"Halt. Don't move!"
The voice outside was cold steel wrapped in cloth,authoritative, sharp, and close. No bark from a street guard. This was Sanctum. Veyne recognized the tone from the ambush two nights ago. Precision killers. Clerics with blades. They didn't shout unless death followed.
The old man turned away from the door in one smooth motion and grabbed the shelf beside him. It flipped down on a hinge, revealing a narrow cubby behind the wall. Weapons, a pouch, and a scroll-case were tucked inside.
"You move fast for an old cripple," Veyne muttered, already reaching for the knife on the floor.
"You're not dead yet. That means you run when I say so."
"Run where?" Veyne asked as the door rattled,someone tested it.
"Through the floor."
He blinked. "What?"
The old man grabbed a loose board near the back of the shack, yanked it free, and gestured with his chin. "Sewer run. Filthy, but it'll buy us a minute."
There was a sound of wood cracking. Then boots outside.
Too late.
The door burst open.
Two shapes stormed in. No armor, no colors- just robes and blades, curved and wicked. Masks covered their faces, but their eyes glowed faintly with ethereal light-mark of the Sanctum's "awakened" bladesingers.
One pointed at the old man.
"Step away from the boy."
"I'm not a boy," Veyne said coldly. "And you're dead."
He moved faster than they expected.
The first agent lunged for the old man-clean and direct. Trained. Professional.
Veyne intercepted him with a sidestep, drove his knee into the attacker's thigh, and slammed the blade into the man's gut-not a clean strike, but angled cruelly. The Sanctum agent gasped and dropped his sword. Veyne didn't hesitate. He grabbed the man's neck and twisted, pulling him to the ground with the blade still in him. Blood sprayed as he jerked the knife free and buried it again, deeper this time, right under the ribs.
The second attacker reacted faster, spinning and slashing at Veyne's back,but the old man kicked the table at him, breaking the rhythm. A burst of movement, and the old man was inside his guard, slashing upward with a hidden blade drawn from his wrist.
Steel hissed. The Sanctum man howled and staggered.
Veyne didn't let him recover.
He kicked the back of the man's knee, forced him down, and plunged his blade into the space between the spine and shoulder blade.
The agent spasmed.
Then stopped.
Both bodies hit the ground nearly at once.
Veyne stood, panting, bloody. His shoulder was bleeding again. Ribs aching. But his eyes were locked on something else,the shadows beneath the dying men.
They moved.
Faintly.
They curled. Twisted. Reached toward him.
Only one of them.
The one Veyne killed himself.
The shadows of the old man's kill lay still.
Veyne stepped back, unsure whether to recoil or kneel.
"What the hell..." he muttered.
The old man looked at him sharply.
"You feel it?" he asked.
Veyne didn't answer.
Because he did. Like a cold thread had slipped around his spine. And when he looked again, the dead man's shadow had detached,lingering by his feet, flickering like smoke...
Something inside Veyne shifted. A tether, invisible, but real.
The then shadow snapped toward him. Coiled. Bound.
Then sank into his own.
For a moment, his vision blurred. He staggered.
Then it settled.
And the air felt colder.
"The the floorboard," the old man snapped. "We run."
He grabbed the scroll-case, slung it across his chest, then helped Veyne pull up the floorboard. The stink of sewage and rot wafted up,thick enough to choke.
"Go."
Veyne dropped down into the dark, followed by the old man. He yanked the board back into place just as more Sanctum voices shouted from the street.
The sewer stank like hell's breath.
They moved fast, boots splashing in sludge. The old man took turns quickly, navigating with muscle memory, never hesitating. Veyne followed, ribs screaming, still clutching the bloody blade.
Behind them, faint echoes of pursuit. Sanctum was methodical. They'd search everything. Eventually, they'd figure out the floorboard.
"How'd they find us?" Veyne asked between breaths.
"I don't know," the old man muttered. "They shouldn't have."
"Unless you were followed."
"I wasn't."
A pause.
Veyne said nothing more. Just ran.
They moved through the maze of tunnels for what felt like an hour. Eventually, the old man stopped at a rusted ladder that climbed toward a circular hatch.
"Outside the city," he said. "Leads to the Gray Ditch. We'll cut through to the Duskgrove from there."
"Beasts?"
"Better than blades."
He went up first, shoved the hatch open, and hauled himself out. Veyne followed, coughing as fresh air hit his lungs.
The Gray Ditch was a dried-out riverbed turned refuse trench. Rubble and moss-covered bones littered the sides. They scrambled up the slope and into the sparse trees beyond.
The Duskgrove rose like a jagged wall ahead-black bark, twisted boughs, and mists that clung to the ground like fog made of ash.
Veyne stared at it. He'd heard stories. Beasts that didn't die when you stabbed them. Plants that whispered. People who went in and never came out.
"This is your plan?" he asked.
"It's either this," the old man said, "or wait for Sanctum to bleed us dry."
Veyne exhaled and stepped into the shadows.
****
They didn't stop until the sun had dipped low behind the trees. The forest swallowed sound, making everything feel muffled and distant.
Eventually, the old man found a crumbling ruin covered in vines. An old stone arch, maybe a watchpost centuries ago. It would give them cover.
Inside, Veyne collapsed against the wall, breath shallow.
The old man slumped down beside him, clutching his ribs. Blood stained his cloak.
"You're hurt."
"Cracked ribs. Blade nicked my side."
"You gonna die?"
"Not tonight."
The old man watched him for a moment. Then finally asked, "What was that back there?"
"what?"
The old man hesitated, deep in thought,
"You're not normal, boy."
"I'm not a boy." Veyne snorted.
The old man shifted to face him. "Most men kill, and that's that. You?"
Veyne said nothing.
"You think I'm marked?"
"I think the world is watching you now."
Veyne stared into the fireless dark.
Lost in thought...