The carriage rattled along the uneven road, its wheels kicking up dust as it rolled farther from Aetheria. Elara kept her head low, her fingers curled tightly around the coarse fabric of her cloak. Beside her, Nara sat still, her face shadowed beneath the hood of her garment.

  They had made it this far.

  The escape had gone as planned—until now. The secret tunnel beneath the palace had led them to the river, where Kharis rowed them beyond the city’s borders under the cover of night. The air had been thick with mist, the towering walls of Aetheria fading behind them as they drifted toward freedom. They had changed into commoner’s garb before stepping onto the shore, blending into the outskirts unnoticed.

  The carriage had been waiting, just as Kharis arranged. But now, the driver wanted more.

  “I did what you asked,” the man grumbled, his hands firm on the reins as he flicked them against the horses. “But it wasn’t as easy as you said. Bastard Aetherian soldiers crawling the roads. Longer route. My horse needs to eat too, I’m going to need more gold.”

  “We agreed on a price…” Kharis replied but didn’t look surprised.

  The driver let out a dry laugh. “That was before I put my life at risk for you.” He glanced back at them. “Besides, you didn’t say anything about smuggling people either. You told me this was cargo,” His sharp gaze flickered over the two hooded figures. “Now I see two girls.”

  Kharis met his eyes without hesitation. “They’re my daughters.” His voice was calm, as if the lie was the simplest truth.

  The driver raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t take you for a family man.”

  “Wasn’t by choice.” Kharis sighed, shifting his weight in the seat. “We were banished from birth, not to set foot in Aetheria, but we did anyway, out of necessity… but we got caught, and now the soldiers want us behind the bars.”

  Elara held her breath. Kharis’s voice was smooth, practiced, like someone who had spun lies before, and he knew how to make them believable. The driver’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer before he nodded, as if accepting the story.

  “Well, then you’ve got worse luck than you think,” the driver muttered. “Your timing couldn’t be worse.”

  Kharis’s grip on the seat tightened. “What do you mean?”

  The driver pulled back on the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. “Haven’t you heard? The King’s hunting fugitives. Locked down every route out of Aetheria. Checkpoints at every crossing.” He gave Kharis a sideways glance. “Especially the one heading to Kerios.”

  A heavy silence filled the carriage. Elara felt her chest tighten, her pulse drumming against her ribs. Nara stiffened beside her.

  Kharis’s voice remained steady. “Is there another way?”

  The driver clicked his tongue. “They’re checking every damn passenger. If you’re banished, like you said, they’ll drag y’all off in chains. And if they find out I helped you?” He scoffed. “Let’s just say I won’t be making any more deliveries.”

  Elara clenched her jaw. Every path forward seemed to be closing.

  Kharis exhaled slowly. “We can’t get caught.”

  The driver sighed, scratching his beard. Then, after a long pause, he muttered, “There’s another way, but it’s not cheap.”

  Kharis looked to him to further explain but no words came, he then turned to him fully. “Well, tell me more?”

  "Alright, I can take you off route. There’s a small port town not too far from here. You lay low, wait until the heat dies down, then take a ship to Keriosi region. But keep in mind, the guards are probably checking port passengers too."

  Kharis narrowed his eyes. Elara didn’t know which town he was referring to but judging by Kharis’ silence, she concluded the plan had legs.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The driver kept his gaze on the road. "Alright here’s the deal, you pay me three times more than what we agreed upon and I’ll make sure you get on the ship safely. I have people that will make sure you cross over to Kerios. Deal?"

  After a moment of silence, Kharis finally spoke, “Fine, you’ll get your coin, just move faster.”

  The rider smiled and then steered the carriage onto a different path, the unknown stretching before them.

  ***

  Arion

  "Finally, some proper gold and seals!" Kaelen grinned, nearly bouncing with excitement as he walked alongside Arion. "You and Xur really pulled through. The camp's been running on scraps for too long. Tonight, we feast!"

  Arion smirked. "Feast? Excited to cook or eat?"

