Date: The Early Morning of the 8th Day of the Month of Blossoms.
Location: The Merchant District to the Sewers.
The guard was halfway down the stairs. The lantern in his hand swung wildly, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls filled with jars. In his other hand, a short sword glinted in the lantern light.
"I see you!" the guard roared. "Don't move, rat!"
Veer was trapped. The dog was barking at the front door. The guard was blocking the stairs.
But Veer was not a rat. He was a cornered wolf.
He grabbed a heavy ceramic jar from the counter—the label said Pickled Toad Root—and hurled it with all his strength.
SMASH.
The jar shattered against the banister right next to the guard's head. Vinegar and slimy roots exploded everywhere. The guard flinched, shielding his face with his arm.
"Argh! My eyes!"
It was the split second Veer needed.
He didn't run away from the guard. He ran at him.
Veer sprinted up the stairs, ducking low under the guard's swinging sword. He felt the wind of the blade pass inches above his ear. He slammed his shoulder into the guard's hip, knocking the man off balance, and scrambled past him to the second floor.
"Stop him!" the guard yelled, stumbling on the slippery stairs.
Veer burst into the storage room where he had entered. He could hear the guard recovering, running back up the stairs after him. Heavy boots thudded on the wood.
Veer looked at the window. It was closed. He didn't have time to open the latch gently.
He gripped his iron rod with both hands.
"Sorry," he whispered to the glass.
CRASH!
He swung the rod like a bat. The window exploded outward in a shower of jagged shards.
Veer didn't hesitate. He vaulted onto the sill. He didn't look down. He just jumped.
For a second, he was flying. The cold night air rushed past his face. The ground was far, far away.
Below him, a wooden cart sat parked in the alley. It was filled with hay for the horses.
Veer hit the hay.
WHUMP.
It cushioned the fall, but he was moving too fast. He bounced off the soft hay and tumbled over the side of the cart.
He hit the stone pavement hard.
CRACK.
Pain exploded in his side. It was a sharp, hot agony, like a knife twisting in his ribs.
Veer gasped, the air knocked out of his lungs. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the dark sky. White spots danced in his vision.
"Get up," he hissed to himself. "Get up or die."
He touched his side. His hand came away wet and sticky. He had landed on a piece of broken glass from the window, or maybe the fall had cracked a rib. It didn't matter.
He frantically patted his chest pocket.
He felt the hard, hexagonal shape of the bottle. It was unbroken.
"There he is!"
A whistle blew.
TWEET! TWEET!
Veer scrambled to his feet. He swayed, almost falling again.
Three guards were running down the street toward him. They wore the blue uniforms of the Merchant Watch. They had clubs and lanterns.
"Stop thief!"
Veer bit his lip until he tasted iron. He forced his legs to move.
He ran.
He sprinted down the cobblestone street. His side burned with every step. His breath wheezed in his chest. He was limping, his left leg dragging slightly, but he was still faster than the heavy guards in their boots.
He turned a corner, sliding on the wet stones. He knocked over a stack of empty crates to block the path.
Crash. Clatter.
"Go around!" a guard shouted behind him.
Veer saw a high stone wall ahead. It was the garden wall of a mansion. It was ten feet high.
Usually, he could scale it in two seconds. Today, with a bleeding side, it looked like a mountain.
He heard the boots getting closer.
Veer gritted his teeth. He jumped, grabbing the top of the wall. He pulled. A scream of pain tore through his ribs, but he kicked his legs and hauled himself up.
He rolled over the top and dropped into a soft flowerbed on the other side just as the guards rounded the corner.
"Where did he go?"
"Check the next street!"
Veer lay in the crushed tulips, panting. He couldn't stay here. They would search the gardens.
He crawled through the dark garden. He found a service entrance—a laundry chute used by servants to dump dirty linens into the basement alley.
He squeezed his body into the narrow, metal chute. It smelled of soap and dirty socks. He slid down, landing in a pile of wet rags in a back alley.
He was close to the river now. Close to the boundary.
He limped toward the riverbank. He found what he was looking for: a large, round iron grate. The sewer entrance.
It was rusted half-open.
Veer didn't think about the smell. He didn't think about the filth. He squeezed through the gap and dropped into the darkness.
Splash.
He landed in knee-deep water. It was freezing and smelled of the city's waste.
Veer waded into the tunnel, moving deeper into the dark until the light from the street was just a tiny dot.
He leaned against the slimy brick wall and slid down until he was sitting in the muck.
Above him, on the street, he heard the whistles fading away.
Tweet... tweet...
Then, silence.
Veer sat alone in the sewer. He was soaked. He was bleeding from a gash in his side. He smelled terrible. His ribs felt broken.
But he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small glass bottle.
In the pitch black of the tunnel, the blue liquid seemed to shine with its own faint light. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Veer smiled. His teeth were chattering, and his face was smeared with mud, but he smiled.
"I got you," he whispered to the bottle. "I got you."
He closed his fist around the cure and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the drip of the sewer water, waiting for his heart to stop racing so he could carry the prize home.