The morning light had barely touched Veyrahn's sandstone walls when everything went wrong.
Ryn and Lysandra were sharing a loaf of bread near the square — quiet, almost peaceful for once. Then a shadow fell across them.
"Don't. Move."
The voice was female, low and steady, carrying the edge of steel.
Before Ryn could turn, a flash of light cut through the air.
The bread in his hand split clean in two.
He blinked, staring at it. "...That was expensive bread."
The woman stepped into view — tall, leather-clad, her hair tied in a loose braid the color of copper fire. A glowing spirit mark burned faintly across her arm — shaped like a hawk's wing, its edges pulsing with light.
Lysandra whispered, "A spirit hunter."
Ryn groaned. "Of course she is. Can't even eat breakfast in peace."
The woman's eyes were gold, sharp and cold. "The Ice Fox," she said. "Traitor of Solvane. You're worth more than gold dust and a crown."
He sighed. "That's flattering, really, but I'm busy being not arrested today."
The hawk mark flared. The air shifted. A burst of cutting wind shot toward him — slicing through the stall's cloth canopy like paper.
Ryn yanked Lysandra aside just in time. "Okay, she's serious!"
They bolted, weaving through crowds, ducking under carts and hanging banners. The bounty hunter's spirit flared again, sending gusts of slicing wind in their wake — each strike closer than the last.
Ryn skidded into a narrow alley. "Left or right?"
"Anywhere away from her!" Lysandra snapped.
They burst through a heavy wooden door — and froze.
The smell hit them first. Sweat, smoke, fear. Then the sound — chains clinking, voices murmuring, the faint weeping of someone too tired to cry.
Rows of cages stretched across a dimly lit hall. Men, women, and children inside — collars glowing faintly with runes that drained their spirits.
A slave market.
Lysandra stiffened beside him. Her face was calm, but her eyes — sharp, cold, furious — told another story. She had seen this before, but it never stopped cutting.
Ryn swallowed. His mask hid his expression, but his hands clenched.
"This city's supposed to be neutral," he muttered. "Guess morality's not for sale."
They kept walking, pretending to belong, heads low. The crowd here was rich — nobles, merchants, cloaked strangers counting coins. The auctioneer's voice boomed from the center of the room.
"Next lot! Half-elven, trained in basic spirit work! Start the bid at two hundred silver!"
Ryn wasn't listening — until his eyes caught movement.
In one of the cages near the corner, barely visible through the torchlight, sat a small elf girl. Her hair was pale green but matted with dirt, her eyes dull gold. She couldn't have been more than ten. Her wrists were bruised from chains. She looked up once — not pleading, not crying. Just… empty.
Ryn stopped.
Lysandra noticed. "Ryn. Don't."
He called out to the seller. "Hey! You, with the bad haircut!"
The man ignored him, busy counting coins.
Ryn's voice dropped low. "He ignored me."
"Ryn—"
But he was already moving.
He crossed the floor, silent as shadow, slipping between guards and buyers. A group of wealthy traders stood nearby, pouches gleaming with gold and gemstones.
Ryn brushed past one of them — light as a breeze. By the time the man turned, his purse was gone.
Another step, another pouch. Another.
Lysandra hissed, "You're insane!"
"Efficient," he whispered, already heading back.
He dropped the stolen coins onto the counter in front of the auctioneer. The man blinked, startled.
"For the elf," Ryn said.
"That one's sick," the man said. "Not worth—"
Ryn's tone sharpened. "I didn't ask for your opinion."
Something in his voice made the man pale. He fumbled with keys, unlocked the cage, and stepped back.
Ryn knelt. The girl flinched, shrinking away.
"Easy," he said quietly. "You're safe now."
She didn't answer, just stared — confused, trembling.
He lifted her gently, wrapping his cloak around her small frame. She was frighteningly light.
Lysandra followed close, glancing at the guards. "Ryn, every bounty hunter in the city is after you. And now you're carrying a child."
"Then we better walk faster," he said.
They slipped out through the back, vanishing into the labyrinth of alleys. The city noise faded to the hum of the poorer districts.
Finally, they reached a crooked building with a half-broken sign that read: "Physik & Miracle — Dr. Harl."
The place looked like it was losing a fight with gravity. But it was the only clinic in Veyrahn.
Ryn pushed the door open. The smell of herbs and smoke hit them. Shelves overflowed with bottles, papers, and suspiciously glowing jars.
Behind the counter, a man looked up — middle-aged, hunched, with glasses so thick they made his eyes look like magnifying lenses.
"Ah," the doctor said slowly. "You again. The one who paid me in counterfeit gold last time."
Ryn blinked. "Different fox."
The doctor squinted at the girl in his arms, then sighed. "Put her on the table. And don't touch anything glowing."
Ryn laid her down gently. The little elf stirred, her hand twitching toward his sleeve, gripping weakly.
He froze — then covered her hand with his.
"It's okay," he murmured. "You're going to be fine."
Lysandra watched from the doorway, arms folded. She didn't speak, but her expression softened — pride hidden under exasperation.
Outside, the sun dipped low, painting the city in molten gold. Somewhere far behind them, the bounty hunter prowled through the markets, hawk-mark burning brighter, following faint trails of frost.
But for that moment, in the small crooked clinic, the Ice Fox had stopped running.