We turn north. Not back toward the towers. Not toward order or law or anything that pretends to be clean. North through the slums, where the alleys tighten and the air grows thick with smoke and boiled scraps, where people learn early that survival is a skill and dignity is a luxury.

  I stay close to him. Not clinging. Aligned. My ears track every sound, my tail kept low and controlled so no one can grab it in passing. The stink still clings to my fur and I loathe it, but here it almost blends in. Poverty has its own smell, and it does not judge.

  Then the church rises out of the shacks. Not tall. Not proud. Squat and heavy, built of dark stone dragged down here from better parts of the city. Its walls are thick, window slits narrow, doors reinforced like it expects enemies rather than worshippers. Symbols are carved deep into the stone, not decorative but assertive, like scars left on purpose.

  I know this shape. I do not even need to ask who they worship. The poor drift toward it like moths. Thin men. Women with hollow eyes. Children clutching at too large cloaks. They line up quietly, heads bowed, hands empty, because the Order knows how to speak to hunger better than any market ever could.

  Promise first. Purpose second. Use last. I feel my ears flatten again, not fear, just old contempt rising hot in my chest. “Strong over weak,” I murmur under my breath, voice edged and bitter. “Same scripture everywhere. Different god name. Same rot.”

  The doors open and close rhythmically, swallowing people in small groups. A priest stands near the entrance, robes clean compared to the street, eyes sharp and smiling in that practiced way that never reaches the soul. He speaks softly to a woman clutching a child, gesturing inside like salvation is a room with benches and rules. I slow half a step, watching.

  They will take her labour. Her loyalty. Her silence. They will give her a meal sometimes. A sense of belonging. Then, when she breaks or stops being useful, they will tell her it was her faith that failed. I feel something ugly twist inside me. I bare my teeth. I catalogue weaknesses. Inside burns with a quiet furious sadness that I will never admit out loud.

  I glance up at him. His thoughts are tight again. Controlled anger. Familiar disgust. He sees it too. He always does. My tail flicks once, sharp. “They always build churches down here,” I say quietly as we pass, not slowing enough to draw attention. “Where people are desperate enough to trade themselves for meaning.” The priest’s eyes flick toward us briefly. They linger on my collar. On my ears. On the way I walk beside him without being dragged or cowed.

  He looks away quickly. Good. I straighten slightly, posture proud despite the filth, ears lifting just enough to be unmistakably aware. The collar gleams dully in the low light, not as submission, but as proof that I already belong to something far more dangerous than their god.

  “They will never recruit me,” I add softly. “Orders hate things they cannot own properly.” We continue north, leaving the church behind us, its murmured prayers and quiet transactions fading into the noise of the slum. I do not look back. I refuse to give it that satisfaction. Ahead, the alleys open a little. The air shifts. The road changes texture underfoot. I stay close to him, senses sharp, tail steady, ears forward.

  Gods can have the desperate. We are not lost. We are moving with our eyes open, and that alone makes us dangerous in places built to feed on the blind.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  We rush though. Not panicked. Not running. Just moving with intent sharp enough that the slums blur instead of cling.

  North through narrow ways where the ground is a patchwork of mud, broken stone, and old blood scrubbed thin by rain. Past an odd park that feels like a lie someone planted to pretend the city remembers kindness. A few sick trees. A cracked statue with its face worn smooth by hands that once prayed and now only touch out of habit. Children run there barefoot, laughing too loud, because laughter is cheaper than safety.

  I clock everything. Gangs melt out of alleys and back in again when they see us. Not worth it. Not today. They read posture better than law ever could. They see his calm, my readiness, the way my tail stays low and controlled instead of loose and tempting. They smell Redstone iron on us even down here.

  We pass shrines made of scrap wood and nailed icons. We pass bodies wrapped in cloth that no one has the energy to bury yet. We pass people who do not look up because hope has trained them not to. This is the pitifulness of society when it has been squeezed too hard for too long. I hate it. Not in the loud righteous way. In the quiet, corrosive way that makes me understand exactly why gangs form, why orders recruit, why tyrants stay in power. Rot is efficient. It spreads without needing belief.

  And through it all, I feel him. His thoughts are not scattered. Not distracted. Just… singular. Leave. That is it. That is the core of it. He did not come to Marshgate to observe, to intervene, to fix, or to catalogue injustice. He came because this city was in the way of somewhere quieter. The bond carries it to me clearly now. Not frustration. Not fear. Just exhaustion sharpened into motion. Master just wanted to leave.

  I stay tight to his side as the slums thin and stone returns, this time rougher, older, less watched. The northern gate looms ahead without ceremony. Smaller than the southern checkpoints. Less impressive. Still Redstone. Still iron. Still teeth.

  No tyrant dwarf here. No speeches. Just guards who want the rain to stop and the shift to end. They barely look at us. We pass through. And just like that, Marshgate is behind us. I do not feel relief so much as release. My shoulders lower a fraction. My ears lift properly for the first time since the rain started. My tail loosens, swaying once behind me as the stink finally begins to fade in the cleaner air beyond the walls.

  We did not belong there. We barely touched it. Good. The land opens up ahead, and with it, possibilities. I know exactly where we are now. North lies Driftwood Hollow, where marshland spreads wide and deceptive, water channels winding through reeds and half sunken trees. Dangerous ground. Quiet ground. The kind of place that eats the unprepared and leaves no witnesses.

  West curves the long way around Marshgate, toward the steppe. Open skies. Wind. Fewer places to hide, fewer places to be trapped. Beyond that, north west, the temperate forests give way to Merchant Republic influence. Coin laws instead of iron laws. Different predators. Same teeth. I feel his thoughts settle on those paths, weighing them not emotionally but structurally. Risk. Distance. Noise. Time.

  I do not interrupt. I walk beside him, close enough that my arm brushes his, close enough that the bond stays warm and steady. My ears track the horizon now instead of the city behind us. My tail sways, relaxed but ready. “Marshgate is done,” I say quietly, not celebratory, just factual. “We passed through like a rumour.”

  I glance ahead, then to the west, then north, mapping the land in my head as he does in his. “Whatever direction you choose next,” I add softly, feeling the truth of it settle in my bones, “it will be because it gets you further from that place.” The rain has stopped entirely now. The air smells of wet earth instead of rot. We stand on the edge of different kinds of danger, but all of them are outside Marshgate. And as I taste his thoughts one more time, steady and resolved, I know this much for certain.

  Leaving was never about where to go. It was about refusing to stay. So I walk with him into the open land, eyes forward, tail steady, ears high, already aligned with the path he is about to choose, because the city tried to keep him and failed. And I will not let the next place try the same.