guards on the lower floors will be scrambling to cover exits,” Velrik murmured, urgency lacing his voice. “We need to be ahead of them.”

  “Then let’s pick up the pace,” Gareth grunted.

  They emerged into a broader hallway lined with doors, tapestries depicting great battles hanging between ornate wall sconces.

  Velrik’s keen nose twitched—smoke. The guards were sealing off paths with smoke.

  “Bastards are trying to herd us,” Gareth muttered.

  “Then we move sideways.” Velrik’s eyes locked onto a set of double doors leading to another courtyard. “Through there.”

  In one smooth motion, Gareth slammed into the doors, forcing them open. Moonlight flooded in, illuminating a small courtyard with a central fountain, its water glistening under the night sky.

  The sight of crossbows being raised was their only warning.

  Velrik dropped low as the first volley whizzed past. Gareth twisted, his heavy cloak catching two bolts that might otherwise have found their mark in his back.

  Velrik darted forward, zigzagging as he closed the distance to the nearest guard. The man barely had time to react before Velrik’s dagger slipped through the gap in his armor and found its mark at his throat. A gurgled cry escaped the guard, and he slumped lifelessly.

  Gareth, meanwhile, bulldozed into another guard, knocking him flat before driving a boot into his windpipe. He seized the fallen man’s crossbow, spun, and fired at yet another guard aiming at him from behind a statue. The bolt embedded itself deep in the man’s chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

  “Come on!” Velrik shouted.

  Together, they sprinted toward an archway leading into another wing of the estate. More guards poured in, blocking their way.

  Gareth charged, sword flashing, slicing down the first man in his path. Velrik seized the distraction, slipping past, ducking behind a stone column before launching himself at another guard from behind, his dagger driving into the man’s kidney. A twist, a pull, and the guard crumbled in a heap.

  The remaining guards hesitated.

  Velrik bared his fangs, blood dripping from his blade. “Move, or you’ll end up like them.”

  The bluff worked. The guards faltered for just a moment.

  It was all they needed.

  Velrik and Gareth bolted past, racing into the next corridor.

  Ahead, a grand staircase led downward toward the main hall—the most perilous place to be. Velrik's mind raced with options.

  “There’s a servant’s gate near the east wall!” he hissed. “It’s far, but—”

  “Lead the way!” Gareth urged.

  They veered sharply, heading down a less ornate hall. The scent of baking bread and herbs wafted through the air. They burst into the kitchen, startling the remaining staff. Cooks screamed and ducked for cover. Velrik ignored them, steering towards the back exit.

  There loomed a heavy iron gate, slightly ajar.

  Hope surged—until the sight of a squad of guards stepped into view, effectively cutting off any chance of escape.

  Velrik cursed under his breath.

  Then he spotted it. Barrels of lamp oil stacked against the wall. A fire pit nearby still smoldered.

  A reckless idea sparked in his mind.

  Velrik seized a torch from the wall and hurled it. It struck the barrels, igniting instantly. Flames roared to life, spreading quickly.

  The guards recoiled, and in their moment of shock, Velrik and Gareth bolted.

  The fire accelerated, forcing the guards to retreat as smoke enveloped the corridor, covering their escape.

  They reached the servant’s gate. Gareth slammed his shoulder into it, forcing it open wide enough for Velrik to slip through. Gareth followed closely, his body gritting through the narrow gap.

  Then they were outside.

  The city stretched before them, but so too did the sounds of distant alarms. The gates would soon seal.

  “We need to disappear,” Velrik panted, urgency coursing through him. “Fast.”

  Gareth exhaled sharply. “Where do we go?”

  Velrik had already considered it. “I scouted a place. We’ll lay low there until we can figure out what the hell just happened.”

  Gareth nodded, and together, they vanished into the shadows of Montressa, leaving the burning estate behind.

  Chaos reigned in the city. The deep, echoing tones of alarm horns merged into a rhythmic pulse—an ominous heartbeat reverberating through the stone streets that shook the night’s stillness into sheer panic. Velrik and Gareth traversed the narrow alleys like quicksilver, darting among the buildings as the warm glow of fire bloomed behind them, rising above the Count’s estate like a foreboding specter.

  Velrik scarcely spared the distant flames a glance. His focus remained unwavering, navigating the twisting veins of the city that would lead them to safety—if they were quick, if they were clever. Gareth, heavier in footfall followed closely behind. The scent of smoke carried on the wind, mingling with the dank aroma of stone and the unpleasant odors of the city’s underbelly.

  They stayed along the edges, avoiding the main roads where guards rushed toward the estate, torches bobbing in synchronized unison. Windows cracked open above them as sleepy residents peered into the night, faces half-lit by the flickering torchlight. Whispers wafted down from shuttered balconies, hushed voices speculating about the source of the alarm.

