The dawn that broke over the ragged edge of the Greywood Forest was a muted, watery grey, matching the ash-silver of Gaius's hair plastered to his temples with cold sweat and grime. He hadn't slept, not truly. Rest had been snatched in stolen minutes between rituals, his body a conduit for the illicit, fizzing energy that was his only shield against Proudmorth's relentless gaze.
He'd slipped from the flophouse attic before first light, a wraith dissolving into the pre-dawn gloom of Heaven's Reform's outermost slums. The main highways, patrolled by Order knights and humming with Church detection wards, were death sentences. Instead, he navigated the labyrinth of forgotten cart tracks, overgrown footpaths, and the narrow, muddy margins alongside sluggish irrigation ditches. Every step took him further from the suffocating power of the capital, deeper into the damp, neglected fringe of Proudmorth County.
Every few miles, when the oppressive sense of being watched prickled his skin or the faint, discordant chime of distant scrying resonated in his bones, Gaius would stop. He'd find a stand of dense elder bushes, the hollow beneath a lightning-split oak, or simply press himself into the damp earth beside a hedgerow. Drawing on reserves that felt perilously shallow, he'd weave his countermeasures.
His fingers, stained with dirt and something darker, traced intricate, invisible sigils in the air. Whispers, barely audible even to himself, carried fragments of ancient, forbidden phrases – distortions, misdirections, echoes designed to shatter coherent magical sight. Silver light, thin and strained, flickered deep within his eyes, not illuminating, but consuming. He visualized his trail not as footprints, but as static; his essence not as a beacon, but as a smear of shadow across the magical spectrum. He scattered handfuls of mundane detritus – crushed beetles, specific weeds known for their dulling properties, even his own clipped fingernails – imbued with a sliver of his will, creating false trails that spiraled off into nothingness. Each ritual left him colder, emptier, a little more frayed at the edges. He was burning himself down to stay hidden.
Three days of this relentless evasion blurred together. The gridlocked power of Heaven's Reform gave way to sprawling, under-tilled farmsteads, then to wilder, less populated heathland choked with gorse and bracken. The air, though still carrying the distant tang of industry, began to smell of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the sharp resin of pine. He was nearing the borderlands, where Proudmorth's iron grip began to rust.
Exhaustion, deeper than mere physical fatigue, finally forced him to stop. He found a secluded hollow beneath a massive, moss-draped willow leaning over a slow-moving stream. The ground was thick with fallen leaves, surprisingly dry. He ate the last of his hardtack cheese, washed it down with icy stream water that numbed his throat, and performed one final, desperate anti-scrying ritual. It felt flimsy, a spider's web against a storm. Then, wrapped in his worn cloak, the hood pulled low despite the solitude, Gaius Plythe – no, Gaius X – succumbed to a sleep so deep it felt like sinking into oblivion.
He didn't dream. There was only the black, blessed void.
Until it wasn't.
A sharp prod in his ribs jolted him awake. Instinct, honed by betrayal and flight, screamed danger. His hand shot out, grabbing a slender wrist before his eyes were fully open. He rolled, pinning his assailant beneath him in the damp leaves, his other hand instinctively reaching for the kitchen knife he'd stolen days ago, pressed against a vulnerable throat.
A gasp, high and startled, not fearful. Wide, hazel eyes stared up at him, inches from his own. Framed by messy, honey-blonde hair escaping a practical braid, a face smudged with dirt but undeniably fine-featured looked back, more annoyed than terrified.
"Ow! Let go, you great oaf!" The voice was clear, carrying an accent that screamed noble upbringing, even muffled by leaves. "I was just checking if you were dead!"
Gaius froze, the adrenaline crash making his limbs tremble. He wasn't facing an Order knight or a Church seeker. He was pinning a girl. She looked maybe sixteen, seventeen, dressed in sturdy but ill-fitting woodsman's trousers and a tunic that had clearly seen better days. A worn pack lay discarded nearby.
He released her wrist and scrambled back, the knife still held defensively. "Who are you?" His voice was a rasp, rough with disuse and sleep. "What are you doing here?"
She sat up, rubbing her wrist with a scowl that didn't quite reach her intelligent eyes. "Saving you from being eaten by badgers, apparently. Or waking you before I starved. You looked like a corpse. Name's Preston. Preston Lily." She stated it with a casual defiance, but Gaius saw the slight tightening around her eyes as she said her surname. Lily. A minor noble house, if he recalled, based near the western marches. Not Plythe-level, but decidedly Upper House.
"Lily," he repeated flatly, suspicion hardening in his gut. A noble, alone, in the wilderness? Impossible. A trap. It had to be. His gaze darted around the hollow, searching for hidden watchers. "What's a Lily doing prodding vagrants in the woods?"
Preston rolled her eyes, a gesture that seemed incongruously spoiled in their muddy setting. "Running away, same as you, I'd wager. Though you look like you've had a rougher time of it." She gestured towards the stream. "Saw you catch those trout earlier. Skilled. Hungry. Figured sharing was better than trying to steal one and getting stabbed for my trouble." She eyed the knife still in his hand pointedly.
Slowly, warily, Gaius lowered the blade. His stomach growled, betraying him. The trout – two decent-sized ones – lay cleaned and wrapped in broad leaves near the ashes of his tiny, cold fire pit. He had caught them just before collapsing. The thought of food was a powerful motivator against paranoia.
"Fine," he grunted, moving towards the pit. He gathered dry twigs and moss, sparking a small, smokeless flame with practiced ease using flint and steel. Preston watched him intently, her earlier annoyance replaced by keen observation. He spitted the fish, the silence stretching, thick with unspoken questions.
