Cale blinked in surprise as the iron gate creaked open.
Did the old man finally take pity on me?
But then—he saw him.
Regan.
Golden hair tousled, shirt half-buttoned from the rush, a sheen of sweat at his brow, but that same cocky smile on his lips.
For a second, Cale forgot the cold, the wait, and the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
Regan stepped forward, hands on his hips. "You are an idiot, aren't you?"
Cale opened his mouth but no words came out.
Something knotted in his chest. Not sorrow. Not relief. Something stranger. He thought back to the facility. The night of their escape. The laughter between chaos. The blood. The fire.
The memories came back to him in full force after seeing Regan. Seeing his friend smiling at him like nothing bad had ever happened, Cale silently let out a breath of relief.
Regan was still talking.
"You know, I was not expecting to see you on my front step today. And in broad daylight, too. You realize this is going to be the highlight of next week's noble gossip circle, right?"
Cale stared at him. Although he was happy to see Regan again, his thoughts were still held by their other friend who hadn't had the chance to see the light of freedom yet.
Regan faltered. "What? Why do you look like you're about to faint? Did you get hit again? Did you fall into a barrel on your way here?"
"Regan," Cale said, voice clipped. "There's no time."
The smile faded slightly.
"This afternoon," Cale continued, pulling something from the inside of his coat. It was wrapped in cloth, but when he unwrapped it, Regan instantly recognized what it was.
A knife.
Rosanna's knife.
"She's been taken."
Regan stared at the knife in Cale's hand.
Rosanna's.
His mind reeled.
He had assumed, hoped, believed—that after the chaos of their escape, Rosanna and Cale had made it out together. That they'd gone back to their homes. That they were safe. He hadn't heard otherwise, and sometimes the silence was easier to believe in than bad news.
But now here was Cale, winded and worn and urgent, and Rosanna's blade was in his palm like a funeral bell.
"She let me escape," Cale said, quietly. "We split. I thought... I thought she might follow. But I didn't see her again. Not until... I tracked down one of the guards. Interrogated him. He confirmed she was taken. And this—this was planted in Theros. As a message."
Regan's jaw clenched. His pulse thundered.
"You're saying she's still in enemy hands."
Cale nodded. "Somewhere in this city. But I don't know where. And time's running out."
Regan didn't hesitate.
"Then we're going to find her."
Cale blinked. "Regan—"
"No," Regan said, turning on his heel. He walked straight to the gatekeeper and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm leaving with him. Tell my father I won't be attending dinner tonight. My friend needs help."
The gatekeeper stared.
Regan didn't wait for a response. He strode out through the gate, brushing past Cale, but not before tossing him a look that said: Let's go.
Cale followed.
For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel alone.
__________
The streets of Theros were quieter now, wrapped in the hush of nightfall, lanterns casting warm halos across cobbled paths.
Cale walked beside Regan in silence, his thoughts a thousand leagues away. But next to him, Regan kept glancing around like he was compiling a mental map of the district.
"We need a place," Regan finally said. "Not just to sleep—to plan. Somewhere we won't be bothered."
Cale nodded. "A base."
They stopped at a corner, scanning the buildings. Regan tilted his head, catching sight of a modest inn tucked between two taller storefronts. Its sign was hand-carved and flickering with a mage-light orb: The Quill & Feather Inn.
"That'll do."
Inside, the inn was quiet, filled with warm wood, the scent of roasted herbs, and a faint hum of conversation from behind a curtain that likely led to the dining room. A tired-looking clerk raised a brow as they approached.
"Two boys? One room?"
Regan smiled charmingly. "Business trip. Big clients. Need quiet."
The clerk gave them a long look, then shrugged and handed them a key.
The room upstairs was small, but clean. A single lamp glowed on the writing desk. Cale collapsed into the chair, exhaling deeply.
Regan locked the door behind them.
"Alright," Regan said, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's find Rosanna."
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering desk lamp. Regan had been examining the cloth that wrapped Rosanna's knife for several minutes now.
He finally frowned. "Cale, this symbol... do you see it?"
Cale leaned in. The embroidery was faint but elegant—a curling emblem like a twisted ribbon around a dagger. It wasn't familiar.
Regan sat back, rubbing his jaw. "That's not from Lunaros. It's from a foreign merchant guild. A big one. The Crest of Velmira. They trade in rare items—artifacts, luxury goods. Real high-end stuff."
Cale blinked. "Why would a merchant group be involved in something like this?"
"They might not be," Regan replied. "But someone might be using their resources. Or... they're hiding behind their name. Either way, they have a residence here in Theros. I know where it is."
Cale sat forward. "Then we go there tomorrow."
Regan nodded. "We go. Quietly. And from there—we plan."
_____________
The chains were biting into her wrists again.
Rosanna sat curled against the cold stone wall, the metal clinking faintly with her every movement. The cell was damp, reeking of mildew and something worse. No sunlight reached this part of the world, and she had long since lost track of time.
She wasn't sure how many days had passed.
Once, she'd counted her breaths to guess the hours. Then she'd tried tallying meals, but they came irregularly, sometimes not at all. Eventually, she'd given up.
Instead, she held onto one memory like a rope through darkness:
I've been trained for this, she'd screamed. She'd shoved him forward, slashed at the guards, stood her ground.
He had turned back once. His eyes wide, desperate. I'll come back. With help.
She'd smiled then, bloody and resolute. And she'd believed it.
At first.
Now, sitting on the filthy floor, she laughed under her breath.
"Idiot," she whispered. "No sane person would ever come back."
And she didn't blame him. Not really.
She'd known, even back then, that it was the end of her story.
Her home—
Her father—
The freedom of the wind across hills—
All of it was gone.
She thought she would be alone now. Forgotten. But then—
He was brought in.
The boy. The one with the big eyes. The same boy Cale had fought with back at the facility. She remembered him clearly. Timid, quiet, always glancing around as if he didn't belong anywhere.
She was stunned when the guards threw him into the cell beside hers.
For a while, he didn't speak. He barely moved. Just sat with his knees drawn to his chest, staring at the moldy stone.
Rosanna had tried to talk to him. Asked his name.
At first, nothing.
But then, one day, when she wasn't expecting it, his voice came soft and hollow:
"Iven."
That was it.
She'd tried again, offered what little conversation she could. Hoped maybe, just maybe, they could plan something. Look for a way out. Try to find a crack in the wall or time their moves with the guard rotations.
But Iven never responded. Never looked at her again.
Eventually, Rosanna stopped trying.
The silence between them settled into something heavy. Not quite hopeless.
But close.