It wasn't the cottage he remembered from his memory. The once-warm cottage was all but a husk of sagged shingles , door hanging loose from it's hinges. Emerald vines crawled over the windows like grasping fingers, a sign of aged ruins.

  The grave behind the cottage remained where it had always been. but the stone was cracked, and the writing was so faint, smoothened by time as if centuries had passed. Now, Sol stared at Finnian's grave, gazing at the soil that was once fresh has now been covered in a bed of grass.

  He sat down before it as he had always done when visiting his friend, his brother, cushioned by the soft, cold grass of the night beneath the crescent.

  "Hello, Finnian..." He greeted, "It has... been a while. You wouldn't believe the things I've done since you... left." Sol smiled fondly. "I am sorry I could not visit you before. I was participating in the Trials. Do you remember? I promised I would win... and I did. The thing I swore I'd get."

  The grass gently wavered in the caress of the wind, the moon shone softly upon him.

  "I said I'd come back here, drop it at your feet, and you'd be the first to say "I knew you could." But... you're not saying anything. Of course you're not." He muttered the last to himself," Your name was here too, etched deep, so deep I traced it until my fingers bled. Now there's nothing..." He continued, "Were you here, Finnian? Or did I bury something else? ...Or nothing at all?" He laughed again, but it's hollow.

  "I... I did it, Finn. I really did. And I can't even be sure there was ever anyone to keep the promise to."

  The wind died.

  · ? ·

  Sol inhaled sharply as reality slammed back into place. The clinic’s stale, herbal-scented air filled his lungs with it's antiseptic bitterness. He had slipped out unnoticed in the midst of the night, when the city had quieted into a low hum, when the shadows could conceal his movements. He had gone to see Finnian. Or the memory of him. Or what something wanted him to believe was the memory.

  By the time he returned, Marguerite was pacing the boards of the ward he had occupied earlier. She was in a deep thought, with brows furrowed together and a frown etched onto her face, until Sol stepped in through the window.

  "Marguerite!" His face lit. Her head snapped up, disbelief cracking across her face. Then, she exhaled even as she scowled.

  "Where had you been off to?" She accusingly asked with a pointed look, taking in his dust covered appearance. And the fact that he was alive. Somehow.

  Her magic was gone, all spent in her attempts to scry the future, shield him, and warp herself across vast distances (by the violent distortion of space required to carry her body across) while white-robed priests carved sigils throughout the air like hunters tracking a scurrying prey. She was not weak. After all, she had been taught by a witch whose name commanded respect across the continents. But tonight, her strength was frayed like a thread, it was failing her, engraving a fear deep inside her, a fear that said fate was out of her control and the future was unseen. And Marguerite disliked being lost, being unaware, cornered like a prey herself.

  "Do you know what has been going on outside?" She asks with a hand on her hip.

  "Judging by that tone, I’m about to find out I committed a crime."

  "You are famous, Sunshine." She let a parchment materialize in violet haze handing it over to the confused boy. "Newest update, wanted dead or alive."

  He stares at it with even more confusion lacing his features, clearly unimpressed by the news. The parchment itself did nothing to justify the drama. In the center of the crumpled page, his likeness was rendered in an aggressively scribbled charcoal sketch that looked nothing like him.

  WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE dominated the top in a neat, blocky lettering, while the crimes listed beneath grew steadily more imaginative: heresy (That somehow makes sense, Sol thought.), destabilization, consorting with forbidden forces, 'suspected metaphysical interference.' A reward amount had been stamped at the bottom and restamped twice, as if even the authorities within the clergy couldn’t decide how much trouble he was worth.

  "Seriously!? Why would they go that far?" Sol choked out.

  "Who knows," Marguertie huffed. "Well, it won’t be long until they show up here."

  "How much time?" Sol asked, rolling it back and watching the paper disappear in purple light. Marguerite’s magic always left him in awe with it's effortless beauty.

  "Hours. Maybe less until they finally break inside." She turned to the plain door, "Inquisitor Silas has informed me before time." Marguerite’s gaze lifted to Sol as she continues, "We move now. No debate."

  She paused for a moment, "Have you visited your friend?" Marguerite asked.

  Sol’s features tightened at the mention. He slowly nodded in a silent reply.

