Dawn brought no peace. It carried hangovers, distant screams… and a couple of new posters featuring Krau's poorly drawn face. In one, he looked like a thief. In another, a distraught baker on the verge of tears.
"This is abstract art at this point…" Krau muttered, hiding beneath a tattered hood as he slipped through the alleys. "Who draws these things? A child with vision trauma and rag-doll hands?"
But even his usual sarcasm couldn't ease the pressure growing in his chest.
He stopped in an empty corner, between a closed stall and a dry fountain. He took a deep breath. The taste of the air scratched his throat. He sat on a stone step and rested his forehead on his arms. Just for a moment. Just to stop pretending.
"I'm tired."
It wasn't a new thought, but that morning, it weighed more than usual.
"If I keep running… where am I even going? What am I looking for?"
He recalled Darion's face—serious, unyielding. He remembered Liora's voice—annoyed, protective. He felt small. Like the world was moving forward without him, and he was only leaping between ruins to keep from being left behind.
"I can't go back… but I don't know how to move forward either."
A nearby noise made him sit up abruptly. Instinct more than bravery. He forced himself to stand, to keep walking. But he stopped whistling. And he didn't joke again.
Far away, Liora woke in an empty room. Seeing the unmade bed, her face tightened with a resigned sigh.
"I hope you're not doing something stupid, stubborn boy…"
Krau knew Alessa never forgot offenses. She wouldn't chase him with swords, like an irate guard. She'd do something far worse—a notebook full of faults, a well-trained voice for scolding, and the fury of a betrayed academic chronicler.
And if he had learned anything, it was that escaping from a determined woman… with free time… was no easy feat.
Many kilometers to the north, behind the blackened walls of Ruel's citadel, General Eldros remained motionless before a table covered in reports. His armor, devoid of insignias, spoke of past battles—a collection of iron scars.
A sentinel entered without lifting his gaze.
"Second report from Vel Dahr, sir. No signs of resistance. No survivors."
Eldros clenched his fists. Slowly.
"Vel Dahr too? That makes… seven? Eight villages?"
"Eleven. Including those on the eastern border."
"Witnesses?"
"None. Only remains. Burns. Mutilations. In one of the houses, the walls were torn from the inside… as if something had burst from the ground."
A dry chill ran down the general's spine. Outside, the wind howled through stone battlements, as if even the mountain wanted to warn him: "Something is coming."
"Any trace of magic?"
"Nothing trackable. No portals, no summons. The creatures enter, kill, and vanish. They leave no tracks. They don't linger to watch."
Another soldier entered.
"Captain Darion has arrived, sir."
"Send him in," Eldros responded without lifting his eyes from the map.
Darion crossed the room like a well-trained shadow.
"General Eldros. Captain Darion of the Blue Cross, at your service."
The general studied him with a gaze as sharp as an old blade. He assessed his stance. His discipline. His presence.
"I don't need ceremony, captain. I summoned you because your record shines even in the kingdom's darkest corners. And because I need something more than soldiers."
Darion nodded, maintaining his posture.
"I am here to serve, general. But I suspect you didn't call me to praise my efficiency."
"That's what I like. Precision. I'll get to the point: we're mobilizing troops to protect the most valuable villages. But someone needs to stay in the heart of the kingdom. Someone who can remain calm… when the impossible reaches our doors."
He handed him a map.
Darion unfolded it over the stone table. The marked points seemed random. But something didn't fit. Like a puzzle missing its key pieces.
"There's no pattern," he murmured. "They attack like the world is a dice table."
"General?" Darion asked, noticing Eldros' pensive silence.
"Nothing… just a feeling."
Eldros turned to a messenger.
"Summon the High Council. Reinforce all routes to the capital. And I want Lunhgard's trackers on the front lines. Bring me details. Scars. Tracks. Or the scent those things leave. Anything that doesn't belong to this world."
The messenger departed.
Eldros remained before Darion, his eyes weighted with an ancient gravity.
"Prepare yourself, captain. What is coming… is no ordinary war. May the goddess Kise grant us light when the darkness swallows our names."
Meanwhile…
In a crowded street, Alessa held the latest poster with an expression that blended frustration and artistic judgment.
"Who drew this abomination!? He looks like a turnip with a wig and an existential crisis!"
"Lady Alessa…" Joren tried to intervene. "Maybe we should focus on capturing him."
"How are we supposed to catch him if his face doesn't even look human!? This isn't justice. It's bad horticulture!"
Joren raised his hands in peace.
"We could activate the informant networks from the Gray Library."
Alessa burned him with a cold fire in her gaze.
"No! This is personal now. That shameless brat tricked me, left me talking to myself, and defiled the temple. And worst of all…"
Her voice dropped a tone, laden with exquisitely contained fury.
"He made me monologue in front of a statue with a crazed grandmother's face."
She turned with the determination of a well-documented storm.
"Prepare the map, Joren. If I know his kind, he'll hide in the most absurd and contradictory place. And that is exactly where I'll be waiting for him."
"We'll go to the central library."
A smile, sharp as a compass, stretched across her face.
High above the rooftop of an abandoned inn, Krau bit into an apple while watching the sun climb between the towers.
He knew he had no real escape. Alessa would hunt him down. Darion would wait for him. And Liora… was probably already deciding which part of his body hurt most when struck with a thick book.
But there was something else. Something in the air.
A barely perceptible pressure. Like the world was holding its breath. Like the shadows were watching.
He didn't know what it was. And, as an expert in ignoring ominous signs…
…he decided not to think too much about it.