By all accounts, Petyr reasoned, his mission was a success. It just looked like a failure at the present moment.

The cell was not the type usually reserved for errant diplomats or lords. Those were much nicer, more akin to a normal bedroom suite than an actual prison. They typically had a servant attending, ensuring that the prisoner was kept well. Often these matters were merely circumstantial and temporary. It wouldn’t do to sit down at dinner with a man you had locked in a cold cell for months and try to talk him into signing a peace treaty.

It was clear that Sephiria was no longer concerned with diplomacy between their countries. This was a pauper’s cell, a punishment cell. Cold, gray stone everywhere, a tiny shaft of light emanating from somewhere high above. His bottom was cold, as were his legs, from their contact with the hard floor of the cell. His hands were falling asleep, arms clasped in chains behind him. Father would not be pleased.

Petyr righted himself and stood. Oh well, he thought, when was he ever? It was a good thing he had ditched most of his tools prior to entering the manor. The guards had been very…thorough in their search and had only missed a hairpin, tight against his scalp, that he kept for occasions like these. He could see his father now, smirking at the sight of him. “Yes, yes…it’s all very useful now. You win, I suppose,” he muttered to no one in particular. He was begrudgingly thankful, even to the shade of a father who was, himself, somewhat of a ghost.

“Let’s get to it, then.” He drew in a deep breath and jumped, drawing his arms in front of him so that he could actually move them now. He retrieved the hairpin and got to work on the first of the shackles. It was lucky for him that he had been arrested here, in Sephiria, instead of one of the empire’s more thoroughly occupiednterritories; the Solarians were big fans of innovation and had “adopted” Zephyrian technology. Which meant they had kidnapped artisans and metallurgists from his kingdom and forced them to reveal the secrets of their trade. Those locks would have been nearly impossible to pick, even for the Grey Peregrine. As it was, his had was cramping from fiddling with the lock.

The right-hand lock swung open and Petyr breathed a sigh of relief. The next was much easier, then the shackles on both legs. Now he stood, free. Or free-ish. There was still the matter of being in a prison cell. About ten feet up there was a narrow window, about one foot wide. For most prisoners, there would be no hope of getting up there, much less of getting through. Petyr, however, knew better.

He took a running start and landed a few feet up the wall, attempting to make a few more footfalls on the wall. His bare feet scraped against the hard stone and he fell back down to the floor, scraping his knee. He gritted his teeth and tried again. This time, he measured the distance more correctly, his body lifted into the air (despite his now protesting knee), propelled by his forward momentum, and he took three steps on the wall before pushing up and getting hand-hold on the window. He pulled himself up, not as effortless as he would have liked. He blamed the lack of water from his stint in the cell. Petyr wasn’t sure if this slit in the wall had been made for aesthetic reasons, but they had not counted on holding a 13 year-old boy prisoner. Much less a boy who had made a practice of acrobatics from a young age. He sidled through the window, just slim enough to squeeze through, and looked down from the ledge.

As he had imagined, this was not a hugely secure area - it was just a fortified room in the manor, stupidly placed above the exterior wall that surrounded the manor grounds. Sadly, the chancellor had not been accommodating enough to place a hay bale below the window for his convenience. Oh well, he thought, more climbing it is.

Once over the wall, he assessed his situation. His clothes were the same as they had been - fine and clearly the raiments of of a noble, aside from his bare feet. Not a good thing. He looked around as casually as possible. There was a stable nearby, clearly for the servants who lived outside the Manor. His eyes narrowed with opportunism. Sure enough, there was a pile of clothes from stable hands that had been cast off. He dug until he found what he was looking for - rags that had become too dingy and tattered for a respectable stable hand to wear. A pair of muddied boots in the corner. Perfect.

As Petyr changed, alarm bells rang in the distance. He took a a peek through the open door. There were guards pouring out of the chancellor’s manor. His absence had been noticed, it seemed. His disguise would likely work, but more was needed to ensure no one recognized him. He eyed one of the larger piles of manure by the stable. Well….one often had to do what one had to do.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

A casual observer may have noticed a dirty peasant boy emerging from the stables. They would have noted his shabby clothes, barely decent enough to be in public, and the cringing way he walked. Then they would have registered the smell. Clearly, the boy must be an invalid. They would not see a prince before them, meandering his way back to a rendezvous point in the town below where his captain of the guard was waiting.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Something was buzzing nearby, the drone of bees in spring. Or was it a wasp?

