[participant in the Royal Road Writathon challenge]

An entire day of feeding cycles goes by again before I’m feeling strong enough to try creating a key via the [The Eternal Glass Forge]. I wait until after breakfast, just to be safe. Before I start, however, I need to get a clean imprint of the target: the empty space in the lock. I grope my way to the door, rest my palms against the cold iron, and quest outward with my mind. As always, I’m met with a bulwark of resistance, but it seems like it’s diminished since the first time I tried. Either I’m getting stronger, or the enchantment is fading over time. I’ll take either outcome if it helps me get out of here.

I focus my senses on the spot I hollowed out previously, bullying my way through the place in the door where the enchantment is wearing thin, and push my Skill as hard as I can. My mana consumption spikes precipitously, draining my pool away at an alarming rate, but my consciousness forces its way through the last shred of opposition. I groan as I lose feeling in my fingertips and my head spins.

The backlash slams me to my knees. My world tilts, and I hit the floor even as my mind vaguely notes that I did it. I made it through the door and into the lock. Instead of celebrating, I stagger to my feet, tottering about like a landlubber on a ship in stormy seas, and lean heavily against the door for support. This is way harder than I thought it would be.

I’m panting from the unexpectedly nauseating effort of contesting the enchantment, and just then, a wave of nausea hits me. I vomit all over the floor, wincing as I hear the ping of the foul liquid hitting the chamber pot. Somehow, that makes me angrier than anything else. That serving boy changed it out and I’ve already ruined his efforts, I lament as I think over the pot’s short-lived cleanliness.

Breathe, Nuri. Focus. Take stock of the situation.

Fighting my way through seems to have worked, but I vow to never push myself like that again unless absolutely necessary. Shattered stained glass! That felt even worse than the mana control test. Of course, with the way my life is going lately, I consider with a wry chuckle, it’s as good as guaranteed that I’ll find it necessary to push myself.

My head finally stops spinning and my heartbeat slows. The beat is still elevated, but it’s stopped pounding so hard that I’m afraid the rushing thrum of blood in my ears is going to burst my eardrums. I try to gauge my mana levels, although my internal sense is far from perfect. It doesn’t take long, though, to determine that I don’t have enough mana left to even try my next Skill. With a heavy sigh, lean back against the wall and wipe the sweat off my hands.

At this rate, I can’t try again until after dinner is delivered. I was hoping to escape sooner than that, but as I pause to reflect on the situation, it strikes me that leaving under the cover of night is better. There’s a higher chance of success if no one can see me sneaking away. I can’t do this halfway. If there’s a botched key stuck in the keyhole, then my surly, aggressive guard will know something is wrong. I’ll have to bide my time, rebuild my strength, and make my big move when the time is right. I won’t get a second chance.

The boring cycle of sleeping and day-dreaming in the darkness begins again, carrying me throughout the day in listless solitude. I’ve been hoping to hear the sound of footsteps for so long that when they come, I barely believe it. My heart speeds up again, thudding in my chest, and I’m worried at first that my body’s stress reactions will give me away. When the big, scar-faced [Soldier] shows up, scowling like usual, I just shake my head at my fears. Just look at him. I’m giving him way too much credit.

“Pah! It reeks in here,” he mutters, spitting on the floor. “What’s the point of making that kid clean up if you can’t even keep it tidy for a few days? Maybe you deserve to live like a dog. Doesn’t matter. Won’t be long now until we march out.”

I scramble up to my feet in surprise, almost dropping the bowl of sour broth. “Oh? Did we find a Rift? How’s the battle going?”

He shrugs his massive, armored shoulders. “I don’t get paid to think, dog. I get paid to hit things. Hard.” He shakes a fist at me menacingly.

I get the not-so-subtle hint and shut up. I’m not going to get any meaningful information from this lunk. No wonder they put him on guard duty and don’t mind if he’s talking to me. You can outwit someone all you want, but if the person is truly an idiot, then you won’t get much of anything in the end. Trying to extract news from him is about as successful as trying to eat sculpted glass that looks like steak. The shape and color are right, but the experience is hollow.

