It was barely a plan. In truth, it was little more than a desperate, crude attempt to leverage her misery before his own window of opportunity slammed shut.
Cassian moved through the dark side streets of Solmere, his hood pulled low and his hand resting near his hilt. He was running out of time, and he knew it. Telling Amy she had two days was a wildly optimistic estimate—a lie meant to give her the illusion of control.
The search parties from the North could reach these gates far faster than that. If he didn't act with absolute speed, there was a very real chance he would be pinned inside these city walls. And if they caught him here, surrounded by stone and crowded alleys, he wouldn't even have the space to swing his blade before they cut him down. He had to move, and he had to move now.
"All the places in the world," Cassian muttered under his breath, keeping his eyes fixed on the muddy cobblestones ahead, "and somehow they manage to head straight south? Isn't that a bit too convenient?"
"You weren't exactly inconspicuous," Dea's voice rang inside his skull, dry and devoid of sympathy. "With all the sudden turns, the double-backs, and the days spent lingering in public houses, a child with an ink quill could have pieced your route together."
"It still feels off," Cassian thought back, his jaw clenching as he rounded a corner toward the tavern district. "It feels like someone handed them a map. But that doesn't matter now. What do you think of the girl?"
"What do you expect me to think?"
"I expect you to tell me you'll actually do something useful for once," Cassian retorted mentally. "Perhaps whisper to her in her sleep. Slide into her dreams and convince her that her only choice is to walk out those gates with me."
"I can do that?" Dea asked, her tone mocking.
"I don't know," Cassian snapped. "Can you?"
"Of course not," she replied instantly. Then, after a brief, deliberate pause, she added, "Though... I do know she'll agree."
"Oh, really?" Cassian smirked faintly in the dark. "And how exactly do you know that?"
"Call it a feeling."
"Thank you for that, Dea. It is very comforting to base my life on your feelings."
He finally reached the street where his tavern sat. The heavy timber sign creaked in the midnight breeze. As he pushed through the low-hung entrance, he felt the immediate shift in the room. The few late-night drunks and idle travelers sitting near the hearth turned their heads, their eyes tracking him as he crossed the floor. They were always looking at him. Every time he walked through that doorway, a dozen pairs of eyes seemed to anchor onto his shoulders.
"Say," called out an innkeeper, a stout, balding man sitting behind a high ledger desk near the stairs. "How long have you been staying here again?"
Cassian stopped, keeping his expression entirely neutral. "Don't you have that written down in your ledger?"
"Just checking," the innkeeper said, tapping a dirty fingernail against the yellowed parchment. "Seeing if the numbers tally up."
"Five days," Cassian replied
"Oh. That's what it says here," the man murmured, squinting at the page. "Thank you."
What was that?
Cassian stepped past the desk. He didn't have the time or the patience to worry about an innkeeper's sloppy record-keeping. He just had to pray that Amy would be standing at her window tomorrow morning with her boots laced up.
He walked down the narrow corridor toward the cellar stairs, intending to grab a quiet drink before turning in, but stopped dead at the entrance. The innkeeper was down there now, speaking in low, hurried whispers to a heavy-set man seated at a corner table.
It was the same man Cassian had spotted sitting near the window yesterday. Both of them immediately cut their conversation short, turning their heads in unison to stare directly at him.
The man at the table looked completely ordinary on the surface—he wore a rough wool tunic, mud-splattered trousers, and carried the relaxed posture of a common merchant. That is precisely what Cassian would have assumed he was, had he not caught the telltale bulge of a broadsword scabbard tucked against the bench leg. As their eyes met, the man's right hand drifted downward, his thick fingers hovering inches above the leather grip.
They locked eyes across the dimly lit room for five long, agonizing seconds. Then, without a word, the stranger slid off his bench, stood up, and walked out the side door into the alley.
"What was that?" Dea murmured, her tone suddenly dropping its usual sarcastic edge.
"I don't know," Cassian thought, his hand tightening over his belt. "But we should leave. Right now. I've been in this place too long."
"Agreed."
Cassian turned on his heel, took the stairs two at a time, and ducked into his small room. He didn't bother looking around. He had almost nothing to pack—just the small leather satchel containing his coin, a spare roll of linen.
He slung the strap over his shoulder, pulled his cloak tight, and walked straight back out the door.
As he crossed the main landing, the innkeeper scurried out from behind his desk, blocking the path to the front entrance.
"What are you doing, sir? Where are you going at this hour?"
This man was getting far too nosy for his own good.
"I'm leaving," Cassian said flatly, keeping his stride steady. "I'm sure I paid you in full for yesterday."
"Yes... but so late?" The innkeeper wringing his hands, eyes darting toward the street outside. "Why don't you stay a bit longer? Rest until dawn?"
"I don't think that's any of your concern," Cassian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. "Or are you always this intimate with your paying guests?"
