Aron's eyes opened slowly, his vision swimming into focus on rough-hewn beams crossing the ceiling above him. The wood was dark with age, scarred with old tool marks, and morning light slanted through a narrow window cut into stone walls thick enough to muffle whatever sounds carried from the street below.
This wasn't the carriage. This wasn't the road.
He tried to sit up. Pain flared in his side, sharp and hot, like the blade was punching through him all over again. He gasped, his hand flying to where Israel's knife had found its mark.
Nothing. Just smooth skin under a clean shirt he didn't recognize. The fabric was rough linen, scratching against his palm, and it smelled faintly of soap, the cheap kind that left a chemical bite in your nose.
'What?'
He threw the blanket off (coarse wool, surprisingly warm) and lifted the shirt. No wound. No scar. Not even a bruise marring the pale skin of his side. Just an ache deep in the muscle, like the memory of being stabbed was still there but the damage itself had been erased.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together.
'I let my guard down. One moment of carelessness and I nearly died.'
The anger sat hot in his chest, a coal that wouldn't go out. Four years of learning to survive in this world. Four years of never letting anyone get close, of watching every shadow, of sleeping with one eye open. And he'd dropped his guard the second the fight ended, like some amateur who thought danger only came from the front.
Like someone who'd forgotten that in this world, trust could kill you.
He stood slowly, testing his balance. His legs were weak but functional, trembling slightly as they took his weight. The room was small: a bed with a thin mattress, a single wooden chair with a cracked seat, and a narrow table near the door. His uniform jacket hung over the chair, cleaned of blood and dirt, though he could see where the fabric had been mended along one sleeve.
The chair itself was empty. No girl sitting watch. No Elara.
A piece of parchment sat folded on the table, held down by a chipped clay cup.
Aron walked over, his bare feet cold against the floorboards, and picked up the letter. The paper was cheap, the kind sold in market stalls, thin enough that he could see the shadow of ink bleeding through from the other side. He unfolded it carefully.
The handwriting was neat, practiced, better than he'd expected from a girl who'd been running for her life. The letters were small and precise, written with a steady hand.
Left before dawn. Stayed long enough to make sure the healer closed the wound. Had to go. One of the horses is gone, I took it. People are watching the inn. Men in dark cloaks, asking questions. I left before they could connect us. Your carriage is at the stable two streets south. Everything's paid for with your coin. I'm sorry for taking it. Thank you for not letting them kill me.
No signature.
Aron crumpled the letter slowly, his fingers tightening until the paper compressed into a hard ball, then dropped it on the table. It bounced once and rolled to a stop near the cup.
'Smart. Staying would've gotten her killed.'
And probably him too, if those men were still hunting. The kind of people who sent multiple attackers after one girl didn't give up easily. They'd keep looking. Keep asking questions. Keep applying pressure until they found what they wanted.
He pulled on his uniform jacket, the fabric stiff but clean, and checked his pockets. The sealed letter from his father was still there, the wax seal unbroken, his father's sigil pressed into the red wax, a wolf's head in profile. The money was gone. Made sense, she'd needed it to pay for the room, the healer, the stable. Practical.
He left the room, closing the door behind him.
---
The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended into the common room below. The innkeeper was wiping down the bar, a heavyset man with flour dusting his apron and forearms thick as logs. He looked up as Aron reached the bottom step, his eyes flicking briefly to Aron's side before returning to his face.
"Your carriage is two streets south," the innkeeper said, his voice rough as gravel. He gestured with the rag in his hand, pointing toward the door. "At Marlow's stable. The girl settled everything before she left." He paused, then added, "Healer did good work, looks like."
Aron nodded once and walked toward the door.
"There were men asking about her," the innkeeper said quietly, stopping Aron mid-step. "This morning, before dawn. Dark cloaks. Unfriendly types." He went back to wiping the bar, not looking up, his movements deliberate. "They didn't ask about you."
Aron glanced back. The innkeeper's face was carefully neutral, but there was a warning in his tone. A warning that said: 'You weren't mentioned, but that could change.'
"Appreciate it," Aron said, and pushed the door open.
---
The street outside was already busy with morning traffic. Merchants were setting up their stalls, calling out prices for bread and vegetables. A woman haggled over a basket of apples, her voice sharp as she demanded a better price. Two children darted between the crowd, laughing, chasing each other with sticks. Aron moved among them, keeping his head down, and that's when he spotted them.
Two men stood across from the inn, leaning against a brick wall. They weren't moving. Just watching. One wore a dark cloak that hung past his knees, the fabric heavy and well-made. The other kept his hand near his belt, where a knife handle jutted from a leather sheath worn smooth from use.
'Still hunting her.'
Aron kept walking, his pace steady, not hurrying. Hurrying drew eyes. Hurrying made you memorable.
The stable was where Elara had said it would be. A weathered building with peeling paint on the sign that read Marlow's in faded letters, the wood underneath showing through in patches. The doors were open, and inside, a single horse stood already hitched to his carriage. The animal looked rested, its coat brushed clean. The stable master, an old man with a pronounced limp, waved him through without a word, not even asking for payment.
Everything settled. Everything paid for.
Aron climbed up onto the driver's seat, took the reins in his hands, leather worn soft from years of use, and guided the horse out into the street.
The road west was packed with travelers. Merchants hauling carts loaded with grain sacks and barrels. Families in wagons, their belongings stacked high and tied down with rope that creaked with every bump. Students in green uniforms, some on horseback, others walking in groups, all heading the same direction.
Aron kept to himself. His side still ached, not the wound, but the memory of it. A reminder that he'd gotten sloppy. That years of survival meant nothing if you let your guard down for even a second.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning chill and turning the air warm. The road widened as more travelers joined from side paths, all funneling toward the same destination.
Then he saw the walls.
Massive stone fortifications rising fifty feet into the air, stretching farther than he could see in either direction. Guard towers dotted the length of them, evenly spaced, with banners snapping in the wind, blue and gold, the colors of Neravia. Beyond the walls, buildings climbed even higher, their rooftops visible above the battlements. White marble structures caught the sunlight and threw it back in brilliant flashes that made him squint.
Neravia.