As the fish began to sizzle, releasing a mouth-watering aroma, Preston broke the quiet. "So, are you just a particularly grumpy hermit, or are you running from something specific? Proudmorth's grasp gets itchy this far out?"
Gaius kept his eyes on the fire. "Everyone runs from something in Proudmorth. Or towards something worse."
"True enough," Preston sighed, pulling her knees up to her chin. "My 'worse' is currently waiting in the capital. Lord Brantley Cray. Looks like a boiled pudding, thinks like one too. Father thinks merging our 'influences' is strategic genius." She spat the word 'influences' with the same disdain Mr. Blair had spat 'Hero'. "Strategic for him. My life bartered for a few more trade concessions." She plucked a blade of grass, shredding it absently. "I'd rather take my chances with badgers and grumpy hermits."
Gaius turned the fish. Her story had the ring of truth, the specific bitterness of the trapped. But nobility meant trouble. "You won't last a week out here alone," he stated bluntly. "And if you're missed, they'll send trackers. Hounds. Seekers. Having you near me…" He shook his head. "It paints a target on my back bigger than the one already there."
Preston leaned forward, her hazel eyes suddenly fierce in the firelight. "You think I didn't plan for that? Look." She rummaged in her pack and pulled out a small, worn pouch. Opening it, she smeared a thick, greyish paste onto her palms, then quickly worked it through her hair, darkening the honey-blonde to a dull, mousy brown. Next came a stick of something dark – charcoal or kohl – which she used to subtly alter the lines of her eyebrows and add shadows beneath her cheekbones. In minutes, the fine-featured noble girl was replaced by a weary, plain-faced peasant lad. The change wasn't perfect close up, but at a distance, or in poor light, it was startlingly effective. She even hunched her shoulders slightly, altering her posture.
"Disguise," she said, wiping her hands on her trousers. "Learned it from the players who used to winter on our estate. And I'm not helpless. I can forage, I'm quiet, I know which plants make you sick and which ones might actually help." She gestured towards the cooking fish. "And I notice things. Like how you keep glancing at the treeline like you expect the sky to fall. Like how tired you are, but you move like you're used to hard work. Kitchen? Stables?" She took a breath. "Take me with you. Wherever you're going. Out of Proudmorth. I can help. I can be… less noticeable. And two pairs of eyes are better than one, especially when looking for pursuit."
Gaius stared at her transformed face. She was resourceful. Quick. And her desperation mirrored his own, even if its source was different. Spoiled? Probably. Capable? Undeniably. The fish were done. He handed her one on a broad leaf. She took it eagerly, blowing on the steaming flesh.
He ate mechanically, the hot food a comfort against the pervasive chill of fear and exhaustion. The risks screamed at him. A missing noble would bring a more intense search. Her disguise, while good, wasn't foolproof against magical scrutiny or a determined inquisitor. She was another variable, another potential point of failure.
But… she was also a human connection in a world that had turned utterly hostile. Someone who understood flight. And her skills could be useful. The sheer, reckless gall of her demand mirrored something inside him that hadn't been completely crushed.
"Proudmorth hunts me," he said finally, his voice low and gravelly. "Not just for running. For heresy. For defiance. My family sold me to the Hero and the Princess. They want my head on a spike." He met her disguised eyes, wanting her to understand the sheer magnitude of the danger. "Anyone with me is a target. The Church, the Order, my own blood… they won't stop. Ever."
Preston held his gaze, a flicker of genuine fear in her hazel eyes, quickly masked by defiance. She took a deliberate bite of fish. "Sounds dreadfully boring for them," she said, her voice slightly muffled. "Chasing one runaway heretic. Adding a runaway noble brat might at least make it interesting." She swallowed. "My family won't lift a finger for me, not openly. They'll search, but discreetly, to avoid scandal. They won't want it known I bolted. Less fuss than your… situation. I'm probably just an annoying fly compared to your heresy." She offered a weak, lopsided smile. "Besides, what's the alternative? You leave me here, I get caught by bandits or Brantley's agents, or I starve. You take me, maybe we both get caught, maybe we both get away. Same risk for me, marginally increased risk for you, marginally increased chance of survival for both of us. Seems logical."
Gaius almost laughed. Logic. Spoken like someone who'd never felt the icy grip of true despair. Yet, her cold assessment held a sliver of sense. Her disappearance wouldn't trigger the full might of the state, not immediately. And the thought of condemning her… it echoed the betrayal he'd suffered too keenly.
He finished his fish, tossing the bones into the fire where they spat and crackled. Dawn was strengthening, turning the grey light to pale gold filtering through the willow branches. Time was moving. Hunters didn't rest.
"You slow me down, you follow my lead without question," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You maintain that disguise always outside this hollow. You don't ask questions about where I'm going or why. You do exactly as I say when I say it, especially if I tell you to run or hide. Understand?"
Preston Lily, the slightly spoiled, undeniably clever runaway noble, nodded, her expression suddenly serious. "Understood. Lead on, Grumpy."
Gaius stood, kicking dirt over the dying embers. He scanned the treeline, his senses straining against the morning chorus of birdsong. The coin was lost, the path unchosen. Fate had thrown him this unpredictable variable. Taking Preston Lily was a risk that tasted like ash and desperation. But leaving her felt like another kind of betrayal, a surrender to the cold isolation Proudmorth demanded. He shouldered his meagre pack.
"We head west," he said, the decision settling like a stone in his gut. "Towards the Elk Teeth Pass. Slow. Quiet. And if you scream, Preston Lily, I will leave you for the badgers." He didn't wait for a reply, melting into the shadows beneath the trees. After a heartbeat's pause, the figure of the plain-faced peasant lad scrambled after him, disappearing into the vast, uncertain wilderness beyond Proudmorth's reach.