THE LUMINOUS FANGS Chapter 18 Volume IV

 

Chapter 18  The Chase Through Valois-sur-Seine

The bells of Valois-sur-Seine began to ring before dawn. They rang from the cathedral tower, from the squat watchtowers along the river wall, and from the iron-banded gatehouses that guarded the city’s principal roads. Their voices overlapped in the cold morning air, each peal carrying the same warning through the narrow streets: intruders had been found, the garrison was mobilizing, and no one was to leave the city without permission.

Roan heard the bells from the roof of a cooper’s workshop. He was running.

His boots struck the weathered tiles in rapid succession, sending loose fragments skittering down the sloped roof. A cold wind tugged at his copper-red hair, which had escaped the leather tie at the back of his head. His freckles stood out against his pale face, and his greenish eyes watered from the smoke rising over the rooftops behind him.

He wore the same practical clothing he had worn on the infiltration: a plain brown tunic beneath a worn protective vest, dark trousers, sturdy boots, and a narrow belt carrying his short sword. The clothes were unremarkable enough to pass for those of a servant or apprentice. They were also becoming increasingly inconvenient for running across wet rooftops while an armed patrol tried to put a crossbow bolt through his back.

“Left!” Tareq hissed.

Roan threw himself sideways.

A bolt struck the chimney where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. Brick chips burst across his shoulder. He stumbled, caught himself against the roof tiles, and continued running.

Tareq was already several paces ahead.

The shadow-assassin moved with a fluid, unsettling precision, his dark clothing blending into the spaces between chimneys and dormer windows. A fitted black tunic covered his lean frame, reinforced by leather straps crossing his chest and waist. Twin blades rested in sheaths along his back, and a dark cloth concealed the lower half of his face. His features above the mask were severe and familiar in an uncomfortable way: the same sharp lines as Tahir’s, but younger in appearance and colder in expression.

Where Roan fought to keep his footing, Tareq seemed to know exactly where every tile would hold.

“Could you have mentioned,” Roan gasped, “that the steward’s estate had half the garrison sleeping behind its walls?”

“I did mention that the estate was guarded.”

“You said the guards were lazy!”

“They were. Until you knocked over the brass astrolabe.”

“It was an accident!”

“An expensive accident.”

Tareq vaulted the gap between two buildings.

Roan stared at the open space.

Below lay a narrow lane paved with uneven cobbles. A handcart stood beneath an awning, loaded with empty baskets. Beyond it, a second roof waited across a gap of several feet. The distance was manageable if he leaped well. It was less manageable if he misjudged it and landed on his head in front of the soldiers pursuing them.

Behind him, men shouted.

“On the roofs! They’re heading east!”

Roan swallowed and ran.

He launched himself across the gap. For one terrible instant, his boots met nothing but air. His fingers scraped the opposite roof’s gutter, and his body swung against the wall.

Tareq seized his wrist.

The assassin hauled him upward with one arm, barely shifting his stance.

“Try not to fall,” Tareq said. “It complicates the escape.”

Roan scrambled onto the roof, breathing hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They pressed forward.

Valois-sur-Seine spread around them in a confusion of slate roofs, half-timbered houses, bell towers, and tall stone buildings whose upper floors leaned over streets barely wide enough for two carts to pass. The city had once been a prosperous river port, its wealth built on grain barges, dyed cloth, wine merchants, and the tolls collected from traffic crossing the Seine. Now Baalanian banners hung from its towers. Imperial sunbursts had been painted over the crests of local guilds, and soldiers occupied the larger buildings overlooking the bridges.

The occupation had not stopped the city from living.

It had merely made every ordinary act dangerous.

Bakers were already opening their shutters. Market porters pushed handcarts through the lanes. A woman in a blue wool shawl carried a basket of onions past a patrol, keeping her gaze fixed on the cobbles. An old man in a patched coat stood outside a shuttered apothecary, pretending to sweep the same stretch of pavement while watching the soldiers move.

Roan saw all of them as he ran.

He also saw the consequences of being caught.

A man in a butcher’s apron was being dragged from a doorway. Two soldiers had seized a young courier by the collar and were searching his satchel. At the corner of a square, an imperial officer was shouting at a line of merchants whose carts had been stopped and overturned.

The Baalanians were not merely hunting two intruders. They were closing the city around them.

And the stolen documents were worth more than Roan’s life alone.

Inside the leather case beneath his tunic lay the evidence they had taken from Duke Armand de Vauclair’s study: lists of villages suspected of sheltering resistance fighters, records of secret payments, correspondence with imperial offices, and maps of hidden roads through the old Valerien defenses. There was also a seal connecting some of Armand’s dealings to the religious expedition whose agents had commissioned designs from Bashir’s foundry.

The papers were still incomplete. They did not explain the Black Boxes, the seven ancient sites, or the purpose of the expedition. But they proved that the betrayal of Valerienne had not ended when the capital fell.

Someone had continued helping the conquerors.

Someone was still helping them now.

Roan tightened his arm around the case.

They had to get it out of the city.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Down.”

Tareq dropped through an open loft window.

Roan reached the window just as a second crossbow bolt struck the roof behind him. He ducked, swung his legs over the sill, and lowered himself into darkness.

He landed in a storeroom filled with barrels, stacked timber, and the sharp smell of vinegar. Tareq stood beside a narrow staircase leading to the building’s rear entrance.

The assassin tilted his head, listening.

Boots thundered over the roof above them.

“They’ve divided their patrols,” he said. “One group is following us. Another is moving toward the eastern gate.”

“Why the gate?”

“They know we need to leave the city.”

Roan looked toward the staircase. “Then we go west.”

“No. The western streets are too exposed. The garrison can close them with three squads.”

“Then where?”

Tareq’s eyes narrowed above his mask.

“The river.”

He opened the rear door.

A soldier stood on the other side.

For a moment, neither moved.

The Baalanian wore dark lamellar armor over a rust-red padded coat, with a curved sword at his hip and a round shield strapped to his back. His eyes dropped to Tareq’s blades, then rose to the mask covering his face.

“—”

Tareq struck before the man could finish speaking.

His hand clamped over the soldier’s mouth. He drove him backward into the doorframe, twisted, and lowered him to the ground. The soldier’s helmet struck the floorboards with a hollow clatter.

Roan stared.

“Was that necessary?”

Tareq stepped over the unconscious man.

“He was about to shout.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to—”

“Roan.”

The tone silenced him.

Tareq looked toward the street beyond the doorway. His posture had changed. The humor was gone, replaced by the alert stillness of a hunter listening for movement in tall grass.

“Stay close. If we lose the documents, the deaths those papers could prevent will be for nothing.”

Roan glanced down at the case beneath his tunic.

Then he followed.

The City Closes

The rear passage opened into a narrow alley between a dyer’s workshop and a row of cramped tenements.

Blue and yellow cloth hung overhead, dripping water from the previous night’s rain. The alley smelled of damp wool, old ash, and the sour residue of dye vats. A small boy carrying a bundle of firewood froze as Roan and Tareq emerged.

