Three days passed. The clouds came south from the mountains and mingled with warmer air from the Publaic. Winds and rains churned. The sunlight faded in and out through squalls. But the men still trained. Their feet sloshed through mud and dirtied rainwater as they sparred, beads of water flaying from their swords.

At the end of the third day, the rains were gone, but the clouds and the winds remained. And as the Sun set, darkness fell over the land with eager quickness. In the shadow of dusk, campfires dotted the outskirts of the wall – orange light bathing the tents, the dirt, and the dampened soil.

Heror sat outside his tent again on the third night, silent as he spun his new blade on the ground – tip twirling in the matted grass and dirt. He watched as the firelight glinted off the sword’s metal shaft at each turn, an amber whisper nestled in blackness. Soon he stopped, and his eyes returned to the dirt road.

His new tent was closer to the wall. Most of the siephalls in his new unit were asleep. Beyond the road, the rest of the encampment was largely quiet. He could see no siephalls stirring near the longhouse. The only activity was near the medical tents. Hooded healers lingered and spoke quietly amongst themselves in the low light.

As Heror surveyed the area, he heard footsteps. He turned to see his new siekarum Mastudei stepping onto the campsite. Mastudei eyed the young man with a look of disdain, halting at his tent.

“You’ve been up late every night,” he grumbled. “Do you even sleep?”

Heror said nothing. Mastudei stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and pulled aside his tent flap, retreating inside.

“Stupid half-wit.”

Heror watched as the cover closed behind the siekarum, then turned his eyes back to the road. He was waiting for something. His eyes fell on the path north, which stretched from the wall breach. In the distance, there was a gap in the light that marked the breach. On either side of the breach, guards stood in the torchlight.

Farther off the road, Heror spotted the staircases that led up to the wall platform. Ucankacei had told him about them not long ago, when describing the wall. There was one staircase on either side of the breach. The one on the left had been partially damaged by the Midans, but the one on the eastern side of the breach was darker, unattended by guards, and fully intact.

Heror made a note of his target one last time. Then his eyes turned back toward the northern road. Soon, two patrolling siephalls came into view, slowly making their way down the dirt road. One carried a torch, and both were fully armored, with swords at their belts. They spoke discreetly.

Heror had been watching them the past two nights. Each night starting at dusk, they made their rounds, patrolling the perimeter of the encampment. Heror timed their loop at approximately half an hour, but noticed they slowed their pace as the night went on. It was near midnight now, and as Heror saw the guards approach from the north, he deduced that he had around 40 minutes to sneak to the wall’s eastern staircase before they looped back around.

Heror waited until the guards walked past. And then, when their backs were to him, he stood and started across the road. A quiet gust of wind rushed past him as he crossed onto the other side. He made his way through the field of tents. To his left, far to the north, he could see the wall looming above the rows of canvas. But he wasn’t going there just yet.

He made his way toward the longhouse and proceeded past it, and in minutes, he came to the northernmost medical tent. He lifted the entrance flap, scanning the torchlit interior. Upon seeing Thaeolai’s distinctive blonde hair in the distance, he stepped inside and stood for a moment.

It wasn’t long before Thaeolai noticed him. She gave him a look, then turned and said something to another healer. Heror went to the corner of the tent and sat down on a bed. It wasn’t long before Thaeolai joined him. She approached with a look of apprehension in her eyes. At first, they said nothing. Then Heror spoke.

“Last chance to change your mind.”

Thaeolai still said nothing. Her eyes fell to the floor.

“You said you’d leave with me if you had the chance,” Heror reminded her.

“Which Heror is leaving?” she asked quietly.

Heror blinked.

“What?”

“Which Heror is leaving?” Thaeolai asked again. “The one that smiles, and jokes, and dreams? Or the one that hates the world?”

Heror frowned. He eyed her for a moment, then pursed his lips and let his gaze fall into the shadows. Thaeolai breathed.

“I’ll only go with one of them.”

Heror struggled to find words. For a moment longer, he was silent. Then, his eyes went to the red canvas walls around him, and he turned back to Thaeolai.

“I can’t dream here,” he said, shaking his head.

“And how can you be so sure it’s any better out there?” Thaeolai whispered intensely. “How do you even plan on getting over the wall? You’re rushing into things again, Heror, and it’s going to get you killed.”