  “Another fire?” a woman muttered from above.

  “No, too many guards,” an older man countered. “Something’s happened.”

  Velrik didn’t linger to hear more. He executed a sharp turn into a gap between two tightly packed buildings, his small frame slipping through with ease. Gareth grunted but followed suit, shouldering past crates and barrels stacked haphazardly along the alleyway. Their feet made hardly a sound against the dirt-packed ground, yet every breath felt too loud, every rustle of fabric deafening in the night.

  Distance was imperative, and swiftly. Velrik had memorized a dozen routes out of the district, but with the city locking down, only a few would still be viable. He gestured for Gareth to follow as he moved toward an old aqueduct that ran beneath a section of the city.

  They ducked into a side street just as a patrol rounded the corner, their armor clanking in steady rhythm. Velrik pressed himself against the rough stone of a building, ears twitching to decipher the guards’ murmured conversation. His tail bristled with tension, instinct warning him of the imminent danger, yet he remained still. After a few tense seconds, the guards moved on, their heavy footfalls fading into the night.

  Gareth exhaled sharply. “This is a bloody mess.”

  Velrik shot him a look. “No talking.”

  They crossed an open courtyard at cautious speed, the firelight from the estate barely reaching the rooftops in the distance now. The estate's kitchen had fully ignited, thick plumes of smoke spiraling skyward. It would serve as a diversion, drawing resources away from their pursuit. A small advantage, yet they needed every edge they could acquire.

  A dog barked nearby, then another, which set off a chain reaction echoing through the neighborhood. Velrik swore under his breath. If the city hadn’t awoken before, it surely was now.

  They reached a crumbled section of the aqueduct, opening into an abandoned lot that led to the underground tunnels. Velrik slipped through first, his small size offering him an easy passage, while Gareth had to struggle to squeeze through the tighter neck.

  The tunnel was damp and reeked of stagnant water, but it provided much-needed shelter. They moved swiftly, Velrik navigating the labyrinthine twists and turns with confidence. Finally, they emerged on the other side, near the first safe house, a dilapidated storage shed hidden behind a tanning facility. Velrik had scouted it weeks ago to ensure its abandonment.

  They slipped inside, Gareth locking the door behind them. The air inside was stale, but it was secure. For now.

  Velrik lit a small lantern with a flint striker; the dim glow barely illuminated the wooden interior. Gareth slumped onto a crate, rubbing his face in weary frustration.

  “Tell me we aren’t dead men,” he muttered, disbelief lurking in his voice.

  Velrik set the lantern down, sharp eyes roving over the room. “Not yet.”

  Gareth offered a humorless laugh. “That was far too swift. The lockdown, the guards showing up right after the Count was executed—someone orchestrated this. And the others Lucien hired were supposed to keep the Count distracted, he wasn't even meant to be there tonight, Lucien guaranteed it.”

  Velrik nodded, his mind racing through the possibilities. He had sensed it too—the way everything had collapsed upon them with eerie precision.

  Gareth shook his head, as if attempting to dispel the idea. “Lucien.”

  The name hung between them like a heavy weight. Velrik’s jaw tightened. He had once trusted the half-elf, or at least believed their interests aligned. But now, all signs pointed to betrayal.

  “He led us into a trap,” Gareth continued, tension coating his words. “Guided us right to the Count so I could eliminate him, then ensured the city would lock down before we had any chance to escape.”

  Velrik's tail flicked irritably as he considered that. If Lucien desired the Count removed and aimed to position himself favorably afterward while wielding the evidence for himself, orchestrating their setup would be the perfect play to begin it all.

  Velrik exhaled sharply. “He eliminates the Count, keeps his hands clean, and likely gets rewarded for ‘safeguarding’ the city from supposed assassins.” Unfortunately, Lucien underestimated the cunning of the Vulpin.

  Gareth slammed a fist against the crate. “Bastard.”

  Velrik nodded grimly. “We need to leave the city.”

  Gareth smirked bitterly. “No kidding, and I already know where to begin.”

  Without wasting time, Velrik dug through a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards, pulling out a set of spare clothes, a small bag of coins, a hand drawn map, and a dagger wrapped in cloth. He tossed the satchel to Gareth, who caught it swiftly. “Take this. It might be useful.”

  Gareth nodded, holding the bag tightly. “And what about you?”

  Velrik’s expression darkened. “I have my own way out.”

  They moved quickly. Gareth would head for an old smuggler’s tunnel Velrik had marked on a map earlier, while Velrik himself would take the route he had scouted days before—an unnoticeable crack in the city wall that was just wide enough for someone of his size to slip through.