Tareq held one finger to his mask.

The boy’s gaze flicked toward the armored soldier lying inside the workshop.

Then toward the street, where the alarm bells continued to ring.

He said nothing.

Instead, he lifted his bundle and walked away.

Roan followed Tareq through the alley, around a stack of broken furniture, and beneath a low stone arch. They emerged into a street crowded with morning traffic. A baker’s apprentice carried trays of bread. Two women argued over the price of turnips. A mule strained against a cart loaded with pottery, while its owner cursed at a wheel jammed between the cobbles.

Beyond the crowd, a patrol of six Baalanian soldiers marched toward them.

Tareq stopped.

Roan nearly collided with his back.

“What—”

“Quiet.”

The soldiers were accompanied by a narrow-faced officer carrying a short baton. His dark hair was shaved close at the sides, and a red sash crossed the front of his armor. He moved with the stiff confidence of a man who had been given authority over frightened civilians and had decided to enjoy it.

“Everyone against the walls!” he shouted. “All carts are to be searched. Any person found carrying letters, maps, or military markings will be detained!”

The crowd stirred.

A woman clutched her basket against her chest. The potter began arguing that his goods were fragile. The mule stamped and tossed its head.

Tareq leaned close to Roan.

“Do not run until I tell you.”

“They’ll search us.”

“They’ll search everyone.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t intended to.”

The patrol advanced.

Roan lowered his head and tried to look like a frightened apprentice who had become lost in the morning crush. He kept his hands visible and his shoulders slightly hunched. His heart hammered so loudly that he imagined the officer would hear it.

The first soldiers pushed into the crowd, searching carts and opening baskets. One seized a sack of flour and cut it open with his sword. White powder spilled across the cobbles.

“Move!” the officer snapped. “Faster!”

A merchant protested when a soldier began tearing open a crate of glassware. The soldier struck him across the face with the back of his hand.

Roan took a step forward.

Tareq’s fingers closed around his wrist.

“No,” he whispered.

The merchant stumbled against his cart, blood running from his split lip. The soldier raised his sword again, but the officer barked at him to stop.

“We are looking for armed fugitives, not settling personal disputes. Search the cart.”

The distinction offered little comfort to the merchant, who stood trembling beside his broken goods.

Roan forced himself to look away.

He hated it.

He hated that the city’s people had to endure this, that every patrol could turn an ordinary morning into a nightmare, that he had to keep walking while a man bled on the stones.

But Tareq was right. If he revealed himself now, the papers would be lost. Armand would remain protected by his noble title and imperial connections. The secret payments would continue. Villages would be raided because their names appeared on a map in some Baalanian officer’s hands.

He breathed slowly through his nose.

The patrol drew closer.

An old woman stepped into their path, carrying a basket of apples. She stumbled deliberately, scattering fruit beneath the soldiers’ boots.

“Ah! My apples!”

The officer cursed. Two soldiers turned to help her gather them, while another shoved a porter aside to make room.

Tareq moved.

He caught Roan by the shoulder and pulled him through a gap between a cart and a building. They slipped beneath a hanging awning, crossed a small courtyard, and emerged into a lane that sloped toward the river.

Roan looked back once.

The old woman had gathered her basket. For a brief moment, she met his eyes across the crowd.

She gave the smallest shake of her head.

Keep going.

Then the market swallowed her.

Roan turned away.

“Someone’s helping us,” he whispered.

“Someone is helping the city,” Tareq replied. “Do not assume they know who we are.”

They descended toward the river.

The streets grew narrower as they approached the old merchants’ quarter. Stone warehouses crowded the water’s edge, their foundations dark with damp. Mooring posts lined the quays, and ropes creaked against the sides of barges that had been held under military guard since the occupation began.

Across the water, the eastern bank rose toward a district of workshops and abandoned mills. Above it stretched the old aqueduct, a weathered construction of pale stone that had once carried fresh water from the hills into Valois-sur-Seine.

Parts of it had been damaged during the conquest. One arch had collapsed into the river. Another had been patched with timber and crude masonry. Its upper walkway remained narrow and uneven, but it connected the river warehouses to an old road outside the eastern wall.

Tareq pointed toward a stairway between two warehouses.

“The aqueduct.”

Roan followed his gaze.

“That thing is half broken.”

“Only half.”

“Comforting.”

“It was not meant to be.”

They started toward the stairs.

Then a horn sounded from the river gate.

A heavy iron barrier dropped across the quay entrance.

Soldiers poured from a guardhouse, spreading into the street.

One pointed directly at them.

“There! The red-haired boy!”

Roan’s stomach sank.

Tareq drew both blades.

“Run.”

The Half-Ruined Aqueduct

They ran.

Tareq cut left around a stack of timber, deflected a soldier’s sword with the flat of his blade, and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest. The soldier crashed into two companions, blocking the narrow passage for a precious second.

Roan darted past them.

He heard the scrape of steel behind him, then Tareq’s boots striking the cobbles as the assassin caught up. More soldiers emerged from the guardhouse, their armor clattering as they spread across the quay.

The fugitives reached the aqueduct stairs.

They were steep, worn hollow in the middle by generations of feet. Moss grew between the stones, and the iron handrail had rusted through in several places. Roan climbed two steps at a time, one hand gripping the wall and the other protecting the leather case beneath his tunic.

A crossbow bolt struck the stair beside his boot.

He flinched, missed a step, and slammed his knee against the stone.

“Keep moving!” Tareq shouted.

Roan pushed himself upright.

At the top of the stairs, the aqueduct opened before them: a long, exposed walkway running along the crest of an ancient stone channel. On their right, the city rose in layers of tiled roofs, bell towers, and smoking chimneys. On their left, the river curved through the valley, gray beneath the morning clouds. Beyond the far bank, fields and wooded hills vanished into the mist.

The aqueduct was wide enough for two people to walk abreast in its better-preserved sections. Elsewhere, its parapet had crumbled away, leaving only a narrow strip of stone between the channel and a sheer drop.

Water no longer flowed through most of it. Weeds grew in the cracks, and rain had collected in shallow pools along the walkway. Several sections had been repaired with rough planks laid across missing stones.

The route was dangerous.

It was also their best chance to escape.

Tareq sprinted ahead, testing each section before crossing. Roan followed, his boots slipping on wet stone. Behind them, the soldiers reached the stairs.

“Archers!” someone shouted.

Tareq seized Roan’s collar and dragged him down behind the broken parapet.

A volley of bolts rattled across the aqueduct. One struck the stone above Tareq’s head. Another passed through Roan’s loose sleeve, leaving a clean slit in the brown fabric.

Roan stared at it.

“That was my good sleeve.”

“Your other sleeve is equally unimpressive.”

“You are remarkably encouraging.”

“I try.”

Tareq peered over the parapet. The soldiers were advancing in pairs, using the surviving stonework for cover. A crossbowman knelt behind a fallen pillar while another soldier carried a small shield to protect their advance.

They were not rushing blindly.

