They plunged deeper into the maze of back streets, boots slapping against damp cobblestones as angry shouts echoed behind them. Naeria moved with purpose, each turn deliberate, each shortcut clearly mapped in her mind.

Soren followed, shoulder screaming in protest as they vaulted a low wall and cut through an abandoned courtyard.

When they finally paused for breath in the shadow of an old tannery, the guards' voices had faded to distant echoes. The stink of chemical preservatives masked their scent, while the building's bulk shielded them from immediate view.

Naeria leaned against the wall, chest heaving, those strange books still clutched protectively against her body.

Up close, Soren could see the fine lines around her eyes, the thinness of her face that spoke of missed meals and too little sleep. Her left arm bore strange markings, faint, shimmering patterns like a lattice of scars or perhaps very fine tattoos that seemed to catch the fading light.

"Why?" she demanded between controlled breaths, those gray eyes piercing in their intensity.

Soren had no answer that made sense, even to himself. Instead, he glanced toward the street they'd fled. "Cathedral Watch doesn't usually patrol this district."

"They don't," she agreed, shifting the books to a more secure position. "They made an exception for me."

Her gaze dropped to his chest, narrowing slightly as if she could see through fabric to the shard beneath. Something shifted in her expression, recognition, perhaps, or calculation.

"You're the tournament fighter," she said suddenly. "The one who made Trescan reveal Aura."

Before Soren could respond, the sound of booted feet echoed from a nearby street. Naeria tensed, head tilting as she assessed the threat.

"We need to move," she said, already pushing away from the wall. "They'll bring runic trackers next."

She paused at the alley's edge, those remarkable eyes finding his one last time. Something passed between them, not gratitude exactly, but acknowledgment. Recognition of a line crossed.

"Find me if you survive this," she said, then slipped away into the gathering darkness, her slight form melting into shadow with practiced ease.

Soren stood alone in the tannery's stinking courtyard, the reality of what he'd just done settling over him like a shroud. He'd interfered with Cathedral Watch. Helped a fugitive escape. Placed himself in opposition to powers he barely understood.

The shard against his chest returned to its familiar cold, Valenna's presence sharpening after her unusual silence.

'Strange prey has crossed your path,' she whispered, her voice frost-edged within his mind. 'Beware, some hunts begin before you realize you're the quarry.'

Soren touched the hilt of his sword, feeling the rough leather wrap against his bandaged palm. Whatever he'd stumbled into, there would be no simple escape. Not now. Not after being seen.

In the distance, a hunting horn sounded, three sharp blasts that signaled all available Watch to converge. The hunt was expanding. And somehow, he had become part of the game.

–

The estate guards didn't see him slip over the eastern wall where the ivy grew thickest. Soren landed hard, his injured shoulder screaming as he rolled to absorb the impact. Blood from a dozen small cuts soaked through his shirt, turning the fabric stiff and tacky against his skin.

The night air carried the metallic tang of it, mingling with the sweat of his desperate flight through Northaven's back alleys.

He'd spent hours evading the Cathedral Watch, doubling back and wading through drainage channels to break any trail.

His boots squelched with each step across the manicured lawn, leaving damp impressions in the perfect grass, evidence he couldn't erase.

The servants' entrance stood half-open, spilling warm light across the kitchen garden. Soren pressed himself against the stone wall, counting his heartbeats as he surveyed the courtyard.

Three... four... five... A kitchen boy emerged, emptying slop into the waste barrel before retreating inside. The moment the door swung shut, Soren darted across the open space and slipped inside.

Heat enveloped him, the lingering warmth from cooking fires banked for the night. He froze as a young serving girl rounded the corner, her arms full of folded linens.

She stopped dead, eyes widening as she took in his ragged appearance, the torn clothing, the blood, the wild desperation he couldn't quite mask.

"I... I didn't see you," she whispered, but her gaze lingered too long on his bloodied sleeve, on the fresh cut across his cheek where a Watch guard's blade had come too close.

Soren said nothing, simply inclined his head in acknowledgment of her unspoken promise. But as he passed, he caught her turning toward an older servant, heads already bent together in urgent whispers.

The word would spread through the estate like fire through dry timber. He felt it already – the weight of unseen eyes tracking his passage through the corridors, the subtle shift in the air when he passed a half-open door.

