They had made it out. Barely.
The danger lingered somewhere behind them, buried in the maze of false trails they'd spent the last two hours laying. Every alley they ducked into, every side street they doubled back through, every misleading footprint in the sand—it was all part of a game designed to throw their hunters off the scent.
By the time they reached the Wandering Heart Inn, the streets were quieter, the city settling into the uneasy lull that follows chaos. Their shoulders loosened fractionally, but none dared fully relax. Danger still lurked in the shadows, like smoke clinging stubbornly to alley walls. Charles could picture it: Durgan, veins bulging, hands trembling with fury, barking orders that would burn homes and shred lives if it meant capturing even one of them.
The unspoken decision had already formed: they would stay here until the war with the syndicate was over. One way or another.
Of course, they told Clovis and Matilda nothing.
Matilda, blissfully unaware, hummed a soft tune as she stacked coins from the dinner service. The sight of paying, undamaged customers warmed her heart. Clovis, by contrast, was less welcoming. His one good arm folded across his chest, eyes narrowed with suspicion sharp enough to make drunk mercenaries sober on the spot. He didn't speak, but his gaze alone made every movement measured. Even when it flicked to the unconscious Freya cradled in Gerart's arms, no questions came—only the weight of scrutiny.
---
Upstairs, Charles settled by the window, back to the wall. Candlelight flickered across the room, casting shadows that stretched and twisted like restless spirits. His ears strained for footsteps that didn't belong, for whispers of movement beyond the inn's walls. The night pressed against the building in silence, heavy with anticipation. The faint smell of smoke from distant chimneys and the metallic tang of blood still clinging to Freya filled the air.
"When do you think she's going to wake up?" Charles asked, voice low, almost a whisper.
Gerart's reply was rough, careful. "Soon, I hope. I'm starting to feel the heat. We should probably be out of the city before someone gets the bright idea to come looking."
"No," Charles said firmly. "We strike first. Hard. We can't win a war of attrition—not against people like them. And for that…" His eyes drifted to Freya. "…we need her."
"I patched her up," Lira said, rubbing the back of her neck, eyes lingering on Freya. "Miranda helped. But when she wakes, that's her fight to fight. We can stitch flesh, but we can't stitch a mind back together."
Charles let out a long, measured breath, one that scraped his ribs as it left him. Every hour she spends unconscious is an hour Durgan could be planning his next strike. "Alright. We keep vigil in turns. I'll take first watch. No one leaves until we have a plan."
No one argued.
The group split for their rooms, boots creaking against the old wooden steps. Downstairs, the inn settled into its quiet rhythm—Matilda humming softly in the kitchen, Clovis muttering as he wiped down the bar. Upstairs, candlelight painted the room in muted gold, shadows pooling in corners like waiting eyes.
---
Hours passed. Charles passed watch to Syrrien, and the warm fog of sleep threatened to pull him under. His mind, however, refused rest, circling over plans, contingencies, and the growing threat of Durgan's retaliation.
Then it shattered.
A woman's voice tore through the stillness—shrill, furious, dripping venom.
"Ungrateful bastards! And you—small cocks that don't even—"
The rant cut off abruptly, as if some invisible hand had silenced it.
Charles groaned, swinging his legs off the bed. Across the inn, the others stirred instantly. No words were needed—they moved as one, instincts sharp.
They gathered at Freya's temporary room, exchanging wary glances before Charles pushed the door open.
Inside, the scene was tense, almost surreal.
Freya sat propped against the headboard, bruised and battered, hair tangled, radiating defiance like fire. Even weak, she dared anyone to challenge her. Syrrien stood near the door, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on hers with raw hostility. Blood from a fresh bite ran down his hand, each movement taut with the potential for violence.
They were predators sizing each other up, wild animals measuring strength and intent before deciding whether a fight was worth it.
"Who the hell are you?" Freya demanded, hoarse but sharp. "Aren't you the bastards from the village? And why in all the gods' names did you save me?"
The group exchanged silent glances. No one had rehearsed what to say.
Finally, Lira stepped forward, her voice soft, almost maternal. "We don't want to hurt you. Yes, we have a… disagreement with your syndicate. But right now, you and us? We're on the same side. Helping us could help yourself."
Freya's gaze narrowed, piercing. "Why should I trust you?"
Charles smirked, lazy and confident. "Well… we didn't kill you back there in the forest, did we?"
Her lips thinned. "You were those bastards?" she hissed. "I swore a harsh revenge against you."
Charles raised a brow. Get in line, it said silently.
---
Negotiating with Freya was like trying to wrestle a feral cat into a bucket without losing a hand.
Time stretched. Words clashed like steel on steel, punctuated by movements—hands clenching, fists tapping, eyes narrowing. Every subtle gesture weighed in the balance.
Finally, she leaned back, voice quiet but fierce. "I'll help you. But I've got conditions."
Charles folded his arms, unconcerned. "Of course you do."
"First—Durgan dies by my hand. No one else's."
"Fine," Charles said, shrugging. "So long as he ends up dead."
"Second—I get half of everything you take."
A tense pause. Voices rose, protests overlapping, echoes bouncing off the walls. "Absolutely not!" "You're out of your mind!" "Not happening!"
Freya's glare cut through the noise. "I'm risking my neck same as you!"
Syrrien shot back, low and dangerous: "And we're risking ours dealing with you."
After a prolonged back-and-forth, they compromised—one-third. Freya didn't look pleased, but she stayed seated, her sly grin betraying a small victory.
"Last thing," she added quietly, eyes scanning each of them. "If we find any of my friends alive… you spare them. No questions."
The silence that followed was heavy, weighted with mutual understanding and threat.
Freya exhaled sharply. "Alright then," she said, leaning forward, grin widening.
"Where do we start?"