The garrison had learned from the fugitives’ movements. They were cutting off escape routes, using the aqueduct’s narrowness to restrict the pair’s options.

Tareq’s eyes shifted toward the far end of the walkway.

A section of the aqueduct had collapsed into a jumble of stone and timber. Beyond the wreckage, a narrow maintenance bridge crossed the gap, connecting the old channel to a watch platform built against the outer hillside.

The bridge looked barely capable of supporting a single person.

Roan followed his gaze.

“Tell me that isn’t our route.”

“It is our route.”

“It’s a collection of planks held together by optimism.”

“Then you should fit in perfectly.”

Tareq rose.

He sprinted across the next section of exposed stone, ducking beneath another volley. Roan followed, his legs burning as he ran along the aqueduct’s uneven spine.

A bolt struck the ground ahead. He veered around it, stepped over a split in the masonry, and leaped onto a broad slab that bridged a hole in the walkway.

The stone shifted beneath his weight.

Roan threw himself forward.

His hands struck the far side. His knees scraped across rough stone, and he rolled onto his shoulder just as the slab tipped into the channel behind him.

It crashed downward, breaking into fragments.

For a moment, Roan could only stare at the empty space where he had been standing.

Tareq had stopped several paces ahead.

“Are you injured?”

“My dignity.”

“Then we can continue.”

Roan scrambled to his feet.

They reached the maintenance bridge.

It had been constructed from thick wooden beams bolted into the remaining stonework. Several planks were missing, and the handrails hung crookedly over the drop. Far below, the river churned around the broken aqueduct piers.

Tareq crossed first, moving lightly over the timbers.

Roan followed, placing each boot carefully.

Halfway across, the bridge groaned.

A plank cracked beneath him.

Roan lurched sideways, catching the rope rail before he could fall. The leather case struck his ribs. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself back onto the bridge.

The next sound was not a plank breaking.

It was a crossbow being cocked.

A Baalanian soldier had reached the watch platform on the far side. He stood behind a waist-high stone barrier, aiming directly at Roan.

Tareq turned.

His right-hand blade flashed through the air.

The knife struck the soldier’s crossbow, knocking it from his hands. Before the man could draw his sword, Tareq covered the remaining distance in three swift strides and drove him back against the platform wall.

Roan stumbled off the bridge.

He had barely regained his footing when the first soldiers appeared at the opposite end.

There were too many of them.

Tareq glanced at the bridge, then at the watch platform’s narrow doorway.

“We cannot hold this position.”

Roan drew his short sword. Its plain steel blade looked painfully small against the soldiers’ armor.

“Then what do we do?”

Tareq looked down the hillside.

A steep path wound between the old aqueduct supports toward a ruined mill on the eastern bank. It was partly concealed by thorn bushes and the remains of a collapsed retaining wall.

“We make them regret following us.”

Tareq kicked the watch platform’s loose wooden brace.

The brace snapped.

A section of the maintenance bridge sagged sharply. One of the pursuing soldiers shouted as the planks dropped beneath his feet. The man behind him collided with his back, and both fell against the broken railing. They did not plunge into the river, but their sudden collapse blocked the bridge long enough to disrupt the advance.

“Now!” Tareq ordered.

They plunged down the hillside.

Roan slid on loose gravel, grabbing at branches to slow himself. Thorn bushes tore at his trousers. Tareq moved beside him, using the remaining aqueduct supports as cover while the soldiers shouted above.

They reached the ruined mill just as a bell began ringing from the eastern watchtower.

The sound rolled over the river.

Roan bent forward, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“How many bells does this city have?”

“Enough.”

“Could they not have chosen one?”

Tareq looked back toward the aqueduct. Soldiers were spreading along the walkway, while others descended the stairs toward the riverbank.

The fugitives had bought themselves only minutes.

Then Tareq’s expression sharpened.

“Someone is coming.”

Roan straightened, sword raised.

A figure emerged from the mill’s shadow.

It was a young woman in a gray wool cloak, with dark hair tucked beneath a faded headscarf. A wicker basket hung from her arm. She looked like any other market porter trying to avoid the garrison’s attention, except for the small copper pin fastening her cloak: a simple shape resembling a three-branched tree.

Tareq lowered his blades by a fraction.

“Who sent you?”

“No one,” she replied. “But I saw the soldiers close the quay. And I saw you fall down the hill.”

Her gaze settled on Roan’s torn sleeve and scraped knee.

“You look terrible.”

“I have been told.”

The woman set down her basket and pushed aside a length of rotted timber. Beneath it was a low opening in the mill’s foundation, half concealed by weeds.

“There’s an old drainage tunnel. It leads to the lower road beyond the tanneries. You can get outside the wall that way.”

Tareq did not move.

“Why help us?”

The woman’s expression hardened.

“Because last week the soldiers took my brother for refusing to surrender his grain. Because yesterday they searched our house for letters we had never seen. Because the duke’s men have been telling them where to look, and people are disappearing from villages that never raised a weapon.”

Her eyes flicked toward the case beneath Roan’s tunic.

“If you have something that can make the truth harder to bury, then stop standing here and let me help you carry it.”

Roan looked at Tareq.

For a moment, the assassin’s expression remained unreadable. Then he crouched beside the opening and examined the edges of the stonework.

“Is it trapped?”

“No.”

“Does it flood?”

“Only when the river rises.”

“Has it been used recently?”

The woman hesitated.

“Yesterday. A miller’s boy uses it to bring sacks through when the gate is closed.”

Tareq nodded once.

“Acceptable.”

Roan gave her a grateful look. “Thank you.”

“Save it for when you are outside the walls.”

They squeezed into the tunnel.

It smelled of wet earth, rotting wood, and river mud. The ceiling was low enough that Roan had to crouch, and in places the stone floor had vanished beneath shallow water. The woman followed them just far enough to pull the timber back over the entrance.

Darkness swallowed them.

Above, the bells continued to ring.

And somewhere beyond the stone and water, the garrison of Valois-sur-Seine continued its search.

The Gate of the Sun

Celestine heard the alarm bells from the western approach. He stood beneath the broken lintel of an abandoned tollhouse, watching Baalanian soldiers hurry along the ramparts. The sky was the color of tarnished silver, and the wind carried the damp smell of the Seine through the gaps in the old walls.

He looked every inch the knight the occupation had been trying to make an example of.

His long platinum-blond hair fell past his shoulders, partly bound at the nape of his neck. A few loose strands moved across his very fair face in the wind. His steel-blue eyes were fixed on the city gate, measuring the movement of the guards. Over his deep-blue gambeson and fitted leather armor, he wore a dark-blue cloak fastened with a silver clasp. His polished plate armor and ornate sword were hidden beneath a weather-stained traveling mantle, but the straight-backed posture and controlled movements of a trained knight were difficult to disguise.

At his side rested Lueur Sainte, the greatsword whose runes of light could heal the wounded, shield the innocent, or turn a single stroke into a flash of sacred power.

He had not drawn it.

Not yet.

