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Cassira stirred her stew without really tasting it, listening to Mira. The common room was quiet this time of day. Too early for the evening crowd, too late for the midday meal. Only a few sounds filled the space: the low crackle of the hearth, the scrape of Garrik’s cloth over a mug behind the bar, and Mira’s voice carrying easily across their corner table.

From the kitchen, an older man’s voice drifted through the wall, low and patient as he gave instructions to someone else. A younger voice answered now and then. It sounded like Calen, though the words were too muffled to be sure.

"—and the bathhouse is always packed on Sixthday," Mira was saying, her tone light despite the complaint. "Everyone rushing to finish before evening lectures. You'd think they'd stagger it, but nooo."

Cassira offered a faint smile. "You'd think that would make more sense."

"Right!" Mira took another bite of stew, then gestured with her spoon. "And don’t get me started on the food! I'm not trying to be biased, but I swear the food here is way better. I don't know what they do to the porridge at the dorms, but it's like eating paste."

"Calling it paste is giving it too much credit," Cassira agreed, surprising herself with the comment. The words had slipped out before she could second-guess them.

Mira blinked, then burst into laughter, bright and genuine.

Cassira felt something in her chest loosen.

Talking to Mira was easy in a way most things were not. Comfortable. Safe. Mira could complain about porridge and bath schedules as if those were the only troubles in the world, and laugh so freely when Cassira managed to crack a joke in response. It was relaxing, and warm.

The afternoon was setting up to be just that.

And then Mar moved.

One instant he was standing by the door. The next, he was crossing the room with frightening speed and a look on his face that made Cassira’s blood go cold.

She barely had time to turn her head before Mar’s massive frame closed the distance between them in three long strides. His hand reached over his shoulder for the war axe strapped across his back.

At the same time, behind the bar, Garrik’s head snapped up. The cloth in his hand stilled. Is other hand was already moving beneath the counter, fingers curling around something hidden there, his whole body going tense.

The windows exploded inward.

Glass burst across the common room in a glittering spray, the winter wind rushing in behind the falling shards, sharp and cold.

Bolts whistled through the shattered openings, black-fletched and fast. One slammed into the chair beside Cassira’s with a harsh brutal thunk. Splinters erupted from the impact point.

Her body moved before her mind caught up. Frost gathered at her fingertips as she started to rise—

Mar's hand clamped down on her shoulder. Hard.

He shoved her flat to the floor.

The table overturned with a crash. Bowls shattered, stew spilled across the wood in a spreading pool. Mira hit the ground beside her with a startled gasp.

Mar stood above them both, war axe drawn, his body a living wall between them and the shattered windows. Another bolt whistled past his shoulder.

He didn't flinch.

Garrik vaulted over the bar. Twin blades were in his hands before his feet hit the floor, drawn from beneath the counter in one smooth motion. He moved with impossible speed for someone his size, a green blur crossing the common room toward the front door as shattered glass skittered beneath his boots.

More glass broke. Another window burst inward with a sharp crack, then another. Bolts hissed through the broken frames, striking wood, walls, furniture. One bolt punched into a support beam hard enough to make the whole beam shudder.

Cassira pressed herself flat against the floorboards, heart hammering so hard it hurt. Her fingers scraped against broken glass. A thin sting opened across her palm, but she barely felt it.

Mira was saying something beside her, her voice tight and panicked, but Cassira couldn’t make out the words over the rush of blood in her ears.

Mar’s axe came up as a shadow moved past the nearest window. He shifted his stance, shoulders squared toward the threat outside.

“Stay down,” he said.

His voice was flat. Calm.

Cassira dragged in a shaky breath. Then another. Short. Controlled. She forced herself to focus beyond the panic, past the overturned table and the spilled stew and the shards of glass scattered like ice across the floor.

She needed to think.

Before she could calm herself enough to move, the door exploded inward.

Wood splintered. Iron hinges shrieked. The frame buckled under the force of the blow, and pieces of the door spun across the common room.

Mar was moving before the first broken plank hit the floor. Garrik moved with him.

The innkeeper slammed into the first attacker low and fast, twin blades flashing in a vicious crosscut. Mar met the next with the full sweep of his axe, the weapon carving a brutal arc through the space where the door had been.

Bodies poured through the gap.

Cassira couldn’t quite make out how many were coming in. They wore dark clothes, no markings, and moved too smoothly to be bandits. Too coordinated. One ducked beneath Garrik’s blade while another stepped in behind him. A third raised a crossbow from the broken doorway.

Mar swung.

The impact was wet and heavy, and it echoed through the room.

Someone screamed.

Not Mar. One of the attackers.

Then Mar’s voice cut through everything else, firm and urgent both. “Run. City.”

Movement flickered at the edge of Cassira’s vision.

A figure stood near the kitchen door, half-lit by the warmer glow beyond it. Calen. She didn’t see him clearly, only the shape of him turning sharply toward the sound of Mar’s command.

