Date: March 22, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Adrenaline, bitter and burning, raced through Dur's blood like a hunted beast. He no longer thought, he acted—his body, drilled by months with Torm, found solutions on its own while his mind tried to grasp what he had gotten into.
They raced through a narrow alley littered with empty barrels. Behind them, the hum of voices and the heavy tread of boots on cobblestones grew louder.
"Right!" Maël breathed, darting sharply under an arch beneath a low vault.
Dur followed, barely grazing his shoulder on the jamb. They found themselves in a tiny, sunlit courtyard where laundry was drying. For a second, it seemed they were trapped—blank walls on all sides. But Maël, without slowing, jumped onto crates stacked against the wall, pushed off, and vanished over its crest. Dur, gritting his teeth, repeated the risky maneuver. His fingers clawed into the uneven masonry, his boots found purchase. A moment later, he rolled down the other side into a stinking, dark crevice between two houses.
"You can run," Maël threw out through ragged breaths, squeezing ahead.
"I know how not to get caught," Dur snapped back, struggling to follow with his pack and bow.
The noise of the pursuit momentarily died down, muffled by the mass of buildings. But they knew—this lull was deceptive. The Agrim guard knew its city. Dur remembered Torm's lessons: "To hide your tracks, go where everyone leaves tracks." He grabbed Maël's sleeve.
"Stop. Here."
He pulled him out of the crevice directly onto a busy street leading to the market. The crush here was even greater than in the morning. The air hummed with trade, the cries of hawkers, the lowing of cattle, and the clink of coins. Dur, without releasing his grip, dragged Maël through the crowd, not running, but with a fast, purposeful step, constantly changing direction, weaving around stalls and groups of people. He used the crowd as a living shield, like dense undergrowth.
"What, are you leading them to us?" Maël hissed, trying to pull free.
"Leading us where it's stupid to look for us," Dur gritted through his teeth.
He spotted a cart near the meat stalls from which a pig carcass had just been unloaded. The ground around was flooded with dark, stinking slop. Without hesitation, Dur stepped right into the thick of it, pulling the resisting Maël with him. Sticky mud caked their boots up to the ankles.
"Are you crazy?!"
"Shut up and walk."
They trudged through the muck for a dozen paces, turned a corner, and Dur immediately pushed Maël against the wall, into a narrow niche reeking of urine and mold. He stood in front of him, pulling the hood of his travel jacket up, and pretended to be looking for something in his pack. A few seconds later, two guards ran past their hiding place, glancing around. Their gazes slid over the two grimy lads by the wall—obvious laborers, dirty from the meat stalls—and moved on. No one would look for a fugitive in such obvious filth.
They stood, listening, until the sounds of the chase dissolved into the general market hum. Only then did Dur allow himself to exhale. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"I think we made it," he said quietly.
Maël pulled away from the wall, looking with disgust at his soiled boots and trousers. Then his gaze fell on Dur, and something new flickered in his brown eyes—not just relief, but respect mixed with amazement.
"How did you know they wouldn't check?"
"A hunter doesn't disturb a wolf's den," Dur replied dully, brushing large clumps of dirt from his soles. "They were looking for runners. We became part of the scenery. The simplest camouflage."
He peered out of the niche. The danger had passed. He turned to Maël.
"Alright. Talk. What's this 'service' in the Agrim estate that's so urgent they chase you all over town? And why are you running from it so desperately?"
Maël hesitated. He wiped his face, leaving a dirty streak on his cheek.
"It's... a long story. And not one for a dirty alley where even the walls have ears." He looked at Dur appraisingly. "You're... not from around here. And clearly not the type to go knocking on guards' doors for a couple of coppers."
"I'm the type who doesn't like the strong pushing the weak around," Dur cut him off, hiding his own old fears in his voice.
"Weak?" Maël snorted, but there was no malice in his laugh. "Alright. Thanks for the help. Really. My name's Maël."
He extended his hand. Dur, after a second's pause, shook it. Maël's hand wasn't rough like a laborer's, but rather strong and deft.
"Dur."
"Well, Dur," Maël looked out onto the street. "Since you're my savior and now probably also on the wrong side of the law... How would you like to see my little hideout?"
His eyes gleamed with the same excitement that made him run from the guards. Dur hesitated only a moment. Fleeing the city now would be stupid. Staying alone when he might have been remembered in connection with the commotion was risky. Besides, this Maël... there was something about him that aroused not so much pity as curiosity.
"Lead on," he nodded shortly.
Maël grinned.
"Great. First, let's find somewhere to wash up. You smell like a slaughterhouse backyard. Probably me too."
He moved back into the crowd, but now not running, walking with a casual, almost defiant confidence of someone who knows every stone underfoot. Dur followed, feeling the anxiety of the chase give way to a strange, nerve-tingling anticipation. His path East had just taken a sharp, unexpected turn. And he was beginning to understand that the rules of the big city were far more complex than the simple laws of the forest. Here, to survive, you needed not only to know how to hide but also to understand people. And with Maël, things were clearly not as simple as they seemed at first glance.