Tahir stood beside him, tall and imposing beneath layered black robes and desert veils. Antique charms and medallions hung from the belts crossing his chest. His carved wooden staff rested against his shoulder, its weathered surface marked with equations that seemed to shift when seen from the corner of the eye.

His dark eyes tracked the rooftops.

“The eastern gate is sealed,” Tahir said. “They are concentrating soldiers along the river.”

“Then Roan and Tareq have been driven toward the aqueduct.”

“Or they have already reached it.”

Celestine looked at him.

“You sound hopeful.”

“I sound unwilling to confuse possibility with certainty.”

“That must make celebrations difficult.”

“Celebrations are generally a waste of time.”

Celestine smiled faintly. “You would be surprised how often that is said by people who have never organized one.”

Tahir did not smile, but his gaze softened by the smallest degree.

The bells rang again.

Celestine’s expression returned to seriousness.

“They have sealed the city because they know we are carrying evidence. If the documents remain inside those walls, Armand will have time to destroy whatever else he has hidden.”

“Which is why we should avoid a direct confrontation with the garrison.”

“Agreed.”

Tahir looked toward the western gate.

“Then I assume you have a plan that does not involve walking up to it and announcing our presence.”

Celestine drew back his mantle just enough to reveal the silver hilt of his greatsword.

“Of course.”

Tahir sighed.

“Your plans are becoming predictable.”

“And yet you keep following them.”

“Because someone must ensure you survive them.”

Celestine’s smile warmed for a heartbeat.

Then he turned toward the others waiting beneath the tollhouse’s broken roof.

Gor’Thrak stood near the entrance, his immense frame filling the space between two cracked pillars. At six feet nine inches, the gray-skinned orc was taller than nearly every soldier they were likely to meet, and broad enough that his reinforced leather-and-metal armor seemed built around a small fortress. His tusks protruded from his rugged face. Old scars crossed his arms and shoulders, and fresh bandages disappeared beneath the dark straps around his side, remnants of his battle with Zayd al-Hadid.

Vorrak-Duum, his enormous double-headed axe, rested across his back.

He was examining the street beyond the tollhouse with the impatient concentration of a warrior who preferred problems he could strike.

“If we’re drawing soldiers away,” he rumbled, “tell me where to stand.”

“Somewhere visible,” Celestine replied.

“That is most places.”

“Precisely.”

Beside Gor’Thrak, three pale lights drifted in the shadow of the roof. They resembled small white owls, their feathers formed from moonlit magic. The Three Light Owls had been summoned by Snowy before he went with the others toward the city, and they had remained with the Fangs as scouts.

One of them suddenly turned its head toward the eastern skyline.

Tahir noticed.

“Movement?”

The construct gave a soft, chiming cry.

Tahir lifted his staff and murmured a brief phrase. A thin ribbon of blue light passed through the owl’s body and vanished.

“Soldiers have reached the river warehouses,” he said. “They are searching the mill district.”

Celestine’s jaw tightened.

Roan and Tareq were still inside the city.

“Then we begin now.”

He looked to Gor’Thrak.

“Hold the western approach. Keep their attention here, but do not let them surround you.”

Gor’Thrak grunted.

“How many?”

“As many as come.”

“That is not a number.”

“It is the one we have.”

The orc bared his tusks in what might have been a smile.

“Better.”

Celestine turned to Tahir.

“I need a storm that hides movement without burying the civilians.”

“A narrow wind corridor, carrying dust and grit through the gate approach. It will obscure sight, not destroy the walls.”

“And the soldiers?”

“Will be unpleasantly surprised.”

“I shall endeavor to survive their displeasure.”

Tahir planted the butt of his staff against the ground.

“Try not to turn it into a speech.”

“No promises.”

Celestine stepped out of the tollhouse and began walking toward the western gate.

He did not run.

He walked with the measured pace of a man who had decided the world would have to make room for him.

The western gate of Valois-sur-Seine had been built to impress travelers. Two square towers flanked its great wooden doors, each topped with a steep roof of dark slate. The old Valerien crest had been chiseled from the stone above the arch, leaving a pale scar in the masonry. In its place, the Baalanians had mounted a black banner bearing the golden sunburst of their empire.

A barricade of wagons, sharpened stakes, and timber beams blocked the road. Soldiers stood behind it with shields and spears. Crossbowmen occupied the towers, their weapons trained on the approach.

A Baalanian captain stepped forward.

He wore blackened lamellar armor over a red padded coat, with a crimson sash and a bronze sun emblem pinned to his breast. A short sword hung at his hip. His dark beard was trimmed close, and a thin scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his jaw.

“Halt!” he shouted. “The gate is closed by imperial order. State your business.”

Celestine stopped beyond the reach of the soldiers’ spears.

He lowered his hood.

The captain’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the platinum hair and the knight’s unmistakable bearing.

Then he saw the sword.

“Celestine Pharelumière.”

The name moved through the soldiers like a sudden draft.

A few raised their weapons. One crossbowman leaned farther over the tower parapet.

Celestine rested a gloved hand on the pommel of Lueur Sainte.

“I am here to discuss the matter of your occupation.”

The captain gave a short, humorless laugh.

“You have come alone?”

“Not entirely.”

A gust of wind swept dust across the road.

The captain glanced toward the walls.

That was his mistake.

Tahir’s staff struck the ground.

A controlled sandstorm surged down the western road.

It was not a vast desert tempest capable of swallowing buildings. Tahir had shaped it carefully, drawing grit from the dry road, dust from the ruined tollhouse, and loose soil from the embankments. The wind spiraled between the towers and swept across the barricade, raising a dense golden-brown curtain that blurred outlines and stung exposed eyes.

Soldiers coughed and swore.

Crossbowmen lost sight of the road.

The gate captain shouted orders, but the wind carried his voice away.

Celestine drew Lueur Sainte.

Light ignited along the runes engraved on the greatsword’s blade. Pale gold raced through the silver steel, illuminating his armor beneath the mantle. He advanced through the dust, striking the first soldier’s shield hard enough to knock the man backward into the barricade. A second lunged with a spear; Celestine turned aside, stepped inside the weapon’s reach, and struck the soldier’s breastplate with the flat of his blade.

The man fell, breathless but alive.

Celestine fought with restraint, disabling rather than killing wherever he could. His sword moved in precise arcs, each strike supported by footwork and a careful reading of his opponents’ balance. When two soldiers rushed him together, he pivoted, allowing their momentum to carry them into one another before sweeping the legs from beneath the nearer man.

The captain came through the storm with his sword drawn.

“You should have stayed hidden in your holes, knight!”

Celestine parried the first cut.

“I have been told that before.”

The captain attacked again, driving forward with the brutal confidence of a man accustomed to fighting frightened opponents. Celestine yielded ground, letting the captain commit his weight to a heavy downward strike.

Then the knight turned his wrist.

Steel rang against steel.

The captain’s sword slid wide, and Celestine’s shoulder struck his chest. The officer staggered backward into a wagon wheel.

Celestine stopped with Lueur Sainte’s glowing point at his throat.

“Call off the archers.”