  "Of course both!" Kaelen huffed. "You have no idea what I can do with fresh meat and real vegetables. None of that dried rations nonsense—"

  "Keep your voice down." Arion’s tone was low but firm. "Dunreth’s been swarming with Aetherian soldiers since morning for some reason."

  Kaelen's excitement dimmed, and he cleared his throat. "Right. Quick in and out, no unnecessary attention."

  Arion adjusted the dark hood of his cloak over his face as they wove through Dunreth’s bustling marketplace. Stalls lined the narrow paths, the scent of dried spices and roasted meat thick in the air. Around them, merchants haggled, travellers bartered, and the occasional thief slipped through the crowd unnoticed.

  Then, a commotion at the entrance cut through the noise. A loud argument. Arion kept walking, uninterested. Until Kaelen nudged him.

  "Look! Aetherian guards. Searching a carriage," he muttered.

  Arion exhaled sharply, shoulders tensing.

  Better to stay out of it, he thought, he couldn’t risk being detected by Aetherian soldiers.

  But then he heard the rider now screaming.

  "This isn’t Aetheria you bastards!" the rider finally snapped.

  Followed by a loud slap that cracked through the air. The man stumbled, falling onto the dirt.

  Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd. Arion noticed the glances—people looking his way. Expecting something.

  Old habits die hard, he thought. In Dunreth, Custodians were still seen as protectors of the people.

  Arion noticed the hilt of his sword showing and quickly pulled his cloak over it as he moved closer to inspect the situation.

  The guard sneered. “We’re here on the orders of the King of Aetheria, the King of the capital of the world. Do you need me to show you the damned orders, old man?” He raised his hand to strike again.

  Arion moved in.

  By the time the soldier realized what was happening, Arion had already grabbed his wrist, twisting it sharply.

  A cry of pain. Three other guards snapped their attention toward him, hands flying to their swords.

  Arion spun sharply, using his momentum to sweep the soldier’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. The second guard lunged, blade flashing, but Arion was faster, in one fluid motion he drew his sword, Aegis, and met the strike mid-air, parrying it with a sharp clang.

  Then, just for a moment, everything slowed.

  His fingers clenched around the hilt of his blade. For a split second, doubt curled around his mind like a shadow.

  And then he crushed it.

  He was not that man anymore.

  He could not afford to be.

  His duty was to protect those who could not protect themselves. That was what the temple had taught him. What his father had taught him. What the dead demanded of him.

  His grip tightened, his stance shifting. The hesitation was gone.

  The third soldier tried to flank him, but Kaelen slammed into him with a running shoulder block, knocking him off balance.

  Arion stepped into the fight, his blade a blur as he launched a precise flurry of attacks. Every strike was measured, every parry controlled—practiced grace woven with ruthless efficiency. Steel met steel in rapid succession, but the outcome was inevitable. One by one, the guards fell.

  The last of them crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Gasps rippled through the onlookers, the marketplace suddenly still.

  Arion’s breath came heavy, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. The fight had ended in seconds, but the rush of it still surged through his veins. His grip on Aegis tightened before he exhaled, steadying himself.

  A voice reached him—low, grateful. A bald man with a moustache was speaking, “Thank you!”

  Arion barely looked at him or heard him. His vision blurred at the edges, his senses still caught between battle and something else.

  Something more.

  His pulse, still racing from the fight, stilled for a fraction of a moment. He felt a presence. Faint yet overwhelming, familiar yet distant. Like something he thought he’d lost forever had just clicked back into place.

  His gaze swept past the man, drawn beyond him.

  The carriage door creaked open.

  And then she stepped out.

  Elara.

  He didn’t trust his eyes at first. He didn’t know if it was real or something he only wanted to be. She seemed just as hesitant at first, her eyes scanning him, unblinking. Then her breath hitched, her shoulders loosening as something broke inside her composure.

  Then she moved towards him, without a care. Arion did too.

  The moment they collided, her arms around his neck, his tightening around her back —everything else faded. The marketplace, the bodies, the murmuring crowd... none of it mattered.

  “You’re alive!” She exhaled against his shoulder, her voice barely a whisper.

  His grip tightened. He had no words. Only the crushing relief of something he never let himself hope for.

  ***