  "That’s good," she said.

  "Why?"

  "Because this time," she answered, "you can run without hesitation."

  She pushed the door open, the lamp-lit corridor yawning ahead, and slipped to the door located in the darkened, unlit corner of the long hall, only meant for certain personnel.

  "Will you not teleport us again?" Sol asked, a boyish tilt to his head, a spark of mirth despite the danger looming over them.

  "Right after I sprout wings," she damply muttered, "and sing the Cathedral’s hymn in perfect pitch." Her magic had been intercepted too many times to even try. It would simply waste time.

  Outside, the air was heavier, thick with the expectation of hunt.

  "But if we leave, tell me one thing," Sol interrupted in a whisper, "Where would we go?"

  "Go? Somewhere we can be safe for a while," Marguerite replied.

  "There’s no ‘safe’ within Solthar." His eyes narrowed. The eyes of the Cathedral reached even into corners the Sun never touched. "Do you realize, Marguerite? We have nowhere to go. It’s not like we can leave either..."

  "We can run into the outskirts, to the town… even into the ruins," she suggested with urgency.

  "But for how long?" Sol shook his head. "No. It’s a futile effort here. I attained victory, yes—that was futile as well." A bitter laugh escaped him.

  "We can decide later. Let us hurry to somewhere, anywhere, before they arrive."

  "But, tell me Marguerite, why do you insist?" Sol asked finally, the question that had been looming at the back of his mind.

  "Because—" Marguerite paused but then her gaze burned with a conviction as she challenged him. "Well, I will answer you once we get out of here. Promise."

  Sol hesitated to study her with suspicion, then exhaled with a chuckle, "Very well. I will go on that promise." He agreed.

  Together, they slipped into the metal staircase outside the building. Under the golden hues of gas-lit lamps, the shadows clung to them like wary companions that followed in each other's steps. They moved quickly, and the metal groaned beneath their feet signalling their presence. The staircase was wounded amidst the buildings in such a way that it granted them a temporary sanctuary from the unseen disciples below.

  Marguerite led the way with careful steps, using her spell to guide them. "Follow me," she had whispered, and Sol trailed closely.

  At the base of the stairwell, she pressed a hand to a wall, muttering an incantation under her breath. A section of the stone shifted, sliding aside to reveal a narrow, downward-sloping tunnel. The smell hit Sol first: damp earth, rust, and something faintly acrid, like so bitter.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "This leads beneath the streets," Marguerite said, pausing. "It leads beneath Solthar, unsure what we will find there, but it will lead us into the outskirts if I can guide us—assuming you don’t slow me down."

  "Unsure?" Sol raised his brows up in shock, to hear the all-knowing witch doubt herself was a surprise to him.

  "Hey! I know what you are thinking!" She yelled a whisper, and Sol simply raised his hands in surrender.

  Quietly, he followed her into the abyss. Darkness seemed to swallow the light entirely, and a faint hum echoed from deep below as they stepped. "Will the Cathedral pursue us into this?" he asked.

  "They won’t… not immediately from what I can predict," she replied. "These pathways have been abandoned ages ago. It is unsafe, but the safest at the moment. Well, given the circumstances."

  The tunnel narrowed quickly, forcing them to slow down. Sol’s heart beat hard in his chest, his wound itched. Perhaps,in a form of a warning. Then half an hour in, their muffled movement finally brought them to a chamber far larger than the suffocating corridors.

  The witch stepped forward into what seemed like a ruin itself. Sol was right behind, as he held the torch higher to get a clearer look-as much as it can get. Brick walls lined up around them, the carved sigils that crawled along were like frozen whispers of a language long forgotten, eroded with wind and time. The faint echo of dripping water carried on somewhere deep within, slicking the stone floor beneath their boots.

  How strange, he wondered. To think something like a great ruin existing beneath Solthar city itself was strange. It's interior was littered with dampened bricks, puddles, and the dark. There was occasional scarping and chirping of mice that scurried past their feet.

  The passageways branching from the chambers twisted in even further, some leading downward into darker voids. One to his right, had a staircase extending upwards. Sol’s grip tightened on the torch.

  "That should be the one!" He exclaimed, in that moment, he felt a chill breeze answer. A mistake.