Mira’s hand closed around Cassira’s wrist.

“Cass, let’s go!” Mira urged.

Cassira was on her feet before she remembered standing. She stumbled once, boots sliding through spilled stew and broken glass, then caught herself against Mira’s grip

Mira pulled her toward the back hallway. Toward the kitchen door where Calen was waiting.

She looked back once.

Mar stood between her and the entrance, already swinging at something she couldn’t see clearly. His silhouette filled the ruined doorway, broad and immovable, axe raised against the flood of dark figures forcing their way inside.

Then she was through the kitchen door, and Mar was gone from view.

Cold air hit Cassira’s face like a slap.

The back door banged open behind them, spilling them out into the yard behind the inn. The warmth and smoke of the common room vanished at once, replaced by white daylight, hard-packed snow, and the sharp bite of northern wind.

Elara stood half-out of the stable, one hand still on the doorframe. Her eyes were wide, her whole body frozen mid-step as she took in the shattered windows, the sounds of fighting, the dark shapes forcing their way into the inn.

Calen’s voice came from behind Cassira, sharp and carrying. “Get the city watch! We’re being attacked!”

Elara’s head snapped toward him. For one breath, she looked like she might argue. Like she might run toward the inn instead of away from it.

Then something in Calen’s face must have stopped her.

She turned and ran.

Cassira caught Calen in her peripheral vision as he pushed past them toward the yard gate. “Come on!”

They ran.

Toward the city.

Mar said city.

Cassira held onto that instruction. The checkpoint at the city entrance. The guards. The guilds. People. Safety.

Her boots hit packed snow. Her breath came in short bursts. Frost gathered at her fingertips without her asking.

The inn yard fell behind them. The road bent between low buildings crusted in old snow, their eaves heavy with ice. Glasshold rose ahead in the distance, pale and sharp against the gray sky.

Then Calen’s arm came across her chest.

Cassira stopped so suddenly she nearly slipped. Mira stumbled beside her, catching herself on Cassira’s sleeve.

Cassira followed Calen’s gaze.

A figure crouched on a rooftop to their left, still as a gargoyle against the snow. Two more stood on the road ahead. Not moving. Not searching.

Waiting.

Her stomach dropped.

The way to the city was blocked. A trap.

“Other way,” Calen said, too calmly given the situation. Possibly trying to keep them calm, too.

They were moving again before Cassira fully processed the words. Away from Glasshold.

Away from the checkpoint. Away from Mar’s order.

Cassira ran, the cold burning in her lungs, and one thought cut through the panic with terrible clarity.

They knew which way Mar would send us.

They were already there.

This was planned.

Footsteps sounded behind them.

She didn't turn to look. Shapes flickered at the edges of her vision. One vaulting between roofs above and to her left. Another shadow appearing at the mouth of a side street they passed.

Mira was slower. Her breathing came hard and uneven as she tried to keep pace. Her boots slipped more than once in the snow.

Cassira grabbed her wrist and pulled.

Mira glanced at her once while running, panic and apology written clearly across her face. I'm slowing you down.

Cassira tightened her grip and didn't let her finish the thought. She pulled harder and kept running.

Calen wasn't beside her anymore.

She noticed it in pieces—his footsteps falling back. His presence falling behind them instead of remaining with them.

Cassira looked back.

He had stopped at the mouth of the alley, blade already drawn, held low and ready as he planted himself between the girls and the footsteps closing in behind them.

He met her eyes for half a second.

"Keep running. I'll hold them."

His voice was calm and resolute, like he'd already decided this before they had reached the corner.

Cassira wanted to protest, but Mira pulled her around the bend. And Cassira let herself be pulled.

They did not get much farther.

The alley narrowed between two buildings. Their boots echoed too loudly through the space as they ran and slipped and ran some more.

Then two figures stepped into the alley ahead of them.

Cassira stopped so fast Mira collided with her back.

For one terrible second, no one moved.

Then Cassira understood.

The chase had been a funnel.

Calen wasn’t the last line between them and danger. He was only one piece of the trap. The attackers had driven them here on purpose, cut off the city, cut off the road, cut off every turn until there was nowhere left to run.

Cassira raised both hands, shaking.

Ice surged from her palms with everything she had. It burst across the alley – a wall first, thick enough to block the passage. Then spikes, long and uneven, ripping up from the frozen ground between them and the figures ahead.

For half a heartbeat, she thought it might be enough.

One of the attackers moved. He lowered his shoulder and drove straight through the ice.

The wall shattered around him as if it were nothing. Chunks of ice exploded outward, scattering across the alley in glittering pieces.

Mira screamed behind her.

Cassira turned toward the sound—

—and felt the bolt hit her thigh.

It struck hard, deep enough to punch the breath from her lungs.

Cassira looked down, stunned, as if the bolt belonged to someone else. Dark wood jutted from her leg just above the knee, black fletching trembling from the force of impact.

