Date: March 22, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Maël's hideout turned out not to be a dark burrow, as Dur had expected, but a small, surprisingly cozy little room under the very roof of one of the old houses in the artisans' quarter. You could only reach it by a rickety external staircase from the yard and through a hatch in the tiled roof. The room smelled of old wood, dried herbs, and dust. But it had two small barred windows letting in the last rays of the setting sun, a rough but sturdy table, a couple of stools, and even a narrow bunk covered with a worn but clean blanket. On shelves stood books in tattered bindings, a few strange mechanical trinkets, and a pot with a stubborn cactus.
"Sit down," Maël waved a hand, tossing his soiled cloak into a corner. "It's safe here. The owner of the house is an old clockmaker, he's almost deaf, and he hasn't been up to the attic for five years. Thinks pigeons nest here."
Dur carefully placed his bow and pack by the entrance, looking around. This wasn't the lair of a hunted beast. It was a refuge. A place where you could hide, but also live. So, the chase wasn't a one-day affair. Maël had been playing this game for a while.
While Dur looked around, Maël took a clay jug of water and two simple clay cups from a hidden corner. He poured some water, handed one to Dur, and drained his own in one gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Thanks again," he said, more calmly now, sitting on a stool. "Out there... it could have ended differently. They were especially persistent today."
Dur took a sip of water. It was cool and fresh.
"So what did you do?" he asked directly. "Pickpocketing? Insult one of the guards?"
He studied Maël. The lad was dressed in clothes that were now dirty, but the fabric was good quality, the cut not that of a pauper. His hands—without the characteristic calluses of hard labor, but not soft, aristocratic either. Something in between.
Maël smirked, but there was no humor in it.
"Theft? No. Insults? Maybe, but not directly." He paused, twirling the empty cup in his hands. "You see, the Agrim family... they have plans for me. Very specific, very boring, and very, in their opinion, correct plans. They want me to return to their... estate. And do what they want there. 'For the service of the family and the city,' as they call it."
He spoke evasively, with annoyance, like a teenager being forced to study hated grammar, not like someone fleeing slavery or prison.
Dur listened, and in his mind, schooled in simple forest truths, a picture formed. A young man, maybe from a family not wealthy but respected—artisans or small traders. The family had arranged a "place" for their son with the powerful Agrims—maybe in the guard, maybe as a scribe, maybe in estate management. An honor for the family, stability for the boy. But the boy himself wants a different life. A free one. So he runs, hides. And the family, to save face with their patrons, has to catch him, to insist.
"They want to take you into service," Dur stated in his quiet, confident voice. "Forever. Chain you to a place, to orders. And you don't want that."
Maël glanced at him with unexpected sharpness, as if checking if Dur was mocking him. Seeing only serious understanding on Dur's face, he relaxed and nodded, more to himself than to his companion.
"You could put it that way. Very much like service. Without the right to choose. Without the chance... to breathe. They see you as a cog in their perfect machine. They don't care if you want to be that cog."
In his words sounded not childish resentment, but a deep, philosophical rejection. Dur, raised in an orphanage and having learned the value of personal will in the forest, understood him like a kindred spirit. He himself had fled from predestination, from the tiny world of the orphanage, to find his own path.
"I understand," Dur said quietly. "When others decide who you're going to be... it's worse than any cage. Because a cage can be broken. But others' expectations... they're like a prison in your head."
Maël froze, looking at this strange, wild-looking lad with the bow. In his simple words was such precision that it disarmed him.
"Yes," Maël said simply. "Exactly that."
Silence fell. The muffled evening hum of the street drifted in. Somewhere below, a bell sounded the hour.
"Why me?" Maël asked suddenly. "Why did you, a stranger, take the risk? You could have just stepped aside."
Dur thought about it.
"Because I saw your eyes," he answered honestly. "You didn't look like a criminal. You looked... like a hunted beast. One that just wants to run away. I know how that feels. And I hate it when the strong hound the weak just because they can."
"Weak." Maël flinched slightly again at the word but remained silent. Let him think so. Sometimes others' labels are the best camouflage.
"Well then," Maël stood up, brushing himself off. "Looks like we're accomplices now, Dur. You've gotten involved in things that weren't your business, and now the guards might remember your face too. And I... I'm in your debt."
He extended his hand, not for a formal handshake, but with a determined look.
"Since you're here, and since you seem to be in no hurry either... How about I show you the Ligra you won't find in guidebooks for honest citizens? The real one?"
Dur looked at the outstretched hand, then into Maël's eyes. In them burned the fire of adventure, defiance, and something else—gratitude turning into camaraderie. It was dangerous. It led him away from the simple path East. But it was alive. And this guy, the "hunted beast," needed not just shelter, but an ally.
He shook Maël's hand.
"Let's go," Dur said. His path East could wait. Right now, before him was a mystery named Maël and a city hiding its secrets behind a façade of well-being. And Dur was always curious.