The captain’s eyes burned with hatred.

“Never.”

“Then I shall have to ask them myself.”

Celestine stepped back just as a crossbow bolt shot through the dust.

He turned his blade.

The bolt struck the luminous steel and shattered into splinters.

For a brief instant, the soldiers could see him clearly: the silver runes blazing across his greatsword, his platinum hair streaming in the wind, his blue cloak whipping behind him.

The knight stood between them and the open road.

And every soldier who recognized the Unicorn of House Pharelumière understood why his name had become a symbol among the occupied villages.

Celestine was not there to conquer the gate.

He was there to make the garrison believe he might.

The Unbreakable Wall

Gor’Thrak took the street barricade at the western approach.

The road narrowed between a row of abandoned warehouses and the high stone wall of an old customs house. Wooden carts had been overturned across the cobbles, and the Baalanians had dragged timber beams into place to create a defensive line. Behind it, soldiers formed ranks with shields overlapping, while archers occupied the upper windows.

It was a sensible position.

Gor’Thrak intended to make it an expensive one.

He stood in the middle of the road, his immense shoulders nearly spanning the gap between the barricade and the wall. His dark-gray skin was streaked with dust. His scars stood out pale against the rough texture of his forearms, and his lower armor straps had been tightened to keep his bandaged side from shifting too much.

He had refused to remain behind while the others risked themselves.

Celestine had not argued.

He knew better than to try to convince Gor’Thrak that a barricade was too dangerous for him.

The orc had already begun walking toward it.

“Hold!” shouted the Baalanian officer behind the shields. “Spears forward!”

A row of spearpoints emerged above the barricade.

Gor’Thrak stopped.

He looked at the weapons.

Then at the men holding them.

“You can move aside,” he said.

The officer blinked.

“What?”

“You can move aside. I would rather not break the barricade over you.”

A soldier near the center laughed nervously.

The officer’s face darkened.

“Loose!”

Arrows and bolts flew from the windows.

Gor’Thrak raised his left arm to shield his face. One arrow struck the thick leather reinforcement on his shoulder and glanced away. Another buried itself in the metal plate protecting his upper arm. A third struck the ground near his boot.

He kept walking.

The first spear thrust toward his chest.

Gor’Thrak caught the shaft beneath his arm, yanked hard, and pulled the soldier forward against the barricade. The man collided with the wooden beams. Gor’Thrak released the spear, seized the upper rail with both hands, and heaved.

The barricade lurched.

Men shouted as the timber shifted beneath them. One cart rolled sideways, crushing a stack of shields. The soldiers behind the barrier scrambled to hold their line, but the orc planted his boots against the cobbles and drove forward again.

Wood cracked.

The center of the barricade collapsed.

Gor’Thrak stepped through the wreckage.

His axe came off his back in a single powerful motion.

Vorrak-Duum was a brutal weapon, its twin heads broad and heavy, its dark metal etched with markings that seemed to drink the light around them. The axe’s weight would have dragged an ordinary warrior to his knees. In Gor’Thrak’s hands, it moved with frightening purpose.

He swung the haft across his body.

The blow struck three overlapping shields and hurled their bearers backward. The soldiers crashed into the men behind them, breaking the neat formation they had been ordered to maintain.

Gor’Thrak advanced into the gap.

He did not chase those who fell. He did not pursue every soldier who retreated. He occupied the road, forcing the garrison to deal with him before it could turn toward the eastern district.

A pair of infantrymen attacked from his right.

He turned, caught one by the breastplate, and shoved him into the other. Then he drove the blunt end of Vorrak-Duum into the cobbles, using the haft as a lever to sweep both men off their feet.

The officer shouted for reinforcements.

Gor’Thrak heard the approaching boots.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the western gate, where Celestine’s light flashed through the storm.

“Come on, then,” he growled.

The next wave came with shields and long spears, supported by archers firing from the customs house windows. Gor’Thrak could not afford to ignore the missiles forever. A bolt struck his thigh, and another glanced off his side armor near the old wound. Pain flared through him.

He gritted his tusks.

The enemy had numbers, armor, and the advantage of the narrow street. If they could pin him against the wall, the archers would have a clear shot at his unprotected joints.

He gave ground deliberately.

One step.

Then another.

The soldiers surged forward, encouraged by what they mistook for retreat.

Gor’Thrak watched their feet.

The road was uneven. Rainwater had collected in the gaps between cobbles, and the collapsed barricade had left loose timber scattered beneath their boots.

When the first rank stepped over the wreckage, he struck.

His axe smashed into the remaining upright of the barricade. The timber snapped, dropping a heavy crossbeam across the soldiers’ path. Men stumbled over it, their shield formation collapsing as they tried to avoid the falling wood.

Gor’Thrak charged into the confusion.

He struck shields aside, drove spearpoints into the wall with the haft of his axe, and used his immense bulk to force the front rank backward. He fought like a warrior who had spent a lifetime learning that strength alone was not enough; every movement served a purpose, every step claimed space, every blow disrupted the enemy’s formation.

Still, the pressure increased.

A spear scraped across his ribs. A sword cut the leather at his forearm. The bandage around his side began to darken.

For one instant, his gaze flicked toward the eastern road.

Roan was somewhere beyond those walls.

So was Tareq.

The documents were the only proof that Armand’s betrayal had continued after the conquest. If the Fangs lost them, the duke could deny everything, and the villages marked on his maps would remain vulnerable.

Gor’Thrak tightened his grip.

He could endure pain.

He could endure exhaustion.

What he could not endure was the thought of standing aside while people who had trusted the Fangs were dragged away because they had failed to protect a handful of papers.

He roared.

The sound rolled between the buildings, startling birds from the rooftops.

Gor’Thrak drove forward again, forcing the soldiers back toward the customs house. His axe struck the ground in front of their line, sending cobblestones jumping. The nearest men recoiled, and those behind them stumbled over the fallen barricade.

The officer looked at the widening gap in his formation and realized that the giant orc was not going to break quickly.

“Fall back!” he shouted. “Reform by the warehouse!”

Gor’Thrak did not pursue.

He planted Vorrak-Duum in the road and stood before the broken barricade, breathing hard. Blood ran down his forearm, and his injured side throbbed beneath the armor.

But the road remained blocked.

He had done his part.

Now the others had to escape.

The Storm That Chose Its Path

From the roof of the abandoned tollhouse, Tahir watched the city’s western approaches through a veil of dust.

He had raised the storm carefully.

A careless sorcerer might have thrown the entire district into darkness, blinded civilians, overturned carts, and buried the narrow streets beneath choking clouds. Tahir had no intention of doing that. His magic was destructive by nature, but destruction without control was merely waste.

He drew a slow breath beneath his black face veil and moved his staff in a measured circle.

The wind obeyed.

Dust rose from the dry road in twisting ribbons. Sand gathered along the gutters and whirled between the buildings, obscuring the sightlines of the Baalanian archers without driving the grit into the eyes of the fleeing civilians. Around the western gate, the storm thickened into a dense curtain. Farther east, it thinned into a drifting haze that concealed movement without swallowing the streets.

