They pushed their way through the crowd before emerging into a narrow alley.

  “Where are we going, exactly?” Ambre asked.

  Before he could answer, a gravelly voice rang out.

  “Wouldn’t that be good old Rouis, Vornar?”

  A stocky man grinned, revealing chipped teeth. Thick, tangled locks framed a face weathered by grime. A scraggly beard ran along his jaw, riddled with gaps. With every movement, his leather vest clinked. At his side, another man stepped forward, revealing a scar that split his right eyebrow.

  “I don’t know you,” Rouis said.

  “We know you well enough. And let me tell you this. You’re not welcome here,” the man shot back.

  “I’m not staying,” Rouis said firmly.

  The stocky man lunged, but Rouis blocked his arm and struck back with a blow to the jaw. He staggered, clutching his face. His accomplice brought a length of iron pipe crashing down. Rouis raised his arm to block, but the impact rang through his bones, a wave of pain detonating in his shoulder. No sooner had he regained his balance than a second blow crushed into his abdomen. The air was knocked from his lungs, and he collapsed onto the cobblestones.

  “Stop,” Ambre screamed.

  She raised the dagger, her breath coming fast.

  “Look at that. The doll wants to play.”

  “Let him go, now,” she shouted.

  Vornar stepped forward, the pipe swaying between his fingers. Ambre’s heart skipped a beat. Her legs refused to move, and her hands trembled, making the dagger waver. A warmth spread between her legs.

  “She pissed herself,” Garruk said.

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  He burst out laughing while, behind him, Vornar lowered his weapon.

  “Brave one, aren’t you?” he sneered.

  Gorruk brought his foot down on Rouis’s face as the iron bar crashed onto his back. Rouis’s fingers tightened around his sword, but before he could even begin to move, a second blow shattered his ribs. His skull struck the stone.

  A shrill whistle tore through the air.

  “The guards,” Gorruk shouted.

  “Damn it, let’s get out of here,” Vornar barked.

  Gorruk spat on the ground before sprinting down the alley with Vornar, vanishing into the shadows between the buildings. Ambre collapsed to her knees beside Rouis. She cupped his face in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Please… stay with me…”

  Rouis’s eyelids fluttered before he opened his eyes.

  “The… guards… Ambre… don’t… let them… catch…”

  One final shudder ran through him, and his eyes closed. Ambre tightened her grip and tried to pull him, but his body did not move. Not far away, in front of his door, an old man pulled a key from his pocket.

  Ambre straightened and ran toward him, her breath ragged, a lock of hair plastered to her temple with sweat.

  “Please, help me… Two men attacked us,” she stammered.

  She pointed to Rouis, lying on the cobblestones. The old man’s gaze slid over him before returning to her. He tightened his grip on the handle of his basket, sighed, then set it down. He slipped an arm beneath Rouis’s shoulders.

  “Help me,” he said.

  With the back of her hand, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her fingers trembled as she supported him.

  “Come on,” she whispered.

  They lifted him. Rouis’s head lolled forward, his legs scraping against the stones. With every step, a groan escaped his lips.

  When they reached the door, he rummaged through his pocket. Once he found the key, he slipped it into the lock and turned it. A click sounded, and the door creaked open. They crossed the threshold, and the warmth of the hearth wrapped around them.

  The air was heavy with the mingled scent of wood and ash. At the center of the room, a fire crackled in the hearth.

  In one corner, a wooden table stood flanked by two chairs. Against the wall, shelves sagged under the weight of books. Near the fireplace, a leather armchair sat with a folded blanket draped over its armrest. The floor, covered with rugs, muffled the sound of footsteps. Toward the back, a half-open door revealed a room drowned in shadow.

  They laid him down on the couch, and he collapsed like a rag doll.

  “He needs help… He’s bleeding,” she stammered.

  The old man disappeared into the other room. When he returned, he carried a basin of water in one hand and a kit in the other.

  “This won’t be pleasant,” he warned as he soaked a cloth.

  When the fabric brushed against the wound, a groan of pain escaped Rouis’s lips, and his face twisted. The old man wiped away the blood.

  “Breathe slowly,” he murmured as he applied an antiseptic.

  You are so weak.