The tall grass obstructed his vision, but the sounds carried on the cold night air. Bastet crept closer, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had followed Kreil from the feast, watching as the man marched with a desperate, suicidal purpose straight for the lit windows of the central keep. Before he had even reached the steps, a tall, muscular woman had emerged from the shadows. A hand on Kreil's arm, a single, sharp word. Bastet saw Kreil try to shake her off, but her grip was like iron. She steered him, forcing him off his path and pulling him into the labyrinth of collapsed, unsafe houses.
Bastet found a new hiding spot, pressing himself into a nook behind a crumbling wall. He slightly leaned, and barely revealing half an eye, he peeked around the corner.
"You'll get us both killed," the woman's voice was a furious hiss, finally loud enough to carry.
"My daughter—" Kreil's reply was cut off as she shoved him against the wall. Bastet flinched back into the shadows.
"Your daughter is the reason you will hold to the plan," she snarled. "You started this. Now be patient and wait."
Kreil looked genuinely lost. "Started… what?"
The woman cursed under her breath. "I suppose it's time." Instead of arguing further, she grabbed his head with both hands. Kreil struggled, but she held him fast. The air around her palms seemed to shimmer with a sickly, violet light. Kreil's body went rigid as a low, strangled groan was torn from his throat. Bastet froze, not daring to breathe.
The light vanished as the woman released him. He collapsed, sliding down the wall to his knees, his body wracked with tremors. He clutched his head, gasping, his face pale and slick with a sweat that had nothing to do with the night's chill. After a long moment, he looked up, his eyes no longer just sad, but filled with a deep, ancient weariness. He pushed himself up the wall, his movements unsteady. "I… almost regret having to remember," he gasped, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
"Doesn't work that way," she snarled, effortlessly twisting her arm free from his grip. "Your memory is back, historian. Use it. And don't be reckless. Or you'll get her killed and our entire mission burned to the ground."
"You promised me!" Kreil's voice cracked, desperation overriding his anger. "This is our last chance to get her out!"
"The chance is to finish what we started. And that's what we'll do. Be patient. He'll come." Miara's face was stone. She turned to leave.
Kreil lunged again, clutching her elbow. It was the raw, clumsy plea of a broken man. "Miara, please!"
She stopped and looked down at his hand on her arm with disgust. "Get yourself under control," she said, her voice going flat. She shook his grip off as if he were a child. She turned, her dark blond hair fluttering, and melted back into the shadows, leaving Kreil alone and trembling in the ruins. He lingered for a moment, a silhouette of despair, before finally turning and stalking off in the opposite direction.
Bastet remained frozen in his hiding spot long after they were gone, the cold from the damp ground seeping into his bones. Ever since that woman showed up, he did not dare move a muscle. It was only then that he noticed the stinging fire crawling up his leg. He glanced down and saw that countless tiny black dots swarmed his ankle from an anthill he had stepped on, biting with a venomous heat. He did not slap them off. It still felt unsafe to move. If he made even a single, sudden movement, he was sure the woman would be back.
He rose from his hiding spot and began to move, sticking to the deepest shadows of the deserted streets. His mind raced, piecing together the puzzle of dangerous words. The mission. The plan. The returned memories. It sounded like Kreil was a part of something larger, something the woman valued more than his daughter's life. And by the way he was pleading, it seemed like he would be unable to escape without her assistance. But they had a way out. They weren't going to take it, but escaping really was possible.
He paused at a crossroads, looking down one dark alley, then another. It wasn't a coincidence. Of all the prisoners in Stormbridge, Gerald had paired him with Kreil, the deeply suspicious Argent scholar. They likely knew he was a part of some conspiracy, but were lost on the details and the depth of it. He even had someone inside Stormbridge on his side. But for what purpose did they place him in it? Were they hoping he would join in, and then extract the details from his memory? Or was it to test his loyalty? Or were they using him for something else entirely, as a piece in a game whose rules he couldn't even begin to guess? He felt a churning in his stomach. He could not simply approach Kreil and ask about his plans. He was bound by Ariadne's oath, so there was no way they would be able to trust him. Hell, he'd be lucky if they didn't kill him on the spot. The most he could do was follow them, and then escape the same way they did. Maybe there was a secret tunnel leading outside… But what if their method relied on magic? Then, he'd be left behind and completely stuck. The thought was a spike of ice in his gut.