Great. Now I’m drooling over the thought of eating steak again. After all these days of slurping down substandard soup, I’m desperate for good food again.

“See ya tomorrow, doggie,” the hulking [Soldier] calls over his shoulder with a snicker as he departs. He’s balancing the empty soup bowl on the tray that had held a dry crust of bread. He actually seems to think he’s clever—either that, or he doesn’t care a lick about what others think of him. As long as he’s having fun, then that’s all that matters. In a strange way, I almost admire him for it.

I swallow the saliva building up in my mouth as I imagine a juicy steak or a perfect cutlet of fried chicken, and try to focus on the task at hand. No guards patrol down here in the middle of the night, at least not very often from what I can tell, so I should have the bulk of the night all to myself to puzzle out the lock and key. My mana is sufficiently restored to begin, but for some reason I’m hesitating.

“If I fail here,” I whisper to my new friend, the warm, maternal darkness, “then that’s it. That [Adjutant] won’t let me have a second try. He’ll lock me up and ship me back in chains if I mess this up. There’s no practice run, no slow progress to learn from my previous mistakes and make corrections—this is sink or swim, as the saying goes.”

I grit my teeth, already sure that I’m going to regret pushing myself this hard after the headaches of last night. My reserves are full, however, so I tell myself sternly to stop delaying and get working. As I shuffle over to the door to begin, I’d like to think Tem would be proud of the willpower I’ve developed.

Once again, I compress the spellform to as tight and controlled of a beam as I can, imagining that [The Eternal Forge: Extended Reach] is burrowing straight through the weakest point in the metal door.

I can barely sense the connection to the batch of glass I’m summoning. Creating the glass required for the rough key shape feels like running in quicksand, or at least what I imagine running in quicksand must feel like. I’ve never done it, but it’s probably exactly like my progress: slow, frustrating, and feels like it’s sucking me under with every step.

With agonizing sluggishness, the glass coalesces from the other, taking shape within the confines of the lock. Raw potential—mana—is transmuted into a rigid physical form, but power like this comes at a cost. White hot pincers of pain lance through my head, right behind my eyes. I immediately ease off my glass creation Skill, not willing to incapacitate myself just before I try to make my escape.

Sagging against the door, I gather up my wayward thoughts. Calm yourself. Breathe like Tem showed you. You’re on the right track. Taking his advice for breathing during stress helps, and soon I steady my ragged breathing, clearing my mind and preparing myself for moving on to the second phase of the escape.

My proof of concept is more or less a success. It’s time for the next step. But as I run over the plan in my head, I realize I have no proper way to turn the key. The best I can do is hope that the key's teeth are pushing in the right direction as I add more and more glass to the shape to mimic the turning of the key against the tumblers.

I try to move the door as best I can without a handle, but nothing happens. I can’t wiggle the door or get a good hold of it. As far as I can tell, the door still appears to be locked. I click my tongue in annoyance. I had hoped to preserve my mana pool, in case I ran into emergencies on the way, but it seems that I have no choice but to turn to my [Architect] Skill for the next step.

Grudgingly, I activate my costly Artisan skill, extruding glass from the surface of the vaguely key-shaped batch that I’ve already created and deposited in the keyhole. As best as I can, I try to copy the template of the key, and then extrapolate its movement through the lock mechanism. I push the glass outward, shaping it to follow the general trajectory of a turning key. It’s all guess work, admittedly, but my mind’s eye guides the process—I mentally fly over the key teeth, shaping each one to the exact specifications of my template. I’ve never done anything requiring this level of intricacy before, but magic bridges the gap between my lack of finesse and the goal I have in mind.

The click the lock makes when it opens is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

=+=

Wedging the unlocked door open proves far more complicated than I had anticipated, however. I can’t get any purchase with my fingertips because the door is fitted so tight, and since this cell is created for solitary confinement, there’s not a handle on the inside.

