The warehouse breathed like a beast brought low but not yet dead.
Smoke pooled beneath the rafters, thick and fragrant, curling in lazy ribbons that glowed faintly in the firelight leaking through cracked boards and broken shutters. The scent of burning weed was everywhere—sweet, resinous, cloying—so dense it felt like it could be scooped by the handful. It coated the tongue, softened the edges of thought, slowed time just enough to make the pounding of a heart feel louder than it should.
Oscar stood still and let the air work its magic on him. He inhaled deeply ,one breath, exhaling.
Then another.
His lungs burned, chest heaving from the sprint, the fight, the narrow miss with death. His hands trembled, not with fear exactly, but with the aftershock of adrenaline that had nowhere left to go. He bent slightly at the waist, hands braced on his knees, and dragged in another breath of smoke-heavy air.
Okay, he told himself. Okay. You're alive.
He straightened, slapped his cheeks—once, twice—the sound sharp in the hollow space. The sting cut through the haze. He jogged in place, boots thudding softly against the warehouse floor, arms pumping as if motion itself could shake the doubt loose.
"You got this," he muttered. "You absolutely got this."
The words felt thin at first, like paper shields, but he repeated them anyway. Sometimes belief wasn't about truth—it was about necessity.
His thoughts ran ahead of him, tumbling over one another in a rush.
After this, he thought, go rescue a princess.
The idea was absurd when he really looked at it. Dealers didn't rescued princesses ,knights did. Heroes in stories with clean endings and clear morals. Not men standing in smoke-filled warehouses with stolen weed in a bag of holding and blood still drying on their knuckles.
Then, he added grimly, run for my life.
Because if everything collapsed—if the fields burned too much, if arrests followed, if the wrong names were spoken in the wrong rooms—Stephanie had a way out.
She could deny it all.
She could say she knew nothing. That she'd been kept in the dark. That some foolish commoner had acted alone, without her knowledge or consent.
And people would believe her.
The thought twisted something sharp and uncomfortable in his gut. It would ruin him completely. But it would save her.
Oscar shook his head.
No, he thought. She wouldn't.
Stephanie hated lies when they were used as chains. She hated being protected into powerlessness even more. She wore her defiance quietly, like a second spine, stiff and unyielding beneath silk and ceremony.
"She'd rather die," Oscar whispered into the smoke, "than live another minute in that gilded cage."
That certainty steadied him more than anything else could have.
He reached down and picked up the rectangular black metal box, its surface dented and smeared with drying blood. He hesitated only a moment before opening his coat and sliding the formulas inside, tucking them close to his chest. The papers crinkled softly, warm from his body heat.
He let the empty box fall to the ground.
It hit the floor with a dull, hollow clang and rolled to a stop near a stack of crates, already meaningless.
Oscar patted his coat twice, as if reassuring the contents—and himself. "You're in good hands," he said quietly.
Then he turned and left the warehouse.
The night outside was chaos given shape.
Fire ruled the fields now.
What should have been a controlled blaze—a flash of distraction, a wedge of confusion—had grown into something vast and hungry. Nearly four-fifths of the weed fields were gone, flames racing through the rows like living things, leaping and bowing in the wind. The fire painted the sky in violent shades of orange and green, sparks lifting upward like embers from a giant altar.
Laughter rang out.
So did singing.
Adventurers danced around the inferno, arms slung over shoulders, faces flushed and radiant, boots stomping to rhythms only they could hear. Dealers laughed too loudly, their fear drowned beneath smoke and intoxication, voices slurred into careless joy. Someone had started a drumbeat on an overturned crate. Someone else howled in approval.
It wasn't a riot anymore.
It was a festival gone feral—a massive cannabis bonfire blazing beneath the open sky.
Oscar stopped short, staring at the situation that continues to spiral into festive choas.
"Shit," he breathed.
This wasn't the plan.
Just a corner of the field. Enough noise to pull eyes away. Enough chaos to slip through unseen.
Not… this.
He rubbed his temples, eyes narrowing as his mind sprinted ahead, tallying consequences faster than the fire spread.
When their boss hears about this, he thought, he's going to want blood.
And the buyers, known from as individual hastlers?
That thought made him wince.