He leaned back and looked up into the night sky. It was such a long shot… But maybe he could trail them all the way until they reached the wall, and then ask to join up with them? They wouldn't be able to react rashly to his demands if they were in hiding and completely surrounded by enemies. He pressed his lips together and exhaled. It was a bit better, but it was still such a gamble. Still, it was better to cast the dice and test his luck than keep it in his hand and ensure failure. His hand closed around the fox in his pocket, the worn wood a familiar weight against his knuckles. He desperately needed someone to talk to, someone to convince that this was the right way to go. If he could do so, then maybe he would stop doubting himself so much. He was not used to being so alone, without anyone to rely on. He missed his dad. Lately, he found out that when he whispers, it sounded exactly like his dad's whispering. Sometimes he would whisper just so he could hear his voice again.
He slapped his cheeks, the sting bringing a sharp focus. He could not wait for tomorrow. Valac would be arriving soon, and then the code of conduct would bind him forever. If he was to follow after Kreil, he had to force their hand. He had to make them run tonight.
He moved through the deserted streets, heading towards the eastern gate. Now that he thought of it, was the tall woman the one who destroyed the wall during the siege? The timing of it was awfully convenient, since it stopped Kreil from having to drink Camael's Tears. But as soon as he thought so, his body froze with the familiar feeling of Ariadne's oath taking over. The Wesians were desperately looking for the intruder, so it would be in the best interest of Wesia to report her immediately. Bastet bit his tongue. He had no proof it was her. It could have been anyone. Besides, his own flask was also torn when he fell. It was just a possibility, not a certainty, he reassured himself. The tense muscles relaxed as Ariadne's oath let go. He had to be more careful with his thoughts. He made sure not to come too close to the eastern gate. Up until now, no one had specifically ordered him to stay in Stormbridge, but if they saw him approaching, they might order him to back away.
Bastet had expected most Wesians to be enjoying the feast, but plenty were still guarding the wall. Perhaps they were wary of another attack, because their security was anything but lax. With this many of them, even if Kreil's group had a way to deal with Ariadne's oath, they would not be able to leave without being seen. These soldiers would probably not abandon their posts before tomorrow, and by that time it would be too late. He lay down and stretched his legs on the damp grass. His thick fingers were a good cushion for his head. He let out a breath, but his face was not relieved of any tension.
***
A sudden shout from the courtyard near the gate shattered the quiet. Bastet pressed himself flat, peering through the swaying blades of grass. He saw a gaunt, wild-eyed man making a desperate break for the wall. Was he an escaped Argent soldier? The Wesian response was not a chaotic chase. A single, discordant note from a guard's horn cut through the night. From the top of the wall, a soldier simply pointed, and the mud in the escapee's path churned, and thick, grasping tendrils of black earth shot up, coiling around his ankles like serpents. The man screamed as he was jerked off his feet, crashing face-first into the mire.
Two guards approached with a practiced, almost bored weariness. They hauled the struggling man to his feet and dragged him before a low-ranking officer who had emerged from the gatehouse. The officer looked at the terrified soldier, then placed a hand on his head.
Bastet saw a faint and sickly gray light envelop the Argent soldier's skull for a fraction of a second. Then his screaming stopped. The fight drained out of him in an instant. His body went limp, and his eyes, which had been wide with terror, became placid and empty as a thin trickle of blood ran from his nose.
Bastet pressed his face into the damp grass. The screaming man was gone. In his place was a quiet, empty thing that walked where it was led, as docile as an ox being taken to slaughter. A certainty settled in Bastet's gut. There was no running. There was no fighting. Getting caught meant they could simply reach into your head and turn you off. Getting Kreil to move really was his only hope.
***
The security did not weaken. The Wesians changed shifts; those who were on guard duty went to the feast, and those who were celebrating were now coming to take their place. Bastet met Riley and Nick, and they exchanged greetings. Nick begrudgingly complained that the code of conduct did not permit them to get drunk, as it would cloud their judgment. Riley bragged about some woman that he managed to bed, and Nick told him that Kreil was still at the feast. Bastet expressed his thanks again. In response, Nick cracked a joke that Riley seemed to like, and they parted ways.