I prod at the seam, seeking to find a gap or weakness, but I come up empty. I already know it can’t be a perfect airtight seal, or else I would suffocate inside the cell. The goal isn’t to kill prisoners, but to hold them. Thus, it stands to reason that I ought to be able to fit something underneath the door, or in the gap on the side by the lock. After nearly half an hour—at least it feels about that long by my rough estimate, though time seems to lose its meaning inside my dark prison cell—I give in and activate the [Architect of the Unseen World] once more to modify the glass dagger I had painstakingly crafted over the last few days.

Once the blade is so slender that I can barely see it with my naked eye when I turn it to profile, I slide it between the door and the frame. As expected, I’m able to slip the slender glass blade into the crevasse between the door and the frame, but it’s still a tight fit.

The next part is all untested theory. I lick my lips, shake out my fingers, and tamp down the nervousness building up inside. I pump mana into the glass, shaping its function by holding firmly in mind my intention of strengthening the glass. If all goes well, this will give me enough leverage to pry open the door.

Mana pouring into the blade at a constant rate, I wiggle the door open by small degrees. I suppose I could have tried to transmute the glass into something stronger with [Architect of Unseen Worlds], rather than use the Artisan Skill only for reshaping the dagger, but I can’t think of any glass-based material this thin that won’t break under the pressure. It’s essential that the blade doesn’t snap halfway through; I can’t afford to wait until morning to make more glass.

Maintaining the slender blade’s form and structural integrity by continually soaking it in a flood of mana feels like an obvious step, now that I’ve done it. All the same, it’s a revelation to me that it actually works. Perhaps this is the secret technique I’ve been missing. It’s so simple in theory, but horrendously difficult in execution. If I can master the process, then perhaps this is the way forward to learning mana imbuing.

I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until my fingertips get enough hold of the door to pull it the rest of the way free, and I let out a shaky exhale. I give myself a few minutes to adjust to the light, blinking in the harsh illumination of the wall sconces in the corridor as my soul sings within me. Freedom is so close I can taste it.

I know from previous visits to the store rooms that the lights in the corridors down here aren’t very bright, but right now the hallways look as bleak and unforgiving as the scorching noonday sun. I need time to let my eyes acclimate. Regardless, I’m filled with fierce exultation as my plan comes together. The first big obstacle is officially behind me.

Once I’m feeling confident in my ability to handle the light levels, I stand up with a muted groan, stretching my body and taking stock of my meager belongings. I lack a proper weapon now that my glass knife is thinner than a sheet of paper. There’s not much in the cell, and none of it is worth bringing with me—no, wait. Use what’s at hand. Waste nothing.

I grimace and dump out the chamber pot in the corner, wiping as much of the refuse clean as I can with the threadbare blanket they gave me to cover my body while I slept on the hard floor. With two fingers, I gingerly pinch the cleanest spot I can find on the pot. It’s a terrible weapon, but I have no time to find something better at the moment. Hoping I’ll come across a more fortuitous opportunity, I creep down the hallway, heading toward the cargo bay.

If it comes to a fight—and I hope it doesn’t—then perhaps a guard will gag on the smell of the chamber pot long enough that I can bash him over the head. At least the metal is sturdy; the pot is surprisingly well made, if plain. It’s heavy, which is always a good sign of reliability. If I smack a [Soldier] with it hard enough, I might knock him senseless. I sigh, shaking my head. I’m not very confident that my plan will be a rousing success.

The air is cool and arid in the hallway, with dust collecting in the corner and coating the stone walls. The corridor reminds me of an ugly parody of the Rift’s labyrinth, lacking the refined architecture and grand scale that the wraiths created. Ultimately, however, the labyrinth and this hallway each serve a similar purpose: they connect two discrete points by a stone passageway. This one is simply small and cramped and boring by comparison.

Perhaps we aren’t as superior to the wraiths as we like to imagine ourselves, I muse, then set aside my treasonous thoughts. Ideas like that are what got me here in the first place.

Yet despite the basement hallway’s cool, dry atmosphere, I’m sweating profusely as one thought dominates the rest: What if I’m discovered? I keep swiveling my head to look behind me, certain that I’ll be found at any second. After all, the last time I sneaked about like a rat, the hawk caught me.