  But it was not only him that felt it, the witch stilled as well. Her eyes locked with him, they both had realized one thing: there were two of them in the room, but there was a third amongst them.

  "Keep quiet," she hissed, glancing over her shoulder.

  The torchlight flickered, and Sol caught the glint of something arterial in the darkness—eyes? He forced himself to focus, trying to bear the wound that throbbed beneath its bloodied bandages.

  There was a dull thud echoing through the dark passages, and the witch grabbed his wrist immediately upon it's first sound.

  "We run!" She exclaimed, as they dashed towards the very stairs with hope it will lead them—their only hope to lead them out. Every step felt as though the chamber itself was closing in by the next step. As they ascended, a scraping sound echoed from below, like claws against stone. Sol’s pulse spiked at the realization.

  "It’s not human," he whispered. Nothing in Solthar truly is anymore.

  Sol exhaled, bracing himself as Marguerite pulled him after her, into the light of the rising Sun. They had returned to earth. He squinted to get used to it for a moment. What laid before him in the field was a solitary structure resembling a warehouse beneath the breaking dawn.

  Marguerite stood beside him, scanning the perimeter for any signs of them. "This is where we rest," she murmured, "for now. Come, Sol."

  The warehouse air was all grains of dust, itching. Lanterns swung low from the beams to illuminate the interior with a futile attempt against the streats of sunlight. Within it, were a hundred faces packed into the shadows. Mothers with children clutched to their skirts. Men with hollow cheeks, their hands raw from labor, and eyes that darted at every creak of wood, every shift of lantern light.

  They watched him as if he might be their savior, their hero. But the boy with flames in his eyes was just another kid, fifteen, deemed heretic by the authority that stood in the heart of Solthar.

  Marguerite led him to the lone woman who sat further in the basement. A woman who's robes seemed to be patched with a dozen hands, and a tattered cloak thrown about her shoulders. It's hood concealed her identity. But he could feel her tiredness that slipped into the tone.

  "We are looking for space in your caravans." Marguerite called out to her, only to be followed by a prolonged silence. The refugees around them became hushed, listening onto their conversations now.

  "You’re late," she said flatly. Sol opened his mouth, but her tall figure raised a hand.

  "No, I don’t want excuses. I want to know whether you’re worth the space you’d take on my caravan." She slipped off the crate smoothly, and walked over to them. She appeared tall and muscular, even with the layers of clothes she adorned. "Every body here is a mouth to feed. Every child we smuggle makes room for fewer hands to swing a blade when soldiers catch us. We do not travel in comfort. We bleed to get across that barrier. And even if we reach Vitruvia, we may find their gates shut."

  Sol felt the weight of a hundred eyes sink into him after she ended her speech.

  "Sister Orivane is right..."

  "We don't need anymore refugees on the caravans."

  The said, Sister Orivane leaned forward, "I don’t give places freely. So tell me, what will you give?"

  He hesitated. "…I have little coin."

  "Then you give something else. I know your face. I’ve heard of your deeds, and you are capable," Her words seemed like a mockery, and he was not sure if she really meant it. "That has value." She jabbed a finger toward him. "You’ll trade it, or you’ll leave empty-handed."

  But Orivane wasn’t done. "Take command of one of the wagons. Lead them through the dead fields. The first patrol that stops us, it’s your neck on the line, not theirs. You’ll buy their safety with your head."

  How is that fair!?

  "You cannot run halfway, Sol. If you board my caravan, there is no turning back. You’ll either fight with us… or you’ll die with us." She declared firmly, folding her arms. The warehouse was silent but for the sound of children whimpering, clinging tighter to their mothers.

  Marguerite stepped forward before Sol could answer, almost as if she really spoke for him. "This is unfair," she said sharply, her voice ringing in the rafters. "He’s bled on these streets for weeks, hunted by the same hounds that drove you here. You talk of cost, but has he not paid it."

  A few heads nodded among the refugees, but Orivane’s gaze never wavered.

  "Every one of us has bled," the woman said, "Do you think the Sun spares us because we’ve already suffered? No. The road doesn’t care. The patrols don’t care. Soon enough, the coin runs dry and food runs out. And when it does, promises are equal nothing."