The innkeeper stared at Cassian, his jaw working as he opened his mouth, then bit down hard on his lower lip. He clearly had something specific to say, but he thought otherwise
Cassian pushed past him toward the heavy wooden door, but before his hand could touch the latch, the side entrance swung open. The large man from the cellar stepped straight into the room, angling his broad body so that he collided heavily into Cassian's shoulder.
It was entirely intentional. The impact was like hitting a wall of solid stone.
"Oh my," the man rumbled, his voice thick and deep. "I'm so terribly sorry, friend."
The accent was unmistakably Northern—heavy, flat, and hard-edged. Up close, the man was massive, built like a boulder with thick wrists and a wide, scarred jaw.
Cassian simply offered a tight nod, refusing to engage as he stepped around him toward the street.
"Come now," the man called out, turning to follow him into the doorway. "Let me buy you a drink to make up for my clumsiness."
"Not necessary," Cassian said, not even bothering to turn his head to look at him.
Before Cassian could take another step onto the street, a massive hand clamped down on his upper arm. The thick, calloused fingers wrapped entirely around his biceps, locking his arm in an iron grip.
"I insist," the man grunted, his tone dropping the polite facade entirely.
Cassian tensed his shoulder, attempting to twist his arm free with a sharp, practiced wrench, but the man's hold didn't budge an inch. The sheer physical strength behind the grip was unnatural.
"Okay," Cassian responded softly, abandoning the struggle.
They walked back into the quiet tavern and sat down opposite each other at a small round table near the hearth.
"So, what do you want?" the man asked, leaning forward with an ugly, broad grin. "Beer? Ale?"
"I don't drink," Cassian replied, sitting back and letting his hands rest casually on the tabletop.
"Oh? Why is that? Not old enough yet?" The man chuckled, leaning his elbows on the wood. "What's your name, by the way?"
Cassian stared at him, his face a mask of absolute stone. "You can stop the pretense now. People like you aren't usually this chatty."
The ugly smile on the man's face dropped instantly, washing away like wet paint sliding off a brick wall, leaving behind a cold, ruthless stare.
"You know?" the Northman asked softly.
"That they sent you to hunt me down and kill me? Yes."
"Very sharp, aren't we?" The man grunted, shifting his weight on the bench. "It's no surprise a rat like you has managed to survive this long." He paused, his eyes narrowing in genuine curiosity. "But why did you follow me back inside? You had the door open. You could have run into the dark."
"Because I didn't know if you had more bloodhounds waiting outside in the alley," Cassian said evenly. "And mostly because I have a message for the Archon."
The Northman looked genuinely shocked for a split second, before his chest swelled and he let out a harsh, barking laugh that echoed off the timber rafters. "A message for the Archon? You say this to my face, boy, knowing I have no intention of letting you walk out of this room alive?"
Cassian leaned in slightly, his dark eyes locking onto the hunter's pupils with terrifying clarity. "You tell him that I'm coming. And I will have his head on a spike. Or I'll die trying."
The Northman's laughter died instantly. A dark, lethal seriousness settled over his rugged face as he stared at the boy across the table.
"For the crimes of devil worship, heresy, and treason against his holiness the Archon," the man growled, his voice vibrating in his chest, "you will die on this dirt today, boy."
For one agonizing second, absolute stillness fell over the tavern. Neither man breathed. They sat three feet apart, staring into each other's eyes, Cassian's right fingers hovering half an inch above his sword pommel.
Then, the Northman exploded into motion.
He slammed his massive hands beneath the heavy oak table, flipping it violently into the air. Chaos erupted. Wood splintered, clay mugs shattered against the floorboards, and iron steel cleared leather in the exact same heartbeat. The Northman's broadsword whistled through the air in a swift, lethal arc meant to sever Cassian's head from his shoulders.
Cassian ducked instantly, dropping his center of gravity and rolling across the beer-slicked floorboards as the heavy blade bit deep into the pine pillar behind him.
Before the Northman could wrench his blade free, he lunged again, delivering a brutal side-kick toward Cassian's ribs. Cassian caught the blow against the underside of a fallen wooden chair, kicking the furniture directly into the hunter's shins to buy a fraction of a second.
He had no intention of standing here to fight a duel. He didn't draw his sword to engage; instead, he scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the side exit door, and burst out into the night air.
He sprinted into the dark alleyway, his boots slamming against the wet cobblestones as the heavy, thundering footsteps of the Northman gave chase close behind.
How had they found him so fast? Solmere was a sprawling, chaotic border city with thousands of transient souls. Even if it wasn't the easiest place to hide, what were the odds that a Northern hunter would just happen to walk into the exact same tavern he was occupying?
He had to get out of this district—out of this entire city—as fast as his legs could carry him, before they alerted the local garrison and imposed a total lockdown on the city gates.
Could they even do that down here in the South? Did the Archon's reach extend far enough to seal a neutral trading hub? Cassian gritted his teeth, his lungs burning as he darted into a dark labyrinth of side alleys. He wasn't going to stick around to find out.