Tahir could feel the city through the air.

Every alley created a channel. Every courtyard interrupted the wind. The walls, towers, and roofs formed a labyrinth of currents that he had to account for with each movement of his staff.

He was not simply summoning a storm.

He was directing a battlefield.

One of the Three Light Owls returned to the tollhouse roof, its white wings shining faintly against the dust. It circled Tahir once and gave a sharp, chiming call.

He tilted his head.

“East?”

The owl flew toward the river, then turned back toward the outer hills.

Tahir understood.

“They have reached the lower road.”

He lowered his staff a fraction, and the wind shifted away from the riverbank, drawing the dust cloud toward the city’s central streets. The effect was subtle, almost invisible to anyone who did not understand the shape of the magic. But the change mattered. The soldiers pursuing Roan and Tareq would find their route obscured, while the road beyond the walls would remain relatively clear.

Then the wind faltered.

Tahir’s eyes narrowed.

A second current had entered the district, moving against his spell. It carried a strange, metallic pressure that made the hairs rise along his arms. For an instant, the dust hung motionless in the air.

Someone was using magic inside the city.

Not a great spell. Not enough to challenge him directly. But something precise, woven into the garrison’s signal system.

Tahir looked toward the eastern watchtower.

A thin blue spark flickered above its roof.

He recognized the pattern from the records recovered at Bashir’s foundry: a rune sequence designed to transmit orders across great distances, using linked marks as relays.

Snowy had discovered that the Baalanians were using such signals. Now Tahir could feel one of those networks responding to the alarm.

The garrison was coordinating its pursuit through magic as well as horns and messengers.

He could not allow that system to guide every patrol toward the fugitives.

Tahir planted his staff against the roof.

The markings carved into the wood began to glow.

He spoke a sequence of forbidden syllables, drawing a narrow line of blue fire through the air. It moved like ink through water, dividing into several smaller branches that curved around the watchtower’s signal rune.

For a moment, the two magical systems pressed against one another.

The tower’s blue spark brightened.

Tahir’s jaw tightened beneath his veil.

Then the signal flickered and broke.

Across the city, a horn sounded from the eastern wall. Another answered from the river gate, but the calls no longer aligned. Soldiers began shouting at one another as conflicting orders reached different patrols.

Tahir withdrew his staff.

The blue fire vanished.

The effort had cost him more than he liked. A dull ache spread behind his eyes, and the muscles of his hand trembled around the carved wood. He steadied himself against the parapet.

He had not destroyed the network. He had disrupted one relay, nothing more. The Baalanians would eventually discover the failure and repair it.

But they would lose time.

Time was what the Fangs needed.

Below, Celestine withdrew through the dust after forcing the gate captain to abandon his forward position. The knight’s blue cloak was streaked with dirt, and one shoulder plate bore a fresh dent. His silver greatsword still shone with a restrained golden light.

Gor’Thrak emerged from the western barricade with his axe across his shoulders, leaving a trail of broken timber and scattered shields behind him.

“You have the look of a man who has enjoyed himself,” Celestine remarked.

Gor’Thrak grunted.

“I have the look of a man who has been stabbed twice.”

“Only twice? Then the morning is not entirely wasted.”

The orc gave him a hard stare.

Celestine smiled, but his eyes quickly returned to the city.

“Did you see them?”

“No. But the soldiers stopped moving east.”

“Tahir has disrupted their signals.”

“Good. I am tired of being the only obstacle in this city.”

Tahir descended from the tollhouse roof, staff in hand.

“You are not the only obstacle,” he said. “You are merely the loudest.”

“An accusation I shall accept with dignity.”

“Accept it quietly.”

Celestine glanced toward the river.

The storm was beginning to thin. Through the drifting dust, the roofs and towers of Valois-sur-Seine emerged in fragments. The bells still rang, though less frequently now. Smoke rose from a market street where a cooking fire had overturned, and the imperial sunburst banners stirred in the wind.

The city had not been liberated.

The garrison remained intact. The gates were still guarded, and soldiers continued searching the streets. Their diversion had bought the fugitives an opportunity, not a victory.

Celestine knew the difference.

He sheathed Lueur Sainte and turned toward the eastern road.

“Come. We meet them beyond the walls.”

Beyond the Walls

Roan emerged from the drainage tunnel covered in mud.

He crawled through the final stretch on his hands and knees, dragging his boots through the shallow water. The tunnel narrowed before opening beneath a tangle of roots and thorn bushes, and he had to turn sideways to squeeze through.

When he finally reached the open air, he collapsed onto the grass.

For several seconds, he lay on his back, staring at the low gray clouds.

The eastern road ran along the foot of a wooded slope, well beyond the outer wall of Valois-sur-Seine. A few abandoned farm buildings stood among the trees, their roofs sagging and their doors hanging crookedly from rusted hinges. Beyond them, fields stretched toward the distant hills, divided by stone fences and narrow drainage ditches.

The air smelled of wet grass, river mud, and the faint smoke of the city.

Roan had never been so grateful to breathe it.

Tareq emerged from the tunnel beside him, scarcely more than a dark shape beneath the thorn bushes. He brushed dirt from his fitted black tunic and checked the twin blades at his back.

Then he looked down at Roan.

“You can get up.”

“I can do many things.”

“Can you do this one?”

“Eventually.”

Tareq crouched and examined the tear in Roan’s sleeve.

“Crossbow bolt?”

“Yes.”

“Did it strike you?”

“Only my clothing.”

“Then you have been fortunate.”

Roan pushed himself upright. Mud covered his trousers, and his protective vest was scraped along one side. His red hair had come loose completely, and a thin line of blood ran from his knee where he had struck the stone steps.

He checked the leather case.

Still there.

He opened the flap just enough to inspect the papers inside. The edges were damp, but the documents remained intact, protected by the oilskin wrapping Tareq had insisted they use before entering the city.

Roan exhaled.

“We got them out.”

“We have not yet returned to the others.”

“But we got them out.”

Tareq considered this.

“Yes.”

For Tareq, it was practically a celebration.

They followed the lower road westward, staying beneath the trees where possible. Twice they heard patrols moving along the wall above them. Once, a pair of Baalanian riders passed along a distant track, their horses splashing through puddles as they searched the surrounding fields.

Tareq guided Roan away from the open road and through a stand of hazel trees.

The younger man glanced back at the city.

From this distance, Valois-sur-Seine looked almost peaceful. Its stone towers rose above the rooftops, and the Seine shone faintly between the buildings. The banners of the occupation were small against the skyline.

It was difficult to reconcile the view with the frightened merchants, the soldiers tearing apart carts, and the old woman scattering apples beneath their boots.

“Do you think the people who helped us will be safe?” Roan asked.

Tareq did not answer immediately.

“We cannot know.”

“The woman at the mill. The old woman in the market.”

“They may never be questioned. They may be questioned tomorrow. They may have helped a dozen fugitives before us.”

“That isn't much of an answer.”

“It is the honest one.”

