The secret emergency tunnel of Belvart was a masterpiece of dwarven pragmatism—a narrow, lightless throat of rough-hewn stone designed to spit survivors out onto the southern cliffs far from the main gates. As the Trio emerged, the transition from the claustrophobic, soot-stained air of the city to the open expanse of the mountain was jarring.
The world was on fire.
Not the fire of war, but the fire of a spectacular, dying sun. The horizon was a bruised mixture of deep violet and burning orange, the light bleeding across the peaks like a spilled chalice of wine. It was the exact "wonderful sunset view" they had promised themselves when the holiday began in Astavo. But as they looked out over the vista, the beauty felt like a mockery.
"We're clear," Arthor said, his voice sounding thin against the whistling mountain wind. He pulled his hood back, his face etched with a weariness that went deeper than bone. He looked back at the mountain. The sound of the alarm bells was gone, swallowed by the sheer scale of the stone, but the smoke from the lower tier forges still curled into the sky like a black finger.
Sheng didn't look back. He couldn't. His hands were fused to the leather reins of his horse, his knuckles white. He felt a phantom heat in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the sunset. He was a man who had assassinated three kings to save a world, and yet, he was fleeing a city not because of an army, but because he was a punchline.
"They'll be fine," Elvric said, though his usual playful chirp was replaced by a somber, analytical tone. He was watching Sheng closely. "Richard is a survivor. He's lived through a dozen 'final stands' because he knows exactly when to duck. And Orthox... well, a dwarf fighting for his own hearth is a force of nature. Even an army would think twice before crossing him today."
"I should have stayed," Sheng hissed. The words were sharp, meant to hurt himself more than his friends. "I'm a coward, Arthor. I left my allies to fight while I ran from a rumor."
"You didn't run from a rumor, Sheng," Arthor said, turning his horse to lead the descent down the narrow trail. "You ran from a trap. If you had drawn steel in that city today, the Elven Houses would have used it as proof of your 'obsession.' They would have labeled you a terrorist, not just a stalker. I won't let you throw away your life because a dwarf shouted on a table."
They began the long descent. The path was treacherous, a winding ribbon of loose shale and sharp switchbacks. For hours, the only sound was the rhythmic clack-clack of hooves and the occasional rattle of a sliding stone.
As they moved lower, the air grew thicker and warmer. The pine trees returned, their long shadows stretching across the path like grasping hands. Sheng watched the sun vanish entirely, replaced by a deep, indigo twilight. He felt the darkness closing in around his heart. He began to replay Richard's secret warning over and over in his head. They want your head on a platter. They think you're a creep.
"The outpost town is just ahead," Elvric said, pointing toward a cluster of flickering yellow lights in the valley below. "There's an inn there—The Silver Stallion. It's a safe-house for the organization. No gossip-mongers, no 'simps,' just a quiet room and a warm meal."
As they reached the outskirts of the town, the atmosphere changed. This wasn't the bustling, high-stakes energy of Belvart or the artistic beauty of Astavo. It was a place of mud, weathered wood, and tired travelers. It was a place where people came to disappear.
They rode through the main street, their cloaks pulled tight to hide their faces. Even here, Sheng felt exposed. Every time a lantern-light hit him, he expected someone to point and laugh.
They reached the inn—a sturdy, two-story building of dark oak. Inside, the muffled sound of a crackling fire and the low hum of conversation offered a temporary sanctuary. They dismounted, their bodies stiff from the ride.
"Go inside," Arthor said to Sheng, his voice a gentle command. "Secure a table. Elvric and I will handle the horses."
Sheng nodded, walking toward the heavy oak door. He felt like a ghost entering a graveyard. He pushed the door open, the scent of stew and stale ale hitting him like a physical wave. He scanned the room, looking for a corner where he could hide in the shadows.
But in the center of the cafeteria, sitting at a long wooden table with a bowl of soup and a look of profound peace, was a man who looked entirely out of place in a rugged border town.
It was Bob.
The priest of Levatactis looked up, his kind eyes crinkling as he recognized the hooded figure. "Sheng? Is that you? Bless my soul, I wasn't expecting to see you this far south!"
Sheng froze. Bob was the heart of their extended circle—a man of pure kindness and zero guile. To see Bob now, after the disaster in Belvart, felt like a cruel joke of fate.
"Bob," Sheng managed to say, his voice cracking.
"Sit! Sit!" Bob said, patting the bench beside him. "You look like you've walked through a hurricane. Where are the others? Where is Arthor and Elvric? I thought you guys were on holiday together."
Sheng sat down, his shoulders slumping. He felt the weight of the last few days finally beginning to break him. He waited for Arthor and Elvric to join them, knowing that worst is yet to come.