They kept to the narrow streets, where the stone path was broken and rainwater dripped from old gutters. Morena walked steadily, her cloak drawn close, the wounded clerk limping beside her with every step.
She kept her keen eyes on the man, never allowing him to go more than an arm's reach away. Whenever he stopped for a break or complained about the pain, she would just yank him along.
She made sure the city wouldn't notice them, taking paths no one used. The clerk's ragged breaths were the loudest thing about them, each one fast, shallow. It was clear that he was losing blood quickly, but he wouldn't die.
The AI had already confirmed that he wouldn't die, at least not before reaching the granary, and once they got there, she would have him treated.
By the time they reached the granary near the ropewalk, his knees had nearly given out, the wound on his leg having eaten away at his strength.
