Date: March 24, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The next day began with a quiet conspiracy. Dur and Maël met at dawn by the old fountain on the edge of the artisans' quarter, where it smelled of wood shavings and tar. During the night, Dur had slept under the awning of one of the empty workshops, and his troubled sleep about dark water gave way to practical thoughts about the price of provisions and escape routes. Maël brought two warm meat pies—"acquaintance, the baker owes me"—and they breakfasted, watching the city awaken, yet to take up its resonant daily rhythm.
"So, here's the plan," said Maël, brushing crumbs from his expensive, though shabby, caftan. His eyes gleamed with excitement. "You and I are two free traders. You're a hunter-guide from distant lands, I'm your local agent, helping to sell the game and get you oriented. That way we can go anywhere without raising unnecessary questions. And along the way, we'll... keep our eyes open."
Dur nodded. Forest logic suggested the best camouflage was natural behavior. Being a hunter was true. And being an "agent" for Maël, judging by yesterday's excursion, was almost as natural for him. He caught himself thinking that this guy talked about finances, taxes, and logistics with the same ease Torm explained the habits of a hare. It was unfamiliar and fascinating.
Their day turned into a series of small investigations. Maël truly knew the city like the back of his hand. He led Dur not along the main arteries, but through the capillaries—service courtyards, covered passages between workshops, even a few attics offering unexpected views of the inner courtyards of the Agrim estate.
"See that building with columns? The tax record repository," Maël would toss out casually, as if talking about a stable. "And there, where smoke comes from underground—the public kitchens. They feed you cheaply, but tastelessly. Designed so you eat and go to work, not linger."
He showed Dur places where the system faltered. A clogged drain on one street that cleaners hadn't visited for two days. A queue of old people at the pension office—moving slowly, under the dissatisfied gaze of a clerk. "Right here," Maël would whisper, "the gear creaks a little. Not critical. They'll oil it soon. But for now, it creaks."
Dur listened, watched, and learned. He saw how easily and casually Maël talked to people: he was gallant with a tired laundress, respectful with a sullen blacksmith, friendly-clapped a cheerful hawker on the shoulder. And people responded in kind, without a trace of fear or servility. It wasn't the contact of master and servant. It was something else. As if Maël was one of them, but at the same time stood a little apart, in a special position.
During one such conversation at a spice stall, while Maël discussed the quality of pepper with the merchant, a guard patrol passed by. The senior, a man with graying temples and a scar on his cheek, slid his gaze over Maël. Something flickered in his eyes—not malice, not readiness to grab him, but... tired recognition. Almost fatherly irritation. He just shook his head almost imperceptibly and walked on, not slowing his pace.
"An acquaintance?" Dur asked quietly when the patrol had disappeared around the corner.
"Oh," Maël rubbed his nose awkwardly. "Old Grant. He used to babysit me when I... when I was just a little kid. He's now in the inner perimeter security of the estate. Looks like they let him out to search too."
He said this as if talking about an annoying hindrance, not a danger. "Babysit"? Ordinary folk don't have estate guards as babysitters. The doubts that had arisen yesterday stirred in Dur's soul with renewed force. But he remained silent. If Maël had reasons to hide the truth, then so be it. The trust that had arisen between them on the tower was more valuable than any guesswork.
By evening, they found themselves by a high, blank fence behind which came the clang of metal and curt commands.
"City guard training ground," Maël explained. Through a gap in the boards, they could watch recruits being drilled. Among them, Dur saw very young faces, about sixteen, tense and serious. "They're being prepared. From childhood. To become part of the system. To protect it," he thought.
And then he asked, looking straight ahead:
"Maël. What will happen if they find you and... put you in your place? What is that place?"
Maël was silent for a long time, looking at the marching guards.
"A place where you'll never be hungry, cold, or lonely. A place where every action you take will matter to thousands of people. A place where you'll be respected, obeyed, and... expected. Always expected to act correctly, calculatedly, efficiently." He turned to Dur, and in his eyes was a weariness beyond his years. "A place with no room for the question 'what if?'. Only the question 'what is optimal?'. I don't want to be optimal, Dur. I want to be alive. With all my mistakes, stupid impulses, and... and friends who ask the wrong questions."
This was the most honest admission of the whole day. There wasn't a word of lie in it. Dur felt it in his bones, the way he used to feel the approach of rain in the forest. He nodded.
"Then we need to make them stop looking. Or find the wrong tracks."
"Exactly," a shadow of a smile returned to Maël's face. "And for that, we need to understand how they search. What strings they pull. And where those strings can be quietly cut."
Their alliance had finally ceased to be just a pact of mutual aid. It had become a conspiracy. A conspiracy of two very different beings against soulless, perfect logic. Dur—a savage with a bow and instincts, and Maël—a mysterious city dweller with a head full of numbers and rebellious thoughts. They were weak separately. But together, as they both realized, watching the setting sun paint the walls of Ligra the color of molten gold, they were an interesting, unpredictable variable. And in the flawless equation of the Agrim family, no solutions were provided for such variables.