This time, I hope to slip past its clutches. If cornered, I’ll even fight back. I bare my teeth in a silent, determined snarl. It may sound like a hopeless struggle, but I’m tired of hiding in the dark.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

=+=

I slink up to the first intersection without incident. If I recall correctly from my few visits in years past, I still have three more turns and then a flight of stairs before I reach the cargo lifts. I have no idea how many soldiers might be posted along the way, so I have to remain vigilant. I’m not convinced I’ll be able to get outside without contact with the royal army.

In my mind, I chide myself for almost calling them the enemy. They’re not the enemy; Densmore is my home. I’m a loyal citizen, or at least I always thought I was until Tem and I were branded traitors. Yet, for the moment, the army stands between me and self-agency. Until I understand more about the dynamics of the conflicts in the capital and the impending war with the wraiths, I prefer to stay unentangled. Why does taking time to learn and think and not rush to judgment mark me a traitor?

Just because I’m cautious about fighting the wraiths doesn’t mean that I hold any ill will toward my country. I don’t harbor resentment toward the average [Soldier] deployed to Silaraon. Sure, I dislike the [Adjutant], and I wouldn’t mind punching my personal guard in the face, but those are only personal grievances. I still wouldn’t wish either one of them dead.

I straighten my posture and walk with a steadier pace. If I look like I’m sneaking, then the soldiers are more likely to perceive me as a sneak. If I look like another of the nameless, faceless servants scurrying around a building of this size, then they’re more likely to ignore me—or send me on some nonsensical errand. In a way, that would be the best cover story I could come up with. The air of authenticity will lend far more Credence to my appearance then whatever I can come up with on the spot. I’m not creative enough for that kind of make-believe. My artistic medium is glass, not spinning tales. Words are treacherous.

My resolution falters when I hear the telltale, heavy tread of boots up ahead. Adrenaline spikes, and in a panic, I glance around for a place to hide. The hallway is long and bare, but I notice a small supply closet a few paces up on to my left. I dart over the door, which is mercifully unlocked, and slip inside scant seconds before the [Soldiers] come around the corner, laughing and boasting about their exploits at the pub. They must be off their rotation.

Their voices are loud boisterous, brimming with surprisingly good cheer for [Soldiers] stuck on a deployment far from home and still waiting to see combat. If I didn’t know any better, I would assume they were upperclassmen from the Silaraon City Academy out for a stroll, or a night out on the town before writing their annual exams.

Somehow, their contentment and carefree attitudes rankle more than the naked hostility I’ve endured from the other [Soldier], my unwilling guard. Why are their lives so easy, while mine is so complicated? It’s cosmically unfair.

Then I remember that war, and I realize with shock that they may never return home. The force of the shock is physical, like cold water to the face. I’ve encountered plenty of risks lately, but only because I put myself in crazy situations. For all I know, these boys—and they do sound young, if their voices are any indication of their ages—were forced into service. They may have been drafted without warning or recourse, swept up in a war not of their own choosing, sacrificed as grist to the sawmill of military might.

With this sobering thought in mind, I find myself hoping that they return to their families. I can only pray that [General] Tychicus’ all-out assault won’t mean their downfall. Part of me feels profoundly guilty that they’re here at all, as though this entire war is my fault for entering the Rift and disturbing the labyrinth.

The clomp of their boots and chatter of their jovial voices fades down the corridor several heartbeats later, but I still don’t open the door. If one of them were to glance back at random and see someone slipping out of a service closet, it would raise far more questions than I care to answer. Instead, I take a deep breath, calm my mind, and take a few minutes to build up the resolve needed for my escape.

I hope I don’t have to actually fight. I’m not sure I’ll be able to bear the guilt.

None of that now. Focus on the task at hand, I remind myself. Now that I’m outside of the restrictive formation of my cell that inhibited mana harvesting, it feels incredibly good to bask in the faster regeneration outside. I didn’t realize how badly I chafed under the limits. I may as well refill my capacity while I determine the next steps in my plan.

