Torik didn't remember how long they ran. Just the rhythm of Kell's boots pounding on stone, the cool night air hitting his bloodied back, and the pressure of the sack against his ribs. The Crown still hummed faintly, like it was breathing.
Then, finally, a sharp whistle pierced the alleyway.
"Here!"
A cloaked figure emerged from the shadows, lifting the cover of a sewer grate with a practiced hand. Ithren. Her face, usually calm with scholarly detachment, looked tense.
"Down. Quickly."
Kell didn't hesitate. He dropped into the opening, still clutching Torik, who gritted his teeth through the pain. The stink of rot and old water rushed up to meet them. Ithren followed, pulling the grate closed.
They weaved through dark tunnels, then up a narrow set of stairs hidden behind a bricked alcove. At the top, Ithren pushed open a thick wooden door. They emerged into a small chamber with stone walls, a table and some bedrolls. A safehouse.
Kell gently lowered Torik onto the bedroll. "You're alright now."
"Let me see it," Ithren said, already rolling up her sleeves.
Torik hissed as she peeled back his shirt. The gash was angry but shallow.
"You're lucky," she muttered. "A little deeper and you'd be leaking like a cracked barrel."
She pulled herbs from a pouch and crushed them with a practiced hand, then smeared a thick salve across his back.
"That'll sting."
"Already does," Torik muttered.
She wrapped the wound and sat back, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Good job."
He blinked at her.
She smiled. "You brought it back, didn't you?"
Torik reached into the sack and gently pulled the Crown into the light. Its fractured gem flickered.
Ithren inhaled sharply. "The Crown."
Kell let out a low whistle. His face broke into a grin broader than Torik had ever seen.
"You bloody did it. Hells, boy. I knew you were good, but that's something else."
Torik shrugged. "Got lucky."
"No such thing as luck in a den of fanatics," Kell replied. "Have some pride."
A door creaked open behind them.
Dama and Whistle stumbled in, grime-covered and panting.
"We lost the ones on our tail," Dama said, slumping onto a crate. "But they'll be looking. We should lay low."
"We'll seal the exits for now," Kell said. "Ward them, if we have to."
Then he saw the Crown. He let out a low curse.
"Well I'll be. It's actually here."
Dama chuckled wearily. "We did it. Gods above."
Whistle raised his hand. "I vote we celebrate. Who has food that didn't come out of a boot?"
"Later," Kell said sharply. "We need to talk."
They all gathered around the table. The Crown sat at the center, wrapped in cloth but still emanating that strange presence.
Torik cleared his throat. "Before we make plans... I want to bring something up."
They looked at him.
"The Crown spoke to me. Tharoghul. He offered me power."
A heavy silence followed.
"He wanted me to accept it. He said he already shared power with me. Said Veilbinding was his."
Kell's face darkened. "That fits. We don't know why people are born with Bound Arts, but you saw the ones they call knights. They weren't born like that. They were made."
Torik nodded. "That's what I was thinking. What if they didn't make Bound Arts? What if they extracted it? From the Crown."
Ithren stood so fast her chair scraped the floor.
"Of course. That's why it's cracking. They're not using it, they're breaking it. Tearing pieces of Tharoghul out and putting it into men. That's why he wants someone to accept him willingly. Not to be shattered. To be whole."
Dama looked down at the cloth-wrapped gem. Her voice was low, but it carried. "So the Bound... they're no better than the Unbound. They dress it up in pageantry and piety, but they're still feeding on the same power. Still bending the will of a god they claim to oppose."
Torik leaned in, voice bitter. "They preach against Tharoghul. Call him the great corruption. Then they take his Crown and use it to make soldiers. It's like a priest preaching virtue with blood on his hands."
He shook his head. "I think the Unbound are evil. No question. But the Bound? They might be worse. At least the Unbound don't lie about what they are."
Whistle rubbed his chin. "So, what do we do with it? I vote throw it in a hole and never look back."
Silence again. His joke's had a time and place, and this was not one of them.
Kell looked around the table.
"We can't give it to either side. That much is clear."
"Then what?" Dama asked. "Destroy it?"
Ithren frowned. "It would probably free him, although we don't know for sure."
"I wasn't kidding, why not keep it hidden?" Whistle suggested. "Forever?"
"We barely kept it hidden for a month last time," Kell said.
Torik looked at each of them.
"We can figure it out. But not tonight. We rest. Tomorrow, we make a real plan." Ithren said.
Kell gave her a nod. "Agreed."
Ithren wrapped the Crown in a thicker cloth and stored it in a locked satchel.
For now, it would sleep.
But they all felt it. That pulse.
Waiting.
Watching.