Then her leg stopped being hers.

It buckled beneath her.

She tried to catch herself, tried to force weight onto it, but nothing answered.

She was on her knees in the snow before she understood she was falling.

Cold spread from the wound. It crawled outward through her blood, dragging her strength with it. Her hands shook as she tried to lift them again, but her fingers would not close.

The frost at her fingertips sputtered. Faded out.

The alley tilted.

Her vision narrowed.

White snow. Dark boots. Mira’s frightened face blurring above her.

Then black.

He turned before he fully understood what he had heard.

Glass. Impact. Mira’s gasp from the common room.

The knife came with him.

He rounded the kitchen doorway into chaos.

The common room had become splintered wood, shattered glass, and cold air. Mar stood over Cassira and Mira, axe drawn, his body planted between them and the broken windows. Garrik was already vaulting the bar, twin blades flashing in his hands before his boots even hit the floor.

Then the front door burst inward.

Bodies poured through the gap.

Calen’s grip tightened around the kitchen knife.

Mar’s head turned. Found him. Their eyes met across the room for half a second. Mar didn’t shout yet. He didn’t need to. The look was hard and urgent, and then his gaze cut pointedly toward Cassira.

Get her out.

Calen knew what came next before the words left Mar’s mouth. “Run. City.”

Calen lifted one hand and beckoned sharply. Mira saw him first. She grabbed Cassira’s wrist and hauled her toward the kitchen. Cassira stumbled up after her, pale-faced, eyes wide but moving.

Bran rushed past Calen from the kitchen, broad shoulders filling the doorway for an instant as he charged toward Garrik and the fight instead of away from it.

“Bran—” Calen started. Too late.

An attacker slipped past Garrik’s left side, blade angling toward Bran’s ribs.

Calen moved on instinct.

He turned, snapped his arm forward, and threw the kitchen knife.

It spun once through the air and buried itself in the attacker’s shoulder. The man jerked sideways with a sharp cry, his strike going wide as Bran slammed into him like a wall.

Calen didn’t wait to see if he went down.

Mira and Cassira were already through the kitchen. He chased after them.

Cold air hit them in the stable yard.

The back door banged open behind them, and the warmth of the inn vanished all at once. Snow crunched underfoot. The wind cut through Calen’s sleeves and dragged smoke from the shattered windows into the pale daylight.

Elara stood frozen in the stable doorway, eyes wide, one hand braced against the frame. She looked from the girls to the inn, horror locking her in place.

Calen made the call.

She would slow them down. Worse, she might try to run inside. Better to give her something she could do.

“Get the city watch,” he shouted. “We’re being attacked.”

Elara’s head snapped toward him. For one breath, she stared and looked as if she might argue.

Then she ran.

Calen didn’t wait to see if she made it. He was already moving ahead of the girls, eyes scanning the street beyond the yard gate.

Empty.

For now.

“Move,” he told them.

They ran.

Toward the checkpoint. Toward the guards. Toward the one place Mar had ordered them to go.

They made it half a block.

Calen’s Resonance Veins lit up before he saw them – three signatures on the roofline. One ahead, two flanking. Two more in the street below, standing still. Waiting.

Everything in Calen went cold.

Trap.

His arm came across Cassira’s chest. She stopped hard against him. Mira nearly crashed into her back.

“Other way,” Calen said. Mira's head snapped toward him, but he didn't give her time to ask.

They turned and ran.

Away from Glasshold. Away from the checkpoint. Into the outer district's maze of alleys and narrow streets.

Calen tracked the pursuers through his skill—five pursuing them, closing fast, moving too quickly and too organized to be normal street thugs.

They were being herded.

He glanced at Mira. Her breathing was already ragged. She was trying so hard, she really was, but her steps were uneven on the snow and her grip on Cassira’s wrist kept slipping.

Cassira was faster. If it were only her, she might make it further. Mira couldn't.

They'll catch us in two streets. Maybe one.

He started looking for the place.

A narrow alley appeared ahead—single approach, tight angle, too narrow for more than one or two attackers to press through at a time.

Chokepoint.

He decided before they reached it.

By the time his hand found his knife hilt at his belt, he'd already committed.

He didn't tell the girls. They'd argue.

He just slowed.

At the mouth of the alley, Calen stopped.

Drew.

Planted himself between the girls and the footsteps closing in behind them.

Cassira looked back.

Their eyes met for half a second.

"Keep running,” he said. “I'll hold them."

Cassira's mouth opened. Mira's hand closed around her wrist and pulled. They disappeared around the corner.

Calen didn't turn to watch them go.

The footsteps were already here.

Three figures materialized from the shadows at the end of the street, dark-clad and silent.

The circuit-scars on his arms flared silver.

Only three.

His stomach tightened.

Where were the other two?

No time.

The first attacker closed the distance.

Calen met him halfway.