Roan looked down at his muddy hands.

“I hate leaving them behind.”

Tareq turned toward him.

For an instant, the assassin seemed older than his face suggested. There was a stillness in him that did not come from coldness alone, but from having seen too many people suffer the consequences of choices made by others.

“Then remember them,” he said. “Remember what they risked. We cannot save everyone in one morning, Roan. We can make sure their courage was not wasted.”

Roan nodded slowly.

He understood the words, even if he did not yet know how to live with them.

They continued through the trees.

A pale light flickered between the branches ahead.

Roan reached for his sword.

Tareq raised one hand to stop him.

Three white owls drifted above the grass, their luminous wings scattering silver motes into the air. One circled Roan’s head before flying toward a ruined farmstead beside the road.

A familiar voice came from beyond the stone wall.

“You have taken your time.”

Celestine stepped into view.

His traveling mantle was dusty, and a dent marked the shoulder of his armor, but his platinum hair and steel-blue eyes were unmistakable. Lueur Sainte rested at his hip. He looked Roan over from head to toe, taking in the mud, torn sleeve, and bloodied knee.

Then his expression softened.

“You are hurt.”

“Only a little.”

“That is what people say when they are trying to prevent me from asking further questions.”

“It usually works.”

“Not with me.”

Celestine clasped Roan’s shoulder, then drew him into a brief, firm embrace. It was the gesture of a knight greeting a young squire who had come dangerously close to being lost, and the relief in it was too genuine to hide.

Roan returned the embrace, suddenly conscious of how much the chase had frightened him.

Celestine released him and looked toward Tareq.

“Were you followed?”

“No one reached the drainage tunnel. The garrison was still searching the aqueduct when we escaped.”

“Good.”

Gor’Thrak appeared from behind the farmstead, his huge axe balanced in one hand. Dust coated his dark armor, and the bandage at his side had begun to bleed through. He looked at Roan, then at Tareq.

“You took the long way.”

Roan stared at him.

“We were chased across half the city!”

“Then you should have run faster.”

Celestine sighed.

“Please do not encourage him.”

“I am not encouraging him. I am explaining the obvious.”

Tahir emerged last, leaning slightly on his staff. His black robes were streaked with dust, and the charms hanging from his belt clinked softly as he walked. His eyes went first to Roan’s face, then to the leather case beneath his tunic.

“You have the documents?”

Roan drew the case out.

“Yes.”

Tahir took it carefully.

For a moment, the surrounding sounds seemed to fade: the wind moving through the grass, the distant ringing of the city bells, the soft clink of Gor’Thrak’s armor.

The case was more than a collection of stolen papers.

It was the first tangible proof that the Fangs’ suspicions had been correct. Armand de Vauclair had not merely survived the conquest through luck or cowardice. His household had been involved in the machinery that enabled it.

Tahir opened the case.

“Let us see what we have.”

The Steward’s Letters

They took shelter in the abandoned farmstead while the morning clouds thickened overhead.

The building had once belonged to a prosperous farmer. Its stone walls remained solid, but the wooden shutters had been torn away, and the roof sagged over the rear room. A broken plow lay beside the entrance. The remains of a cooking fire filled the hearth with cold ash, and a few straw mattresses were stacked against the far wall.

It was not a comfortable place, but it was hidden from the road and offered a clear view of the surrounding fields.

Celestine stationed himself near the broken window, watching the approach. Gor’Thrak settled beside the doorway, his axe within easy reach. Tareq stood in the deepest shadow, his attention divided between the road and the documents spread across an old wooden table.

Roan sat on an overturned crate while Celestine examined the scrape on his knee.

“It needs cleaning.”

“It barely hurts.”

“That is not the same as being uninjured.”

The knight poured a little water over the wound and used a clean strip of linen to remove the dirt. Roan winced.

Celestine looked up.

“You crossed a collapsed aqueduct, evaded an entire patrol, and escaped through a drainage tunnel.”

“Yes.”

“And yet the water is the part that troubles you?”

“It was cold.”

Celestine gave a quiet laugh.

Then he placed two fingers above the injury. Golden-white light flowed from his hand, soft and warm. The bleeding stopped, and the raw edges of the scrape began to close.

He did not erase every mark. A little soreness would remain, and Roan would have to be more careful with the knee for the rest of the day.

“There,” Celestine said. “Try not to collect any more injuries before supper.”

“I will do my best.”

“That is all I ask.”

At the table, Tahir had begun sorting the documents into separate piles.

The first contained the village lists and maps already discovered in Armand’s study. The second held financial records, some bearing the marks of imperial offices. The third contained correspondence, most of it written in a precise hand on expensive paper.

Tahir’s expression grew increasingly severe.

“These are not ordinary accounts.”

Celestine crossed to the table.

“What have you found?”

“Payments made through intermediaries. Some are described as fees for road surveys, others as compensation for damaged estates or the purchase of supplies. But the dates do not match the stated purposes.”

Tahir laid three letters beside one another.

“This payment was recorded two weeks before the western defenses were abandoned. This one was issued three days before the Baalanian army crossed the river. And this was entered after the city fell.”

Celestine leaned over the table.

“Armand was paid before the invasion.”

“Repeatedly.”

“And after the conquest?”

“His accounts continued to receive money.”

Gor’Thrak shifted near the door.

“So the duke sold his kingdom, and the conquerors kept paying him to remain useful.”

“That is the simplest explanation,” Tahir said. “We should not confuse a simple explanation with a complete one.”

Tareq stepped closer to the table.

“Who received the letters?”

Tahir separated the correspondence and began examining the seals.

Several bore the golden sunburst of the Baalanian administration. Others carried the insignia of military supply offices. One was marked with the same religious seal they had discovered in Bashir’s foundry: a dark circular impression surrounding a stylized symbol of radiating lines.

The connection was growing harder to dismiss.

Armand’s dealings reached beyond ordinary occupation administration. Someone within the religious expedition had communicated with his household, though the letters did not yet reveal how much the duke knew about the expedition’s true purpose.

Tahir set that letter aside.

Then he opened a narrow envelope concealed between two account sheets.

Its outer seal had been broken and carefully pressed closed again. The paper was folded around a smaller note, written in a different hand.

Tahir read the first lines.

His expression did not change, but Celestine noticed the stillness that settled over him.

“What is it?”

“A record of a delivery.”

“Supplies?”

“Not supplies. A message.”

Tahir turned the paper toward the light.

The note was brief. It referred to a meeting at a riverside countinghouse, a sealed packet delivered to an imperial representative, and instructions to ensure that the contents reached the appropriate recipient without passing through the ordinary military courier system.

At the bottom was a name.

Matthieu.

Roan leaned forward.

“Armand’s steward?”

Tahir nodded.

“His household accounts identify Matthieu as the man responsible for managing correspondence, payments, and private deliveries. This note confirms that he carried communications outside the duke’s official channels.”

“Communications to whom?” Celestine asked.

Tahir unfolded a second sheet found inside the envelope.

This one contained a brief acknowledgment, written by a Baalanian clerk and marked with a military office seal.