“You’re not going to change my mind,” Heror muttered. “I just want an answer. Are you going to change yours?”

“No,” Thaeolai said without hesitation.

Heror glared at her tone, but soon, his expression lightened. He took a deep breath and started to stand, but before he could, Thaeolai stepped toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Before you go…” she told him, “let me check on your ribs one more time. Sit back for me.”

“I don’t have much time,” Heror protested, glancing away.

“This’ll be quick,” Thaeolai reassured him with a forced smile, voice hushed. “We don’t want you trying to climb down the wall with half-broken ribs, do we?”

Heror sighed and sat back in the bed, lifting his feet up onto the mattress. He lifted his armor pads up over his shoulders and tossed them aside, and Thaeolai sat down beside him. She started to unwrap the bandages around his midsection, and after a minute or so, she reached the last layer. As she peeled it away, she saw that his skin was nearly healed. There were only a couple areas of light bruising, now red where they had once been dark and purple.

Thaeolai observed the injury, then pressed her hand onto Heror’s abdomen.

“How does that feel?

“Sore.”

Thaeolai nodded and pressed both hands on Heror’s ribs. She mumbled an incantation again, and Heror’s ribs pulsed green for a fleeting moment. He felt the heat again. The soreness faded. Thaeolai retracted her hands and sat up.

“Your ribs are mostly stable. This should help heal the remaining bruises. I’ll wrap you again and then… you can be on your way.”

Heror sat up, and Thaeolai started to re-wrap his midsection. He felt less pain as she squeezed the bandages around his abdomen. In the silence of the night, he took a deep breath. He relaxed.

“Ucankacei came by yesterday,” Thaeolai said after a silence. “He was asking about you.”

At the sound of the name, Heror tensed up again. His jaw clenched. He gave a solemn shake of his head.

“Don’t know why,” Heror grumbled. “He’s a siekarum now. He has enough to worry about.”

Thaeolai paused wrapping, then frowned and carried on, her brow lowering.

“Was he involved in whatever happened earlier this week?” she prodded. “I tried to ask him, but he was about as talkative as you are. That’s not like him.”

“He has responsibilities now,” Heror muttered, thin sarcasm in his voice. “He’s a man of importance.”

Thaeolai tore off the bandage early and tossed it aside in a sudden burst of anger, surprising Heror. She glared at him, emerald eyes flaring.

“I don’t like the way you’re talking about him,” Thaeolai growled. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t have time,” Heror said simply, sliding to the edge of the bed.

“Ucankacei practically raised you,” Thaeolai hissed as Heror rose to his feet, his bandage sagging. “He took you off the street. He fed you. He taught you. He protected you. And now you’re acting like he doesn’t exist. What happened for all of that to mean nothing now??”

“I have to go,” Heror persisted, putting his armor back on.

“You realize that if you leave…” Thaeolai said, her voice fragile, “… it’ll break his heart.”

Heror had started toward the exit flap, but he stopped at the sound of Thaeolai’s words. His nostrils flared, and he turned back around with a seething glare.

“And it’ll break yours, too?”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Heror snarled. “Using the old man to try and get me to stay. Trying to make me the one who’s in the wrong. How selfish could you be? I don’t think you ever considered leaving with me. I don’t even know why I came here tonight. I should’ve seen it before now. You’re just like him. You can’t will yourself to leave this hell, so you’d rather I burn with you.”

“Heror, what is –”

“You don’t know how hard it’s been for me,” Heror continued. “Neither of you could understand. I’m done staying broken so you can sleep at night. I need to find my home. I need to find my family… because it isn’t here.”

“I thought we were your family,” Thaeolai managed, eyes starting to glisten.

Heror went to turn, but he began to regret his words. He froze mid-step. His breath shriveled.

“It’s not you leaving that breaks my heart,” Thaeolai continued, her voice starting to shake. “This is what you want. I can’t stop you… It’s just… it’s you leaving this way.”

Heror’s eyes stared ahead, pupils twitching back and forth in the shadow. His mouth hung open as he tried to find words. After a long spell of quiet, his eyes fell to the ground. A thick sadness washed over him. He did not turn back around.

“Goodbye, Thaeolai,” he said, his words weak.

Before he said anything else, he forced himself to leave. He took a brisk step forward and hurried back into the night, leaving Thaeolai in a shocked silence.

