They ran like they had no weight—bare feet slapping against warm stone, sunlight streaking across their faces, wind chasing their laughter through the alleyways of Rome.
To the world, they were just boys.
Four of them—wild with youth, soaked in sweat, darting through market stalls, vaulting over carts, shoving each other like brothers do.
No one watching would guess what they carried.
Tucked beneath the eldest boy's cloak, wrapped in worn linen, was something holy.
Something hunted.
And even as they laughed like carefree boys on a summer run, their eyes kept flicking—to corners, to shadows, to the edges of the crowd.
Because someone was always watching.
And the relic could not fall into the wrong hands.
"Are you sure they'll welcome us, Silas?" Soren asked, doing his best to stay casual.
"Yes, of course. I've been with Silas before to this tabernacle," Noam answered quickly, cutting in. "They received us just fine."
Silas gave a simple nod.
Soren. Silas. Noam. Elias.
Four boys bound by something stronger than blood.
They crossed the old stone bridge, heading toward a quiet market below.
Soren tugged Elias by the shoulder, nudging him toward a bread stall.
"Wait here. Elias and I will grab something for the road."
As they walked toward the bread stall, Soren leaned close to Elias—voice low but steady.
"Take this. Don't ask why. Go straight to the tabernacle yourself when I give you the sign. Don't wait for me."
He slipped the linen-wrapped relic beneath Elias's tunic in one fluid motion, quick as a passing breeze.
Elias blinked, confused, but nodded.
Silas and Noam stayed behind, scanning the street.
Moments later, Soren and Elias returned—hands full of coarse bread wrapped in sackcloth.
Noam took the lead again, winding them through the alleys that led out of Rome.
But just as they turned the last corner into silence—Noam sprinted.
No warning. No look back. Just vanished.
Soren spun toward Elias, eyes sharp. He clapped his friend's shoulder once.
Elias's face froze in disbelief—then hardened in understanding. Without hesitation, he slipped inside a nearby doorway and disappeared.
"Run, Silas!" Soren shouted. "Now!"
Then came the whistle—sharp, cutting the air like a knife.
And footsteps.
Not soft sandals.
Boots. Heavy, fast, reinforced in copper.
They were being hunted.
The two remaining boys tore down the next street.
At the corner, Soren yanked Silas's arm, breath ragged.
"Go. Leave me. Find Elias at the tabernacle. Noam sold us out."
Silas's eyes flared. "No. I swore to protect you."
Soren grabbed both of his shoulders. "We swore to protect the relic. That was the oath.
They're after me, the relic keeper. Not you. You know that."
Silas cupped Soren's exquisite face. Pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"I'll come for you," he whispered.
"Just go!"
And then Soren turned and ran the other way—pulling the soldiers with him. He didn't look back.
The shouts behind him grew louder, armor clanking, blades unsheathed.
Soren darted through the tangled streets like a shadow—up crumbling steps, through the hanging laundry of strangers, across the edge of a rooftop where the city spilled open below.
He was fast, but they were gaining. The boots were faster.
A tile cracked underfoot. His knee slammed into stone. He bit back a cry, kept moving.
One more turn. One more alley.
Then the dead end.
A solid wall.
No doors. No windows. No mercy.
Soren stopped, breathing hard, the world tilting around him.
He turned slowly—just as the first soldier appeared at the mouth of the alley, sword raised.
No escape now. But this was the plan.
Soren dropped to his knees, palms splayed on the hot stone. He wouldn't make it easy.
Another soldier stepped forward. "Where is it?"
Silence—he'd run out of breath.
A fist crashed into his jaw. He fell hard. Another kick to his ribs. The taste of iron flooded his mouth.
Smile inward. He acted.
"Don't hit me, Sir! I don't know why you chased me, Sir. I run because you chased me."
They dragged him upright. Chains. Shackles. Blood.
And as they hauled him through the streets like a criminal, his last thought was of Elias—tunic hiding linen.
Eyes filled with trust.
Run faster than me, brother.
Go farther than we ever dared.
===
The cold water brought him back.
His limbs were splayed and bound. His body hung upside down, every muscle screaming.
He coughed—sharp and wet. The taste of blood filled his mouth.
The dungeon air was damp and stale. His skin burned from bruises and lashes, a jarring crosshatch of welts across his back and chest.
Footsteps echoed down the stairs. Then a voice—deep, commanding.
"Cut him down. Make him stand."
Soren's blood surged to his head. His vision blurred. Another splash of cold water shocked him awake.
A rough hand gripped his face, jerking his chin up to meet a set of dark, unreadable eyes.
"So. You still have nothing to tell us?"
General Caelus stared him down.
The infamous Roman general.
Soren—barely more than a boy—met the gaze. His eyes flicked upward, defiant.
"I know nothing," he croaked. "I told them. I ran because your soldiers chased me. That's all."
His breath hitched. He coughed again, blood spattering his lip.
The general's eyes narrowed. Then, without a word, he let go of the boy's face and turned to the guards.
He struck one across the jaw, fury erupting.
"You tortured a child half to death and got nothing!"
Soren collapsed to the floor, body trembling.
The general stormed out, dragging the soldiers behind him, their boots scraping the stone.
The dungeon door slammed shut.
Silence.
Just the sound of Soren's breathing—shallow, uneven.
He lay curled on the cold floor, alone. But not broken.
His right fist clutch a smooth round coins tightly.
The general slipped it to his palm.