  As they prepared to part, Gareth hesitated. “Velrik.”

  He turned, ears tilting forward in curiosity.

  “Are you sure about this? Going separate ways?” Gareth asked, concern creeping into his voice.

  Velrik met his gaze. “We split up to survive, less chance of us being caught.”

  Gareth sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Just watch your tail, you hear me?”

  Velrik smirked. “Always.”

  They exchanged a firm nod before parting ways. Velrik waited a few moments, ensuring Gareth had disappeared before he slipped into the shadows once more, heading toward the crack in the city wall.

  The night still thrummed with tension, the weight of the Count’s death hanging heavily over the city. But Velrik possessed one advantage—he knew this city like the intricate patterns folded in his own dagger.

  And by the time the sun rose, he would be long gone.

  Velrik crouched in the alleyway, breath steady despite the adrenaline still surging through his veins. The city of Montressa spread out before him, illuminated by flickering lanterns and the distant glow of the fire they had left behind. This scenario wasn’t new to him; it marked the last time he would gaze upon this beloved city from the shadows.

  He clenched his fists. His body ached from the night’s ordeal—scrapes, bruises, and the lingering burn of exertion coursed through him. He had grown up here, learning to navigate its streets, surviving alongside the forgotten souls who roamed its depths. Yet now, he was being forced out, betrayed by the very man he once perceived as an ally. The weight of this treachery pressed down on him like a leaden stone.

  With a slow breath, he listened for patrolling guards. They were still out in force, scouring the city, voices punctuating through the night air. His tail flicked in agitation as he crept toward the gap in the city wall. The small crack, barely wide enough for someone of his build, remained obscured behind a tangle of crates and discarded barrels.

  This was it. His way out.

  He hesitated, a surge of uncertainty flickering in his chest.

  Montressa had never been kind to him, yet it held a peculiar charm that he could not dismiss. The streets had schooled him well, teaching him to be quick, clever, and unseen. Here, he had carved out a semblance of family—not through blood, but through shared struggles, whispered laughter, and those fleeting moments of peace snatched amidst the bustle of daily life. Elisa, Dain, Mira, Joren… they were all still within the confines of this city. After years of clawing for his place in the world, it had all been ripped away in the span of a single night.

  His grip tightened around the hilt of his dagger. This wasn’t fair.

  Lucien.

  The name seared into his thoughts like a brand. That traitor had orchestrated their downfall, leading them into a trap while he remained unscathed. Velrik's ears flattened against his skull as a low growl rumbled in his throat. He had placed his trust in Lucien—perhaps not entirely, but enough to think they shared a common goal. Lucien had maneuvered them like puppets into the Count’s estate.

  And Gareth…

  Velrik exhaled sharply. Gareth had been forced to flee alongside him. They had both survived, albeit barely. Gareth would move on to find a new city, a new job, a new cause to fight for. But Velrik? He wasn’t finished here. He didn’t want to abandon his friends like this forever.

  He pushed forward, slipping through the crack in the wall with practiced ease. Once on the other side, he crouched low, allowing the darkness to envelop him as he listened intently for any signs of movement. The night air outside was crisp, the scent of damp earth filling his nostrils. No alarms, no footsteps. Good.

  Darting toward the tree line, he sought the hidden stash of his belongings—extra clothes, his coin pouch, a cherished drawing of his parents, rations, and a few stolen trinkets he could sell if the need arose. The chest was right where he had left it, nestled beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient oak. He took a moment to change, casting aside his tattered cloak in favor of the one he had purchased at the shop where Elisa worked some time ago.

  His hands trembled as he fastened the belt around his waist. It was truly happening. He was leaving Montressa behind.

  Turning, he cast one last glance at the city. The walls loomed in the darkness, the towers standing as silent sentinels against the night sky. Somewhere beyond those walls, his friends remained—likely confused, afraid, perhaps even angry. He ached to return, to explain what had occurred. But it was far too perilous. Returning would lead trouble right to their doorsteps.

  Velrik swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away.

  He needed to depart. He needed to survive.

  And one day, he would return when everything settled down.

  His feet carried him forward, away from Montressa, away from the only life he had ever known. The dirt road stretched ahead, winding into the unknown. Each step felt heavier than the last, but with each passing moment, his resolve ignited brighter.

  Velrik would carve his own path, no matter where it might lead. And if he ever got the chance… he would confront Lucien.

  The wind whispered through the trees as he walked, rustling the leaves in a muted melody. His thoughts churned, entangled between grief and rage, yet his feet never faltered. The stars above, indifferent and unchanging, guided him onward as they faded with the gentle morning light on his right shoulder.

  For now, he was alone. But his story was far from over.

  It was only just beginning.