Outside, a gust of wind met Heror. He walked away from the medical tent and stopped beside another, trying to gather himself. He took a deep breath – and another, and another – and then opened his eyes, letting them fall on the wall in the distance. He took a step forward. However, just as he did so, his eyes scattered to the longhouse.

The longhouse stood not far away, past a few smaller red tents. He could see that the southern entrance was unattended. In the distant torchlight, no siephalls stirred, and the encampment was quiet, save for the wind.

Heror turned his attention back toward the wall, but his thoughts remained on the longhouse. His meeting with Oranthei and the others. How they’d ripped Nihlukei’s wolf patch from his hand.

A wave of low anger came over Heror, and his blue eyes snapped back toward the central tent. Before his thoughts could catch up to him, he stepped to the right and made his way toward the longhouse.

His footsteps were quiet in the matted, brown grass. He thought to glance back toward the road, to check for guards. But he decided not to. This would be quick. He reached the longhouse within a minute, stopping at the southern entry flap. He leaned in toward the canvas, listening for voices, but he heard no one. Now he grabbed the flap and pulled it aside, peering into the large, dimly lit tent.

It was vacant.

Heror slipped inside, careful not to make any unnecessary sounds. He hurried toward the central table and surveyed it as he approached, searching for the small wooden box that was supposed to hold his wolf patch. He saw nothing on the table, however. The Ardysan officials must have cleared it off before retiring to their tents.

Heror’s eyes now darted behind him. On the eastern side of the tent, several smooth wooden writing desks lined the wall, each with cabinet drawers and inkwells. The young man wrenched open the cabinet drawer for the first desk and rummaged through its contents. He found only blank parchment.

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He shut the drawer and went on to the next one. When he opened it, there was a small wail from the wooden joints. He cringed and froze, worried someone would hear. When he heard no one coming to investigate, he carried on. His hand dove into the drawer and scraped from end to end. This one was empty.

Heror closed the second drawer and now moved on to the third. He slid it open and was surprised when the wooden patch box instantly came into view – dark oak wood glinting in the low torchlight.

He reached inside the drawer and picked up the box, carrying it with the care of a piece of jewelry. Upon opening it, he turned through the felt pages. In the dim light, however, he couldn’t recognize the designs on the patches, and so he leaned in closer, squinting in focus.

His fingers worked with speed, and before he realized it, he was at the end of the box collection. He hadn’t seen the wolf patch, but he didn’t panic. He went back to the beginning. In his mind, he repeated the animal names as he saw them. The tiger. The fox. The phoenix…

He reached the end again. Now Heror began to worry. Again, he flipped through – faster. And again, there was no wolf. He was about to repeat the cycle once more, when he heard a voice behind him.

“I think you’re looking for this.”

Heror dropped the box and whirled around, hand rushing to his sword hilt. He took a brisk step back as he turned, and when he did so, he saw the tall figure of siekangh Oranthei standing in the dim light of the longhouse. The man carried a small wolf patch between his index and middle fingers. A slight smile etched onto the siekangh’s face.

Heror heard distant laughter beyond the tent wall. His eyes lashed to the left, then back at Oranthei in a frantic rush. Oranthei stepped toward the young man, holding up a hand.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his intentions unclear. “I won’t give you away. Not yet.”

Heror stared at the siekangh, and watched as the siekangh pinned Heror’s wolf patch to his blue cloak. Then, the siekangh reached for his blade. He slid his weapon out of his sheath quietly and observed its sleek metal, flashing in the firelight.

Heror stepped back, huddling against the wall. When he brushed against the fabric, it startled him. He slowly backtracked toward the southern exit. Oranthei followed, holding out his sword.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the siekangh muttered.

Heror froze.

“I’m the only one who knows you’re here,” Oranthei reasoned. “That changes if you try to run.”

“I made a mistake,” Heror said, holding out a hand in defense. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.”

“Your sorry lies won’t get you anywhere, either,” Oranthei growled. “You came here for the siekariphae patch. You’d be the first suspect once we found it missing, so I assume you planned to leave after that.”

Heror said nothing, his mouth agape. A short, disgusted laugh of confirmation left Oranthei’s chapped lips. He took a step to his left, readying his fighting stance.

“You’re going to die. But I’m going to give you the chance to die with honor. Gods know you don’t deserve it. Ready your weapon.”

