The fragile peace of the evening was shattered not by a sound, but by a sudden, chilling silence. The distant murmur of the city from the main street died abruptly, replaced by the sharp, rhythmic tramp of armored boots on stone. Too disciplined for city watch. Too heavy for merchants.
Lycus froze, a piece of cheese halfway to his mouth. His eyes, reflecting the firelight, narrowed to slits. Quintus was already on his feet, a statue of coiled tension, his head cocked as he parsed the meaning of the steps. Eight men. Maybe ten. In full kit.
The back gate to the yard burst open. It was the young apprentice, his face a mask of terror, chest heaving. "Lycus!" he gasped, leaning against the doorframe. "Lictors! A full contubernium, led by a Praetor! They're in the main square, questioning everyone! They're moving door to door... they're looking for someone."
Kaelen's blood ran cold. His hand went to the hilt of Lucius's Vow, the leather grip feeling alien and familiar all at once.
Quintus turned, his gaze a physical weight on Kaelen. "The Praetor. Describe him."
The apprentice swallowed hard. "Big. A face like a hatchet. A scar... here," he drew a line from his eyebrow to his jaw.
Quintus's face hardened into granite. "Valerius," he spat the name like a curse. "Decimus's former commander. A zealot with the mind of a bureaucrat. If he is here, he has connected you to your friend's ramblings. He doesn't have proof. He has a scent. And he will not let it go until he has a body to show for it."
The reality of the situation crashed down on Kaelen. This wasn't the shadowy pursuit of void-touched assassins or the passive fear of discovery. This was the cold, legal, and utterly merciless machinery of the Republic he had once served. They would tear the district apart. They would not be swayed by lies or bribes.
Quintus's decision was made in the space of a single breath. His eyes met Kaelen's, and for the first time, Kaelen saw not a mentor, but a general. "The time for learning is over. You must run. Now."
"Where?" Kaelen demanded, his mind racing, the map of Sybaris he'd studied flashing behind his eyes. "The gates will be watched."
"The main gates, yes," Lycus interjected, his voice a low, urgent rumble. He pointed a thick, scarred finger toward the eastern wall, visible over the rooftops. "But the old sewer outflow, past the tanner's quarter. It empties beyond the walls. It's foul, but it's a path."
Quintus was already moving toward the front of the smithy, where the sound of methodical knocking and demands for entry was growing louder. "I will delay them."
Kaelen stared at him. "Quintus, you can't—"
"I am not a fugitive," Quintus cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. He straightened his tunic, and in that simple motion, the reclusive swordsman vanished, replaced by the imposing figure of the Iron Senator. "The reappearance of Quintus Aramis will be a puzzle Valerius cannot ignore. It will give him pause. It will give you a head start. Go."
The finality in his voice was a door slamming shut. There was no time for gratitude, for farewells.
Lycus grabbed Kaelen's arm and shoved a small, heavy leather pouch into his hand. "Not for spending," he growled. Inside, Kaelen felt the smooth, cool texture of polished stones that seemed to hum with a faint energy. Jing. The essence currency of sorcerers. "For emergencies. They can... amplify intent. Or be used to bargain with things that do not care for gold."
A heavy fist began to pound on the smithy's main door, the wood groaning in protest. "Open, by order of the Praetor Valerius of the Lictors of the Veil!"
Lycus gave Kaelen a hard shove toward the back alley. "Go, boy! Live!"
One last look. Quintus, standing before the door, a lone sentinel ready to face a storm. Lycus, his scarred face set in a grim line, the man who had taught him to listen to the soul of steel. Then Kaelen turned and ran.
He plunged into the maze of alleys behind the forge, the stink of refuse and wet stone filling his nostrils. He moved with the unnatural silence his Ascended body afforded him, Lucius's Vow a comforting weight at his hip, the Godclimb a leaden burden on his back. He could hear the muffled exchange from the smithy—Quintus's calm, authoritative voice, a sharper, angry retort—but he didn't look back.
The tanner's quarter was a nightmare of foul smells, the great vats of lime and urine glowing faintly in the moonlight. He found the outflow, a low, arched opening in the city wall, dripping with slime and spewing a trickle of filthy water into a ditch beyond. Gritting his teeth, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the darkness, the cold, putrid water soaking through his robes in an instant.
For long, terrifying minutes, he was blind, feeling his way through the narrow, suffocating tunnel. Then, ahead, a circle of moonlight. He scrambled out, gasping clean air, on the other side of the wall.
He was free of Sybaris.
He stood on the banks of the ditch, looking back at the imposing silhouette of the city. Somewhere in there, two men were risking everything for him. The glow of the forges, the home of Lycus, was hidden from view. All he could see were the cold, impersonal spires of the Church of the Titans.
He turned his back on it all. Before him stretched the vast, moon-washed expanse of the desert, a sea of silver and shadow leading toward the distant, perilous promise of Al'Rahim. The hunters were behind him. The unknown was ahead. He adjusted the strap of his satchel, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword, the name a vow etched in steel and soul. Then Kaelen, the Ascender, began to walk.