The storage closet door is nowhere near as well fitted as the one in my holding cell, and enough light filters through the cracks for me to dimly make out some of the items and storage. I find a few old sets of standard-issue clothes that look more fitting to the place than the ones I’m wearing. I toss them over my sleek black adventurer’s outfit. Now I look the part of a simple serving boy. As long as no one looks too closely, I should be able to blend into the crowd of a busy camp preparing for war. I can still make a clean getaway.

My only concern is that Casella strongly hinted that the [Inquisitors] are able to see to the core of a person, and may be able to determine my class at a glance. Somehow, I doubt there are too many glass makers out at this time of night, and definitely none serving as camp aides to the Royal army. They’ll see right through my ruse—literally.

Nonetheless, I hold my disguise before me like a shield against prying eyes, and boldly stride out of the storage closet. I keep rehearsing what I’ll say and do if I run into any [Soldiers], but I’m hoping I can slip out undetected. Too many things have gone wrong lately; surely I have built up some measure of good luck for once. I chuckle to myself, knowing that’s not truly how life works.

I reach the next two corners without encountering any guards or [Soldiers], and I’m finally starting to breathe more easily. I can do this. The lifts are just up ahead, around the next corner and up a single flight of stairs. Only a few dozen paces until I’m out of the barracks and on my way to freedom. I have a competition to enter, and I’ve been away from my workbench for too long. It’s time to get back to simple craftsmanship.

Just past the third intersection, however, an unfamiliar [Soldier] stalks down the corridor. He’s huge, as tall as my jailor, but easily half again as wide, with shaggy black hair that seems too long for army regulation. I duck my head in what I hope is a respectful manner—nothing to see here; I’m definitely not suspicious—and press myself toward the wall so that I can squeeze past him on my way toward the lifts. For a brief, harrowing moment he says nothing, and I think I’m free to go.

“Boy,” he barks at me just as I reach the foot of the stairs, “I’ve misplaced some of my gear in this forsaken backwater, and I don’t feel like getting upbraided by my commanding officer. Go to the requisition station and get me a few replacement spears so the gear isn’t checked out in my name. If someone’s going to take the fall for it, it ain’t going to be me.”

I stutter, my mind blanking completely. Whatever cover story I’d cooked up in my head flees completely. Frantically, I try to come up with a new plan, but I’m the best at thinking on my feet. I don’t improvise like Mikko. I hold up my chamber pot and shrug apologetically. “Sorry, I’m otherwise engaged. I can do it after I’m done replacing this.”

I try to edge by him, turning sideways in the narrow hallway that his body is blocking at the moment. He shifts sideways, using his bulky physique to close off my escape path.

I swallow hard. “I’ll help you in a moment, sir. I need to take this out for now.”

“Ugly and stupid is a bad combination for anyone, but it’s worse in a servant,” he sneers, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. His condescending voice lowers into a growl. “Get me what I want. Now.”

“Sorry, sir,” I say, my hands clasped on the chamber pot as I bend over in a deep bow, hiding the scowl on my face. “But I’m busy with more important matters.”

As he swings his squarish head around to glare at me, I uncoil from my bow, smashing the chamber pot into his nose and staggering him backward in a spray of blood. I smash the pot against the side of his head once more, shattering it, and take off sprinting, not trusting that I’ll win this fight if I stick around.

Outrunning the roars of pain and outrage, I take the stairs three at a time, gaining the next level, and dash onto the wide cargo lift. Fear fuels me, spurring me on to greater speed. I spin the crankshaft as fast as I can, cursing under my breath as it creaks from the strain. The old cargo lift judders to life, inching upward so slowly that I am certain the [Soldier] will catch me before I can make it halfway between the basement and ground level.

I chance a glance over my shoulder, and his murderous face appears from around the bend, blood dripping from his mouth and nose. He unsheathes his short sword and charges, borne along by some unknown, martial Skill that accelerates him unnaturally. If he catches me, I’m a dead man. In a panic, I hurl the razor-edged, thinned-out shards of my glass knife at him, but he cuts them from the air with contemptuous ease.

I throw my weight into my movements, hauling on the crank harder than ever, and with another ominous groan, the lift rises high enough to cut off my vision of my enraged pursuer. Above me, the closed door of the docking bay looms in the darkness, tantalizingly close.