“This is a misunderstanding. I can just leave, and we can forget about this–”

“You’ve dishonored Ardys for the last time. This is the only way you leave this tent alive.”

Oranthei opened his free palm, and tucked within Oranthei’s fingers, Heror saw a small bubble of cosmic keawal energy swimming in the low light. Before Heror could make sense of it, Oranthei clapped his palms together – sword still in tow. From the clap, a keawal forcefield surged out like a soundless tsunami. It swept past Heror and extended to the tent walls and ceiling. Heror grunted in confusion, and for a brief moment, his voice was muffled. As his focus and hearing returned, he realized he no longer heard the low bustle of the camp. Whatever Oranthei had done, their noises were hidden to the world.

Now Oranthei violently jabbed at Heror with his sword. Heror dodged back and tripped over his legs, nearly falling.

“Ready your weapon, jhuhk!” Oranthei rasped.

Heror took a few more steps toward the exit, and Oranthei let loose a massive swing to Heror’s right. Heror veered to the left to dodge, and Oranthei cut off the exit. Now Heror backed toward the western wall. Oranthei stayed his advance, eyes burning in the shadows.

“Worthless cretin. Weak… spineless… Now I see why Nihlukei didn’t leave that pass alive…”

Now Heror halted his retreat. His eyebrow twitched. His feet dug into the ground. His jaw clenched. A pulse of red-hot anger rose up inside him, and as Oranthei closed in, Heror’s hand snaked toward his sword handle, concealed in the dark. Oranthei snarled.

“… Having dung droppings like you at his side.”

Oranthei reared again, but as he sent forth his next attack, Heror ripped his sword from his sheath, scraping it against Oranthei’s blade with sudden speed. Sparks flew as metal contacted metal. Heror stepped away from the canvas wall and entered his stance, matching Oranthei. Oranthei smiled teethily.

“That’s it. Fight back. Like the animal you are.”

Heror bowed his head in a predatory glare, shadows washing over his face. The two side-stepped slowly as they faced each other in deathly silence. And then Oranthei made the first move.

Oranthei lunged forward with a low snarl, slicing sideways. Heror blocked, lurching at the surprising force. Now Oranthei heaved his sword in a leftward slice, and Heror had to duck quickly, feeling the breeze of the blade just above his temple.

As he ducked, Heror lost his balance and fell to his knee, and now Oranthei reeled back, unleashing a heavy downward swing. Heror wrenched his sword up again, locking the two in a sharp embrace.

They struggled for a moment, but Heror’s superior leverage soon made the difference. He shoved Oranthei’s sword away, and Oranthei stumbled back. Heror used this opportunity to set his stance again. Oranthei lowered his sword only for a moment, heaving as a strand of white hair hung over his face.

“Going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”

Now Heror sent a quick strike forward, and Oranthei rushed to defend. Their swords clashed before Heror redirected and swung downward. Oranthei mirrored the swing, scraping metal against metal until their weapons unlocked.

In a burst of rage, Oranthei wrenched his sword back to the left. Heror ducked again, then slashed quickly to the right. His sword grazed Oranthei, slicing open the siekangh’s metal thigh guard. Oranthei grunted, and before he could recover, Heror stabbed forward, dislodging Oranthei’s sword from his hand. The blade twisted out from under the siekangh’s fingertips and clanged on the ground behind him.

Seeing a new opportunity, Heror levied a ferocious swipe, but Oranthei leaned back just enough to evade. Heror let out a cry of anger and swung again. But against Heror’s weaker second attempt, Oranthei was able to palm the flat side of the blade and push it upward. Then he grabbed Heror’s sword hand and pulled Heror toward him by the robe collar – so close that Heror could smell the thick, husky pipe smoke in his breath. Fiery blue eyes clashed with torrents of gray. Oranthei’s nostrils flared.

“You… delas…” Oranthei hissed. “You… devil…”

Heror swerved to try and pry himself free. Oranthei scowled and spit in Heror’s face, then let loose a brutal kick to Heror’s midsection. Heror felt his stomach spin. Oranthei shoved him back, and Heror loosened his grip on his sword. With a strong pull, Oranthei tore the blade from Heror’s grasp.

Quickly, Heror’s eyes went to Oranthei’s old sword, which lay on the ground behind the siekangh. He tried to sidestep Oranthei, but the siekangh cut him off, sensing his intent.