They wouldn't just be angry. They'll be you're furious, definitely be on the look out for his head in it's retaliation of their potential lost profits, those buyers did dangerous things when money's involved—like shaking hands with enemies they normally wouldn't touch.
"Its only matter of time," Oscar muttered, "they'll join forces."
The idea settled heavy and cold in his stomach.
"What a pain in the ass."
Before ,Oscar left the warehouse completely, his eyes caught a familiar shape on the dirt—the gun, he abandoned previously. Oscar grimaced but picked it up, turning it over in his hand. It felt wrong there, heavy and unbalanced. He knew the basics—trigger, safety—but little beyond that.
He preferred fists. Fists were honest.
Still, tonight wasn't about preference.
He tucked the gun awkwardly into his pants at his hip. It dug uncomfortably into his side, impractical and obvious, but it would have to do. He adjusted the strap of his now-bulging bag of holding, took one last look at the burning fields, and moved on.
Time was bleeding away.
Arthur stood rooted to the spot, arms pinned.
Two women clung to him, one a dealer, the other an adventurer, both laughing too hard at jokes that never quite formed. Their eyes were glassy, smiles wide and unfocused. Fingers traced the lines of his arms, poked at his chest, patted his backside with utterly unfiltered enthusiasm.
"Come on, big boy ,pull out that excalibur ,already." the dealer giggled, words melting together. "Show us what your packing."
"Yeah!" the adventurer chimed in, nodding far too seriously. "Don't be shy." she added in a sing-song voice, as if delivering the punchline to the world's funniest joke.
Arthur's face burned.
He stood stiff as a statue, unsure where to put his hands, acutely aware of every point of contact. The attention was overwhelming, chaotic, and deeply embarrassing. His ears rang with laughter, his thoughts tangled, and for a moment he wondered if this—this—was how he died.
The women laughed harder, leaning into him—
Then their laughter softened.
Words slurred into murmurs.
And finally, they slid down, giggling all the way until the weed claimed them completely. They sprawled at his feet, unconscious smiles still on their faces.
Arthur carefully freed himself and stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Sorry, ladies," he said, voice gentle despite everything. "But there's only one woman that has my eye."
He turned away, exhaling in relief.
As he walked, his thoughts churned. How had a clean operation unraveled into this? How had discipline turned into dancing, arrests into bonfires?
Firelight flickered at the edge of his vision.
Movement.
Arthur squinted, vision still hazy, head light from the smoke.
At the edge of the chaos, someone was running—not stumbling, not weaving, but cutting through the madness with purpose.
A dealer? he thought at first.
He blinked hard.
No.
That was Oscar.
Arthur straightened, focus snapping into place like a drawn blade. Duty surged through him, sharp and cold. He started forward, boots crunching against scorched earth. He would not allow anyone to escape.
Oscar, meanwhile, had already decided.
Stealth was gone. Subtlety had burned with the crops.
He broke into a sprint, lungs screaming as he tore away from the fire and laughter, aiming for the dark line of trees beyond the fields. San Cordellion, lights glimmered faintly in the distance, a promise he might not reach in time.
Behind him, footsteps thundered.
Fast.
Oscar glanced back and swore.
Arthur was closing in, eyes bloodshot but burning with fierce clarity, expression carved from iron resolve. He looked unstoppable—a man who had chosen his path and would not deviate.
"Damn it," Oscar hissed, veering sharply toward the woods.
Arthur followed without hesitation.
They plunged beneath the canopy, branches whipping past, roots and stones threatening to trip them with every step. Moonlight filtered through the leaves in broken shards, painting the forest floor in silver and shadow.
Oscar's legs burned. Each breath felt like swallowing fire. He ducked low branches, leapt fallen logs, his boots skidding on damp earth.
Arthur stayed on him, relentless, closing the distance inch by inch.
"Stop!" Arthur shouted, voice rough but commanding.
Oscar didn't slow.
The woods swallowed them whole, firelight fading behind as the chase carved deeper into darkness. Leaves tore at clothing. Twigs snapped underfoot. The forest seemed to lean in, watching.
Arthur gained ground, stride steady and powerful.
Oscar pushed harder, lungs screaming, heart pounding like it might break free of his chest.
Behind them, the fields burned.
Ahead of them, the night stretched on.
And the chase had only just begun.