With a terrific blow, the [Soldier] slams into the bottom of the lift. The force of the impact flings me off my feet, and I knock my head on the crank on the way to the floor. I lie there for a moment, sprawled out in a daze, until a new sound sends shivers through me: the keening screech of metal on metal. He’s cutting the support cable, intent on bringing the entire cargo lift crashing down with me in it.

I scramble to my feet, climb up onto the crankshaft assembly, and leap for the ledge of the doorway above. If I can grab hold and heave myself up, I ought to be able to force the door open and flee the barracks.

I misjudge the distance in the dim half-light, and only my right hand grabs onto the ledge firmly. The fingers on my left hand slip, and I plummet back to the floor, flailing in the air. I land sideways with a bone-rattling smash that makes every nerve in my arm and leg go numb for a brief second. My vision flashes white with agony.

I lie there, gasping for breath like a fish out of water, stupidly trying to figure out what just happened. How did I fall?

A bellow from the angry [Soldier] shatters my stupor. A massive swirl of mana makes me sit up in alarm. He’s preparing an attack, something that feels wrong and jagged—out of place in a mere [Soldier]. I force myself to stand, swaying unsteadily as I balance on one leg and eye the cargo bay door, so close and yet out of reach.

Whatever is going on is a mystery I don’t have time to piece together. I have to get out, have to flee this place before I’m embroiled in any further trouble.

Hot, rancid breath and twisted whispers of malice sweep over my senses, overwhelming me when I try to open my [Manasight] and figure out what’s happening. I drop the Skill instantly, feeling a sudden urge to scrub myself with soap. I’ve never felt or even heard of that kind of sympathetic feedback through mana, and it throws me into an even deeper panic. Who is this man, and what’s he doing here?

The sensation rushes back into my arm and leg at that moment, hot and tingling, like a hundred tiny needles prepped in a kiln before stabbing into me. The pain is scalding and angry, and I let out a scream despite my need for stealth. I flex my hand, experimentally rest my weight on my foot, and nod sharply. I’m not badly injured, just in pain. Nothing for it.

Ignoring the pain, I climb back onto the crankshaft, ready myself, and expel roughly half of my mana through my legs in one go, empowering my desperate jump. Only out of my cell for ten minutes, and I’m already running on the dregs of my resources, I note sourly, but there’s no way around it. Venting mana to improve my physical output is horribly inefficient, which is why no one builds a path to power around it—what good are one or two big punches, if you’re useless afterward?—but it accomplishes my goal.

My hands grab the ledge in a death-grip. I scramble up, harnessing my surging upward momentum, and plant my feet on the inside of the loading bay ledge. Fear and hope course like acid through my body. I squat down, grasp the handle with both hands, and throw my full weight into lifting the door. It rattles open, and as soon as it’s waist-height, I fling myself outside, rolling on the stone slab and out of the way of whatever Skill is ramping up in intensity below me.

Sweet, fresh air fills my lungs. I jump up to my feet and sprint away from the maelstrom of malicious mana. Arms pumping, I make it about a dozen paces away from the building before the terrifying Skill ignites. Behind me, the ground erupts, torn asunder in a rampage of unbridled fury. It’s overkill for destroying the lift, but something tells me that the wielder isn’t exactly sane.

A monstrous mana signature expands outward. The pressure of the presence throws me off my feet as surely as the shockwave of the explosion. I slam face-first into the dirt, rolling across the yard with the combined force of the attack. Cries of alarm spring up around the camp as even the [Soldiers] lacking mana-sensitivity recognize his presence.

It’s not as overbearing as the [General] in all his glory, but it feels like he’s on the verge of his second Threshold. Whoever this man is, he’s not supposed to be here, and I best get out while I still can. It’s a miracle that my sneak attack caught him so off guard at all, but I suspect that he was still veiling himself, reducing his power to try to sneak through undetected.

I burst out laughing bitterly as I realize that he was probably just as worried about being found out as I was. We both had the flimsiest of excuses—he really said he wanted me to get him spears of all things? Ha!—but in the end, we exposed each other.