“Say your prayers to the Gods while you can,” Oranthei advised, stepping toward the young man. “Though I doubt you’ll even see Sereweh.”

Oranthei sent another strike toward Heror, who attempted to dodge left. But as he flailed, the blade caught his side and sliced open a cut beneath his right armpit.

Heror winced and clasped the open wound, but Oranthei didn’t relent. He swung again with a loud grunt, and Heror lunged back. The siekangh stabbed forward, the tip of his blade coming within inches of Heror’s face. Heror retreated – until his back slammed against a wooden support beam.

Suddenly, Heror found himself trapped as Oranthei sent another stab toward him. With only milliseconds to spare, Heror sprang to the left, and Oranthei sent the sword straight through the middle of the beam. The siekangh tried to wrench the blade out from the pillar, but before he could, Heror regained his footing and charged forward, tackling the siekangh to the ground – leaving the sword embedded in the post.

Heror’s fist connected with the officer’s jaw. The siekangh’s face warped, but it wasn’t more than a second later that his eyes snapped forward again, and his own knuckles scraped Heror’s temple. As Heror swooned from the blow, Oranthei grabbed Heror’s collar with both hands and headbutted, then threw Heror off to the side.

Heror winced. His head pounded. But as he rolled onto his knees and looked back, he saw Oranthei rushing for the sword on the ground. With haste, Heror scrambled to his feet and turned toward the pillar, where the other sword was still lodged. Heror clasped the handle and ripped the sword backward, freeing it from the beam. In the same motion, he swung and deflected an approaching slash from Oranthei. A flurry of sparks erupted and rained.

Oranthei rapidly recovered, and so Heror slid around the support beam, dodging the next blow. He then ran toward the tent’s central table, with Oranthei in pursuit. Now Oranthei was enraged, and he charged after Heror, letting out a grunt as he swung again, this time aiming for the legs. Heror leapt to avoid the attack and jumped onto the table, running across its length before dropping down on the other side.

Lip bloodied, Oranthei ran around the table and swung as Heror dropped down. Heror ducked the swing and brought his sword up to deflect the next, and as Oranthei continued his advance, Heror felt himself growing closer to the northern exit. Before he drifted too far, Heror veered to the left – back toward the table, sword at the ready.

Oranthei was unraveling. He huffed and heaved as he approached Heror again, seething with rage. He snarled again and let forth a mammoth vertical slice. Heror dodged this to the right. Now Oranthei slashed. Heror scraped and squeezed. And now Oranthei sent back a tremendous wind-up, eyes fixed on his target: Heror’s neck.

And in a fleeting moment, Heror saw his opportunity.

With zealous speed, Heror parried Oranthei’s attack and sent forth a quick riposte, stabbing the siekangh in the abdomen. Oranthei grunted in pain and stumbled, and Heror wound back his blood-dipped blade. The momentum was shifting.

Now Heror slashed down at the siekangh’s legs. Oranthei blocked, but Heror kept his balance and swung again, aiming for Oranthei’s left side. Oranthei blocked once more, but lost his footing as Heror levied another strike. Imbalanced, the siekangh raised his sword for another deflection, as Heror too reared his blade. But in a sudden and swift motion, Heror ripped his sword downward in a sideways sweep, and lashed at Oranthei’s ankles.

The blade caught one of Oranthei’s boots, and the siekangh crashed to the ground, dropping his sword. He only had time to roll onto his back and prop himself up before Heror pierced the siekangh’s stomach. Oranthei gritted his teeth in agony, and squirmed as he sunk onto his back again. Heror left the blade linger, and then he ripped it out with force, prompting another groan from Oranthei.

Bleeding from the stomach and abdomen, Oranthei dragged himself back toward a support beam, while Heror loomed above him with a venomous scowl. Strangely, Oranthei was devoid of all emotion, until he leaned up against the beam, and a small, coy smile snuck onto his face. Through serpentine breaths, he laughed lightly.

“Look at you,” he rasped.

Heror stood above the siekangh – chest heaving, face covered with grime. Oranthei wheezed out a breath. He spit an amalgam of blood and saliva at Heror’s feet.

“Rabid dog,” Oranthei growled, voice thick with hate.

Heror felt his anger deepen. His eyes snaked down to the wolf patch on Oranthei’s chest. As Heror lifted his sword, Oranthei gulped and rattled, preparing to speak. The siekangh’s mouth churned with revulsion.