The wording was cautious, but the meaning was unmistakable. Matthieu had delivered a packet to a representative acting on behalf of Qasr al-Mazir’s administration. The recipient had acknowledged the delivery and requested further correspondence through the same discreet route.

A later entry recorded another delivery.

And another.

The dates spanned several weeks.

Tareq’s eyes narrowed.

“Matthieu was not carrying a single letter. He was running a channel.”

“Yes,” Tahir said. “A private channel between Armand’s household and representatives of the Sultan.”

Celestine studied the pages.

“Do we know what was in the packets?”

“Not from these letters. But we know they were delivered, we know the recipient acted on behalf of Qasr’s administration, and we know the arrangement was deliberately kept outside the ordinary courier system.”

Gor’Thrak gave a low growl.

“Then we find Matthieu.”

“Eventually,” Celestine said. “First we determine where he is, whom he serves, and what he has been carrying.”

Roan looked from the letters to the village maps.

The names on those lists had seemed terrible enough when they were merely ink on paper. Now they had become part of a much larger pattern: the betrayal of the kingdom, the continued flow of secret payments, the religious expedition, and a steward moving between powerful men while the people of Valerienne suffered.

“Could Matthieu have been the one giving the Baalanians the village locations?” he asked.

Tahir considered the question.

“Possibly. But these documents do not establish that. We know Armand’s household possessed the information, and we know Matthieu carried secret communications to Qasr’s representatives. We do not yet know whether he delivered the village lists, copied other records, or carried instructions concerning the expedition.”

“So we still need him.”

“Yes.”

Roan looked at the papers again.

“Then we catch him before he can destroy the rest.”

Celestine rested a hand on his shoulder.

“That is the plan.”

The knight’s voice remained gentle, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.

“Armand may believe his title protects him. Matthieu may believe a steward’s name is too small to matter. But we now have evidence that connects the duke’s household to the Sultan’s representatives. We will follow that evidence, and we will not let the trail disappear.”

Tahir gathered the letters into a neat stack.

“There is another matter.”

He drew out the map recovered from Armand’s study and placed it beside the map taken from Layth ibn Sahr’s observatory.

The two documents had already been compared at the hunting lodge, but now Tahir aligned them more carefully, matching the river bends, old roads, and mountain passes. Celestine held the corners flat while Tareq adjusted the position of the second map.

Several routes intersected.

One ran along the old western defenses. Another followed a line of abandoned roads toward the hills. At three points, Armand’s marked routes approached the ancient sites identified on Layth’s map.

Tahir’s gaze darkened.

“The duke’s betrayal may have helped the Baalanians move people or equipment toward these ruins without drawing attention from the royal garrisons.”

“Can we prove that?” Celestine asked.

“Not yet. The maps establish a connection between the routes. The letters establish a secret communication channel with Qasr’s representatives. The religious seal suggests contact with the expedition. Together, they give us a direction to investigate.”

He tapped one of the intersections.

“But we must not pretend we know what moved along these roads, or why. The Black Boxes and the ancient sites remain part of a larger mystery.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Outside, the wind moved through the wet grass.

The Black Boxes had already shown themselves to be more than relics. Their connection to the forbidden writings Tahir knew as the Ashen Equations suggested an old system of bindings and seals, something constructed to contain forces that the present age might no longer understand. The expedition’s interest in the ancient sites could not be separated from that danger.

But the Fangs still had no proof that Armand understood any of it.

They had a traitor’s maps, a steward’s letters, and a trail that led toward something buried beneath the history of Elyria.

It was enough to continue.

It was not enough to stop.

The Next Name

By midday, the storm had dispersed.

From the farmstead’s broken window, the Fangs could see Valois-sur-Seine in the distance. The city bells had fallen silent, but Baalanian patrols still moved along the outer roads. Smoke drifted above the rooftops, and the black-and-gold banners remained fixed to the towers.

The diversion had succeeded. Roan and Tareq had escaped with the evidence, and the secret correspondence was now in the Fangs’ hands.

Yet the occupation continued.

The city remained under Baalanian control. Qasr al-Mazir’s authority had not been weakened by a single disrupted signal relay or a brief clash at a gate. His army still held Valerienne, his officers still commanded the roads, and his representatives still operated within the conquered kingdom.

The Fangs had won information, not freedom.

Celestine folded the maps and placed them in a protective leather sleeve.

“We return to the lodge. The village routes must be changed before another patrol discovers them.”

“Tahir and I will compare the correspondence against the expedition records,” Snowy’s absent place in the group seemed to remind them of the work still waiting. One of the Light Owls drifted through the window, circling the table before settling on the wooden beam overhead.

Tahir glanced at it.

“Snowy should see the signal markings as well. He discovered the network first, and he may recognize details we have missed.”

“Then we send him the notes,” Celestine said. “But not until we are certain the road is safe.”

Gor’Thrak adjusted the straps crossing his injured side.

“And Matthieu?”

Celestine looked toward the distant city.

“We find him.”

Tareq slid one of the letters into the inner pocket of his dark tunic.

“If he is still carrying messages, he will have to meet someone. Couriers need recipients, and secret channels require people to maintain them.”

“Which means he has habits,” Tahir said. “Routes. Safe houses. Places where he can meet imperial representatives without attracting attention.”

“Or someone else carries the letters now,” Roan added.

Tahir inclined his head.

“An important possibility.”

Celestine gave the young squire an approving look.

“Then we investigate both. We do not rush into the city again without knowing what waits for us.”

Roan nodded, though he could not hide his frustration. He wanted to return to Valois-sur-Seine, find Matthieu, and force him to answer for every village endangered by the information he had carried. But he had learned something on the rooftops that he had not fully understood before.

Courage did not always mean charging toward the person responsible.

Sometimes it meant surviving long enough to bring the truth into the light.

The Fangs left the farmstead through its rear door and followed the wooded road toward their hidden refuge. Gor’Thrak took the rear, watching for patrols. Tareq moved ahead through the trees, searching the bends in the road. Tahir kept the documents secured beneath his robes, while Celestine remained close to Roan.

Behind them, Valois-sur-Seine slowly resumed its uneasy routine. Merchants would reopen their stalls. Soldiers would repair the barricades. The garrison would investigate the broken signal relay and question those who had witnessed the disturbance at the western gate. And somewhere within the occupied city, Matthieu would continue to exist behind his respectable title and quiet duties, unless the letters had already warned him that his secret was in danger.

The Fangs now knew that he had carried communications to representatives of Qasr al-Mazir.

They knew Armand’s household had remained useful to the conquerors after Valerienne fell.

And they knew that the duke’s routes intersected with the strange network of ancient sites tied to the religious expedition.

What they did not yet know was how much Matthieu understood, what Qasr’s representatives had asked him to carry, or whether the steward’s work connected directly to the Black Boxes. Those answers lay ahead. For now, the stolen documents had survived the chase through Valois-sur-Seine. The next step was to turn them into a trail that could not be erased. And the first name on that trail was Matthieu.