In the midst of the chaos, I dash out of camp, my hood pulled up and my head down to hide my face. I flee past a small squad of grim-faced [Inquisitors], but they rush right by me without a second glance. They have far more to worry about than a simple man like me. And in truth, I’m not their enemy, anyway. I hope they catch or kill the man who has the audacity to attack my city like this.

Sunset has come and gone. I’m running in the dark, dodging [Soldiers] as I head out of the barrack compound. I run out of the gates without anyone trying to stop me. I look like any other young kid trying to get away from a fight. Once out in the city proper, I angle my path to take me to Mikko’s house. I need to get to my friends—to my family.

It’s slow going, though, since I can’t see much now that I’m beyond the lit perimeter of the barracks. The stars twinkle dimly, giving me just enough light to see, but I’m still nervous that I’ll trip over a cobblestone or slam into something I can’t see. I’m out of my prison cell, but with a sinking feeling I realize that I’ve internalized the fear it instilled in me.

Ahead, light blooms in the night.

I skid to a stop, my fists up, wary of another unknown element in a night full of surprises already, but then the figures unveil themselves. I recognize Casella and lower my fists, still on guard, but hopeful that he is truly on my side. Why bother to warn me if he’s going to capture me and drag me back to the camp?

Casella’s rich baritone washes over me. “Still so suspicious, my young friend. Good!”

“What are you doing out here? Are you following me?” I demand.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Mbukhe says, materializing from the gloom. He smiles in greeting. “Wariness will hold you in good stead, Nuri. There are forces at play beyond you—and beyond us, I must admit. We don’t have much time. Take this.”

A vague sense of deja vu hits me as Mbukhe hands me another private message. This is a full letter, however, judging from the thickness. I pocket it with a word of thanks.

Casella steps forward, gripping my shoulder and looking me in the eyes. “Good fortune to you, my young friend. Let’s hope our trust in each other pays off, yes? Now, we have snakes to interrogate back at the barracks, assuming Tychicus leaves any alive for us. So let's be quick about this. Look for Tem. We have too many eyes on us, but if you can slip out of the city and fade into the background, then you might be able to figure out what’s going on without raising too much suspicion. Remember, the sun rises in darkness.”

Those words again. I nod, though, shelving my suspicions for now, and clasp hands with each man before they blur into motion, their wings unfurling as they soar toward the barracks to put things aright.

I turn back to Mikko’s homestead, jogging again through the dark. Somehow, I can see better than before, and I activate my [Manasight] to confirm my hunch. Sure enough, the faint glow of a mana construct surrounds me, providing soft, golden illumination on my path. Thanks to their gift, I make good time, soon reaching their home.

As I crest the last, low hill and see the house where I grew up after my parents died, my heart twinges. A pang of sorrow and fear hits me all at once. Can I really drag them all into this mess I’ve made? Helping me leave town once is probably forgivable; we’re young and they can say they were just helping out a friend. Leaving again after our capture might be going too far, however.

“Besides,” I mutter softly to myself, “if I’m going to stay unobtrusive and out of the way, then traipsing around the country with that merry band is a bad idea. We’ll stick out anywhere we go. Best if I strike out solo.”

Mind made up, I turn away from the house. I’ll borrow some provisions from their cold cellar. I helped freeze their catches from hunting season, anyway, so they won’t mind if I take some of the food. After I stuff some travel jerky into my pockets, and snag a wheel of cheese and few dried apples for the road, I leave and don’t look back.

Guilt that I’m abandoning my friends and city during an attack eats at me, but I firm my steps and continue my escape despite my doubts. If the infiltrator at the barracks is an enemy, does this mean Silaraon is under attack? Casella indicated there was more than one attacker. Can I really abandon my city in their hour of need?

I shake my head. Casella and Mbukhe will do far more than I can to fight back. And as much as I distrust the [General], he’s worth more on his own in a fight than the entire garrison of guards. One more [Glassworker] won’t turn the tides. I have other tasks to complete: a friend to find and a competition to win. No sense taking on other burdens I can’t bear. Determined now, I square my shoulders, orient myself on the path to Grand Ile, and flee into the night.