The household knew something had happened. Something that left Velrane's Blade looking like he'd fought his way through half the city.

He had almost reached the relative safety of his quarters when a silky voice cut through the darkness.

"My, my. What an... entrance."

Ayren Velrane materialized from the shadows of an alcove, his perfect posture and immaculate appearance a stark contrast to Soren's disheveled state. His midnight-blue coat bore not a single wrinkle, and those amethyst eyes glittered with barely suppressed amusement as they cataloged each tear and bloodstain.

"Rough night in the lower quarters?" Ayren asked, circling Soren with predatory grace. "Or perhaps something more... politically interesting?" His nostrils flared slightly. "The stink of the tannery district clings to you. Curious choice for evening recreation."

Soren remained silent, too exhausted for verbal sparring. His hands throbbed beneath their hasty bandages, shoulder aching with each breath. Every instinct screamed to retreat to his quarters, to clean his wounds, to process the madness of what had happened with Naeria.

Ayren's perfect mouth curved into a knowing smile. "Helping fugitives now? The people will love it. The Church, less so." He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Word travels quickly when the Cathedral Watch sounds their hunting horns. Especially when the quarry is accompanied by a recognizable tournament fighter."

Ice slid down Soren's spine. How could Ayren know already? He'd been careful, had doubled back, had—

"Don't look so surprised," Ayren continued, straightening the already-perfect cuff of his sleeve. "Information is currency, and House Velrane deals in only the finest exchange." His smile widened a fraction. "Whether you intended it or not, you've just aligned yourself against the Cathedral. Quite the dramatic second act for our tournament hero."

"I didn't—" Soren began, but Ayren raised one elegant finger to silence him.

"Intent is irrelevant. Perception is everything." He stepped back, studying Soren as one might examine an unusual chess piece. "The common folk already whisper that you stood against noble privilege in the tournament. Now you stand against religious authority in the streets." He laughed softly. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were following a script."

The shard against Soren's chest pulsed cold, Valenna's presence stirring after hours of unusual silence. 'He sees opportunity in your recklessness,' she whispered. 'Careful what hooks you swallow with his bait.'

Ayren moved toward the corridor that led to the family's private wing, pausing just long enough to deliver a final barb. "The stage grows larger, Soren Thorne. Make sure you don't get crushed beneath it."

His footsteps faded, leaving Soren alone in the darkened hallway, the implications of Ayren's words settling like stones in his stomach. The Cathedral Watch didn't forgive interference. And House Velrane didn't tolerate liabilities.

---

Lord Callen Dathen Velrane did not summon Soren until the following afternoon.

Soren stood at rigid attention before the massive desk of polished obsidian, his body aching from a sleepless night and hastily treated wounds.

He'd spent hours scrubbing blood from his clothes, binding cuts, and replaying every moment of his encounter with Naeria. Those gray eyes haunted him, fierce, intelligent, measuring him as if seeing something he himself couldn't recognize.

Lord Callen didn't look up from the documents spread before him, his pen scratching against parchment with methodical precision. The silence stretched until Soren's muscles burned with the effort of maintaining perfect posture, his injured shoulder screaming in protest.

When Callen finally spoke, his voice carried the chill of northern winters.

"Cathedral Archon Devren has sent three separate messages since dawn." He set down his pen with deliberate care. "All concerning a fugitive from ecclesiastical justice. And, most curiously, concerning you."

Soren swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "My lord, I—"

"I did not ask for explanations," Callen interrupted, those pale, merciless eyes finally rising to meet Soren's. "I asked for nothing at all, in fact. Yet here we are, discussing how my house's Blade was seen aiding a woman wanted for crimes against the Church."

He rose with fluid grace that belied his years, moving to the window where afternoon light cast his profile in stark relief. "The tournament made you visible, boy. A calculated risk that served its purpose. But this..." He gestured sharply, the only indication of the anger simmering beneath his controlled exterior. "This was not calculated. This was impulse. And impulse is dangerous."

"I didn't know who she was," Soren said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears.

Callen turned, fixing him with a stare that had broken hardened knights. "That defense makes you either a liar or a fool. Neither serves House Velrane."

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