  "He’s not a coin for you to spend." Marguerite bristled, her hands curling into fists with rising frustration. "We came here for a fair exchange. We are willing to pay for a place—"

  "And yet I must spend him if he wants to walk with us. There are no free bodies on this caravan, no space for excess weight, especially the one who carries his face on a wanted poster."

  The warehouse air felt close, suffocating. Sol finally found his voice, low but firm enough to stand against her demands. "Give me time. A day, at least. Let me think on it."

  "A day?" The Sister barked a humorless laugh. "You think time is yours to bargain with? Every hour we sit, the Cathedral’s disciples draws tighter. Every hour, there’s a chance thy will come hammering on that gate." She pointed at the black iron gates of the warehouse, the wood quivering under the harsh morning wind. "They smell us in their dreams. Do you really think we are hidden?"

  Her voice rose and the refugees stirred in expectations. "It’s now or never, boy. You step into the circle, or you step out of it and never return."

  The words landed like a trial’s sentence. Sol’s jaw clenched. His heart pounded against his ribs, his gaze flicking to the faces around him—all desperate eyes waiting for his answer.

  "Sol—" Marguerite touched his sleeve, with a whisper. But he couldn’t answer yet. Not with every pair of eyes digging into him like nails, not with Orivane’s stare daring him to flinch.

  So he said nothing.

  The silence stretched, taut as wire, letting the crackle of the fire fill it.

  At last, Sol’s voice broke through, albeit rougher than he meant.

  "I’ll do it," he said. His eyes locked on Orivane’s, though his chest burned as if the words had been ripped out. "I’ll lead a wagon if I must." His hand twitched against his sides, trying to hold onto something. "But not this dawn. Give me until it is to be midday. That’s all I ask."

  A murmur stirred through the circle—was it surprise, relief, maybe even pity, it did not matter much. Orivane weighted him like an valuable ore on a scale beneath her heavy gaze. Then, with the slow nod, she relented.

  "Midday," she said. "No later."

  She sat back down, pulling her cloak tighter, the light painting her mask in harsh orange. Around them, the refugees resumed their chatter, their drinking, their whispered songs. As if the matter were closed. As if his life had already been purchased.

  His shoulders buckled, his head fell into his hands, and the breath left him in shuddering bursts.

  He had said yes. He had lied with his own tongue.

  But in the hollow quiet, where no one pressed him with desperate eyes, he knew the truth: he could not do it. He could not lead them into a death march. He could not abandon the city, either.

  "You shouldn’t have—" Marguerite leaned towards him to scold but instead, she sat besides him, silent but comforting with her presence. And Sol choked out a breath, struggling as he held his head with trembling hands. He lingered in the corner, sliding down the brick wall, as his thoughts went into a spiral.

  This wasn’t freedom. It was a wound attempted to be stitched shut with fraying thread.

  "Why?" Sol asked at last, turning to Marguerite. His voice cracked from disuse,. "Why do you keep doing this? Risking your life for me when you could have left a dozen times?"

  Marguerite tilted her head, letting the lamp light catch the tired curve of her smile amongst the gloomy darkness of the warehouse.

  "Because my mentor told me a story," she said softly. "Of a woman who pulled a man from death’s jaws. She fought storms, beasts, and the wrath of kings to keep him breathing. She guided him through the dark, even when the road consumed her. She didn’t do it for reward." Her fingers closed around her dress' frills. "She did it because that’s what witches do. We guide."

  Sol studied her, unsure whether to laugh or curse.

  "I was so inspired," she added with a sudden, crooked laugh of embarrassment. "I wanted to be that kind of witch. The one who doesn’t turn away just because the world says it would be wiser to."

  "Because it is your duty?" Sol muttered, half-smiling at her words.

  Marguerite snorted. "You make it sound boring. No. It’s more like…" She twirled her fingers in the smoky air. "Poor decision-making with a moral backbone."

  This time, he did laugh. The sound felt strange in his throat, as if he hadn't done it so lightheartedly in a long time. But when the laughter died, his gaze drifted past her, to the fire-lit faces, then to Orivane’s eyes behind that mask, then to flickering warmth of the gas lamp near him.

  Yet, the warmth did not soothe him, instead it burned.