Oren stumbled back half a step as his sword was forced wide.

Gabriel followed.

The former Paladin moved into the space he had created. His eyes burned brighter as he closed, the red deepening until a thin fog began to bleed from his skin.

It drifted outward without force.

Oren saw it.

His attention caught on the fog for a fraction too long, his stance tightening as his focus shifted.

That was enough.

Gabriel drove the point forward. The blade slipped through Oren's armour and punched into his stomach. The impact folded him, breath tearing out as his posture broke.

Gabriel pulled the blade free and struck again immediately. The second thrust came higher, tighter. It found the seam beneath the breastplate and drove straight through.

The Paladin stiffened

Gabriel stepped back as Oren collapsed, armour striking the ground with a thud.

The tunnel fell quiet.

Gabriel did not look at Oren again.

Behind him, something rattled wetly.

He turned.

The apprentice lay on his side where he had fallen, hands clawed into the dust, blood dark against the stone. The light had taken him through the throat. There had been no chance to stop it.

Gabriel crossed the space and knelt.

He pressed two fingers briefly to the boy's neck. Nothing answered him.

The red fog thinned and drew back into Gabriel's skin. His eyes dimmed, though the colour did not leave them entirely.

He bowed his head.

"Dearest Mazrion," he said quietly. "Grant this one rest."

The words came without thought.

He stopped there.

Gabriel rose, taking the arm ring from the apprentice before stepping away from the body. The tunnel held its silence, heavy now with consequence rather than threat.

He did not look back at either of them.

There was nothing left here that the Church had not already taken.

Gabriel turned toward the tunnel mouth.

The way out lay past the bodies, past the marks cut into stone and flesh alike. He stepped around Oren without slowing, careful not to look down. The Paladin's armour was already still, the weight of it settled into the ground as if it had always belonged there.

He wiped his blade once on the fallen cloak and sheathed it.

The passage sloped upward. Dust shifted under his boots as he moved, each step measured, unhurried. He listened as he went. No raised voices. No running feet. The quarry still worked above, unaware.

He followed it to the service tunnel and climbed the narrow stair cut into the rock. Warm air met him near the top, carrying the smell of stone and wet earth.

He emerged between stacked blocks at the edge of the quarry.

Workers moved below, heads down, rhythm unbroken. Chains creaked. Stone rang against iron. No one looked up.

Gabriel pulled his hood forward and walked away from the cut, keeping to the shadow of the rock face.

He did not hurry.

By the time the first shout rose from below, he was already gone.

Gabriel kept to the outer paths, moving along the quarry's edge until the stone gave way to scrub. He did not take the road at first. He cut across the slope instead.

Wind carried dust across the open ground, blurring his trail before it could settle. By the time he reached the treeline, the shouts had faded into something distant and indistinct.

He followed the river south.

The water moved fast this time of year, swollen and cold, its sound steady enough to cover his passage. He crossed where the stones lay shallow and continued on without pause.

Bridgedon rose ahead as the sun began to disappear.

He entered through the outer streets, hood drawn low, posture unremarkable. No one stopped him. No one looked twice.

The forge was already dark when he reached it.

Smoke still clung to the air, faint but present. The door stood closed.

Gabriel knocked once and waited.

After a moment, metal shifted inside. The door opened just wide enough for the blacksmith's eye to find him.

"I'm back," Gabriel said.

And held out the ring.

The blacksmith looked at the ring.

His shoulders sagged.

He opened the door the rest of the way and stepped back, letting it close behind Gabriel with a dull thud. The forge was dark now, only the faint glow of banked coals bleeding red beneath ash.

The man let out a long breath and shook his head once.

"Another one," he said quietly.

He took the ring from Gabriel's hand and turned it over in his palm. There was no surprise in his face. Only weariness.

He set it down on the workbench and rubbed a hand across his beard.

After a moment, he looked up.

"How?" he asked.

Gabriel didn't hesitate.

"A Paladin blocked the escape," he said. His voice was even. "The apprentice was caught in it."

The blacksmith's hand stilled against his beard.

For a moment, he said nothing. He just stared at the ring on the bench as if it might move on its own.

Then he nodded once.

"Johns," he said. The name came out quietly. Not a question. "That was his name."

He closed his eyes for a breath and let it out slowly.

"he wasn't meant for quarry work," the blacksmith continued. "Too soft in the head."

He opened his eyes and looked at Gabriel properly then. Not measuring. Not accusing. Just taking stock.

"If a Paladin was involved," he said, "then I assume you'll want your blades sooner rather than later."

He turned back to the bench and reached for the ring again, closing his fingers around it.

"Can't say I blame you."

Gabriel's expression didn't change.

His eyes stayed on the blacksmith, unblinking, the faint red still present but quiet.

"The Paladin's dead," he said.

For a moment, the blacksmith didn't breathe.

The ring slipped from his fingers and struck the bench with a sharp clink.

He stared at it, then at Gabriel, colour draining from his face as the weight of the words caught up to him.

"Dead," he repeated quietly.

His gaze flicked to the door, then to the shuttered windows, as if expecting armour to already be there. He wiped his palms on his apron without realising he was doing it.

"A Paladin doesn't just… disappear," he said. His voice had dropped. "One goes missing, they send riders. Two or three, sometimes more. They don't ask questions first."

He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair, breath coming faster now.

"That quarry's under Church contract," he went on. "They'll lock it down. Start counting bodies."

His eyes returned to Gabriel, sharp with fear now.

The blacksmith straightened abruptly.

The bench scraped as he pushed away from it, the sound sharp in the small space.

"Out," he said, louder now. "You need to be out of this town."

He stepped closer, one hand lifting in a rough, urgent gesture toward the door. "Not tomorrow. Not at first light. Now."

His voice rose despite himself.

"You stay here, they'll come down on Bridgedon like it's guilty by breathing. They'll start with the quarry, then the streets. They always do." He shook his head, anger cutting through the fear. "I've seen it happen."

He jabbed a finger toward Gabriel's chest, stopping short of touching him. "You don't get to stand in my forge and wait while they decide who else pays for this."

He dragged in a breath and forced his voice lower. "Take the blades. The moment they're done, you leave. You don't look back."

Gabriel met his stare without flinching.

"I will," he said.

The blacksmith's shoulders slumped a fraction. "Good."

He turned away, already reaching for steel, the fear still there but buried beneath motion.

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