“Even Nihlukei wouldn’t stand the sight of y–”

Heror’s eyes went wide and he stabbed the sword through Oranthei’s throat. The siekangh choked for a moment, as his words devolved into a gurgling language of spit and blood. And then, mere seconds later, the life left his eyes. His breathing faded, giving way to silence.

For a time, Heror stood, eyes frozen. An uneasy breathlessness lingered in his chest. He released the sword, letting it fall into the siekangh’s lap, and his eyes fell to the wolf patch. He took a step forward and knelt down. He started to reach for it. But then he froze again. Oranthei’s final words echoed.

Even Nihlukei wouldn’t stand the sight of…

You.

Now Heror retracted his hand. His pulse began to race. He stared at the wolf patch, then pressed a hand on his forehead and held it in front of his face. A savage mix of dirt and blood caked his fingers.

Heror swallowed a lump in his throat and stepped back. He started to retreat from the body and the wolf patch, but was halted in his tracks when he heard a fizzling sound seeping into the air. It rose and crescendoed, and then Oranthei’s sound barrier rebounded and sped back into the tent, at the release of its soul master. Translucent waves of air rushed to the center and imploded above the siekangh’s body with a deafening pang. Everything shook. Everything rang. And then it was quiet.

Heror cringed. He heard the wind and the fires beyond. And then he heard voices.

“What was that?”

“Heard something in the longhouse…”

Heror’s eyes went frantic. The walls were closing in. Footsteps approached in the crisp, matted grass. Thoughts racing, Heror looked around the tent until his eyes fell on a torch, locked inside a sconce on the nearby support beam. Not far beyond the beam, he saw an unlit gas lantern perched on a stack of wooden crates.

Quickly, Heror grabbed the torch, then hurried to the tent wall and grasped the handle of the gas lantern. Then he ran to the northern entrance and threw down the gas lantern. The glass shattered on the ground, and lantern oil spewed across the floor and the canvas. There was another shout from outside, but Heror didn’t wait to listen. He swiped the torch along the tent walls, igniting the fabric. Once the fires caught, he threw the smoldering torch onto the floor, lighting the lantern oil ablaze.

All at once, the northern entrance erupted in flames, orange tendrils flailing toward the ceiling with an unconscious roar. Heror heard siephalls yelling beyond the tent walls. He fell away from the wall of heat and sprinted back toward the southern entrance. He ran past the central table, past the support beams, and blasted through the flaps, emerging into the night.

Now outside, Heror’s wide and afraid eyes lashed about. He could hear footsteps all around him in the dark. Voices carried and echoed. In a rush, he turned to his left and sprinted away from the longhouse, crouching in the night. He snuck behind a nearby tent, then crept to the far edge and peered around it, shrouded in shadow.

In the dim torchlight, he saw several siephalls running to the longhouse, sheets of golden armor glinting in the low luminance. The entire northern side of the longhouse was now engulfed in flames that stretched toward the sky. Before Heror could hesitate, he forced his mind and gaze back to the wall. There was a clear path to the staircase, through rows of tents now unattended.

For a moment longer, he was frozen by some terrible feeling. Only when he heard another shout near the longhouse did he move, survival instinct taking over.

To the sound of feverish distress calls, he dashed through darkened corridors – quick, light footsteps scampering through the dry grass. As Heror grew closer to the wall, the firelight faded, and he fell behind the veil of the night, guided only by a lonely torch next to the stone staircase.

Soon, Heror reached the staircase. He smelled smoke. He didn’t look back. He made his way up the steps, his movement careful and light. When he reached the top, he hesitated, expecting archers atop the walkway. However, as he peered past the first layer of brick and stone, he did not see any.

Warily, Heror stepped onto the bulwark and leaned around the stone. Peering down the western walkway, Heror saw several archers at the edge of the torchlight. He froze, but as he observed them, he saw their eyes were fixed on the growing fire within the Ardysan camp. He could see the fear on their faces, as the orange blaze danced silently against the night, shouts careening in the black abyss.

With haste, Heror sprinted across the width of the walkway and vaulted over the northern edge. Using creases in the brickwork, he slowly made his way down the wall. He climbed down just twenty feet before dropping the rest of the way, onto Midan soil. His knees buckled at the impact. Then he coiled upright.

When he hit the ground, he turned and started to run.

He did not stop running.