It was time. Bastet decided that he must act, and he believed he found a way to set things into motion. The bright bonfire shattered the edge of the night. He arrived at the feast, which was just as lively as when he left it. The city must have had much more food than he thought since they could sustain it for so long. Bastet quickly chewed through some fish to replenish his energy. He was leaving tonight, so he could not afford to have his stomach growling. He took off one of the shirts he was wearing, tied a knot at the bottom, and stuffed it with more fish. Once he escaped, he could drink water from the river, but he did not know how much food he would be able to find, so it would be best to carry some with him. He picked up a candle that lay flat beneath the table too. Although he received no suspicious looks, he hurried to stash the bag a bit further away. He did not want to stand out, or worse, be ordered to say why he was carrying it.
Bastet circled around the premises and managed to find the place where they were leaving empty wine barrels. Those would usually be refilled, but since Stormbridge did not produce any goods, Bastet wondered why they didn't use them as fuel for the bonfire. He took an empty barrel, went back to get the food, and then left for the river.Once he found a place well shrouded in darkness, he put the barrel down and kneeled at the bank, sifting through the gravel with slow, deliberate hands. He knew an empty barrel would roll uselessly in the current unless he adjusted the balance. His fingers sifted through the cold, wet stones, selecting dense, smooth ones and dropping them into the barrel, carefully arranging them along one side of the bottom curve. As he worked, his eyes scanned the mix of quartz, shale, and darker rock. Finally, his fingers closed around a dark, glassy lump. A sharp strike against another rock split it, revealing a shining, knife-edge fracture. He scraped his blade along the fresh surface and sparks flared briefly in the dark. Flint. He tucked the shard into his pocket before adding the final few stones to the barrel until the weight felt substantial. He tested it in the shallows, nudging it gently. It wobbled but quickly righted itself, the weighted side settling firmly downwards. Satisfied, he pulled it back to the bank.
Bringing the barrel closer, he aimed at its top with the tip of his sword. He leaned his weight onto the hilt until the sword's tip bit into the wood, widening a hole for the candle. It wasn't perfect, but he sealed the base of the candle in place with mud. He grabbed the sharp piece of flint, and began to carve on the surface of the barrel.
He had spent hours watching the guards, thinking. A direct escape was impossible; the walls were too well-manned. If he was to escape, he would need to follow Kreil. He could lie to the man, tell him the walls were whispering Miara's name, and he would likely believe it in his panic and rush her to escape while they still could. But the thought died as quickly as it formed. Miara was not Kreil. She could try to verify it, and the lie would unravel. He would be exposed to a woman who could likely kill him with a thought. No. The threat had to be real. If she wished to bide her time, he had to make sure she doesn't feel welcome to do so anymore. He had to light a fire under her feet. Once her name was on the lips of the Wesian command, she would have no choice but to run. And he would follow. But that fire could not merely rest under her feet. He thought of Gerald, and of the unknown game that man was playing by putting Bastet as a pawn on his board. He did not know what he was after. But he didn't have to know the rules of the game. He just had to set the board ablaze.
He could go to the guards himself, report what he'd seen. But they would take him straight back to the interrogators. They would scour his mind again, and this time they would see his plan to escape. He would be back in his cell by sunrise. No, the report had to be anonymous. For hours, he had watched the guards. They had a weakness, one he had seen with his own eyes. They were afraid. Afraid of the Argent army that could be lurking outside, and terrified of the intruder that could still be somewhere within the walls. They were watching everything, jumping at shadows. This Illias was too important for them to lose.
They had the river secured. And a guard who fears infiltration couldn't ignore a strange light floating in the darkness. He would have to report it. And the commander would have no choice but to act on it. After all, the Oath forbids lying. The message on the barrel was either a truth from a Wesian, or a lie from an enemy within. Either way, it could not be ignored.
The work of carving was slow, since the wood of the barrel was still damp from the rain. He had to bear down hard. A splinter dug painfully into his thumb as the crude, jagged letters began to form. After a long time, he finished:
INTRUDER – MIARA – BLOND WESIAN.
He lit the candle with flint and his blade, letting the barrel go downstream. He did not know if it would work. But it was not a prayer thrown into the river, but a spark thrown into a powder keg. Bastet fled the scene in a hurry. If they saw him and questioned him, they would inevitably find out about his plans to escape. He had to find Kreil.