The sound grew fainter as Johan opened his eyes and he realized that his ears were still ringing from the blow to the head he had suffered as he fell. His clothes were soaked, ripped and torn in some spots. A gash ran across his head. He didn’t bother to ponder how he had survived - he was alive and intended to stay that way. Head pounding, ears ringing, Johan heaved himself into a sitting position and assessed his surroundings. He was sitting at the bottom of the ravine, among fallen limbs and overgrowth. He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t been detected, crumpled on the ravine floor like that. By all odds, he should have been poked full of arrows. Yet here he was, with a terrible headache and a body that was, from what he could tell, still functioning properly.

He tentatively stood and felt the weight of his body fight it, his head throbbed with the effort. Despite this, he was on his feet and not as wobbly as he probably should have been. Thank the gods for that. Now to continue his flight. He began to make his way along the ravine - it was a literal kill-box for anyone up against seasoned hunters, but climbing out was sure to make more noise and require more fruitless effort than the situation demanded. With any luck, they had seen him lying there and thought he was dead.

A few minutes into the walk, Johan paused. He was not a ranger, but the atmosphere of the forest had changed. Birds had gone quiet and the buzzing of insects was conspicuously quieter. Somewhere nearby a twig broke. Johan broke into a run and nearly immediately tripped on a protruding root. The crunch of leaves indicated his pursuer was closer, immediately behind the thicket of brush before him. He scrambled back and unsheathed his knife, ready to strike, but the figure who emerged from the foliage before him was not one of the mercenaries. It was a woman, shrouded in a violet cloak. Her blond braided hair traced around her head in an intricate, woven pattern. A mottled dash of war paint darkened her eyes and brow.

“So you must be Johan." She said with accented joviality. "If you had stayed with them another day, we would have accidentally killed you.”

He lowered the knife a little, but did not re-sheath it. “Who are you?”

“I’m Altia” of the Westermindt household. We are lady Westermindt’s sworn guards.”

“Kyleria?”

The strange woman glowered noticeably. “Hardly. Her sister, Fidelia.”

“You don’t seem to be doing any guarding.”

“She doesn’t need it. Trust me in this.” She offered a hand, which he begrudgingly took, and heaved Johan to his feet.

“So why are you here?” He rubbed his head; the adrenaline from his scare was wearing off, leaving him more exhausted than before.

“I have been sent as a favor. For her grace’s sister,” She said with some disdain. The fog of pursuit lifted from Johan’s mind and he understood. Kyleria must have asked for help. For Kel.

“So what do you need me for?” He sheathed the dagger.

“I’m told you were an intelligence officer at the capitol once upon a time. A spy of some sort. That you were able to research and interrogate.”

“That’s largely correct.” Johan frowned. Would Kyleria have told her sister any of that business? Surely not.

“I need you for the tasks ahead. I’m in need of someone who can research and Lady Fidelia claims you are proficient.”

“Proficient in what?”

“Solarian,” She said with a flat tone.

“That…is true. Though there are plenty of folk in this country who can read Solarian. Why me?”

“Call it women’s intuition, but Kyleria felt you were in danger and wanted us to extract you.” He couldn’t really disagree with that point.

“Okay then. Where are we going?”

“The royal archives”

“The Capital?”

“Indeed. You have experience there. I was assured that you can help us remain…unnoticed.”

It pained Johan to think about it, but the strange woman was correct - he did have experience there. Too much experience. The thought of going back to the capital was not a welcome one. As he had last left it, there were still agents left in the city guard who had been complicit in the coup. It was doubtful any remained who hadn’t been traitors. Aside from that, there was one other nagging thought.

“What about Kel - what if they catch him?”

“Do these men have orders to harm him?”

“Well, no.” At least not that he was aware. Johan was still a bit fuzzy about what had transpired with that wolf.

“What if I told you that this favor would free him completely. That he could come back to his home if he wanted.”

“Well, it’s a sight better than getting skewered by mercs.” He smiled mirthlessly.

Altia, servant of the Lady of Westermindt smiled. “Come then. Your hunters are not far behind and I would hate for us to dirty our weapons.

As he scanned the ravine for his pursuers, something else nagged at Johan’s mind. “You said ‘we,’ earlier. And just now, you mentioned ‘our weapons.”

“I did?” she tilted her head a bit.

“Yes.”

“So I did.” She shrugged and started walking.

In the distance five other figures matched their pace, walking parallel to the couple as they made their way through the forest. Johan wasn’t sure if he should be reassured or not, but he chose the former.