Escape

Just as Nathan thought hurry, Ronan.

The whole room flickered like a mirage. Music clipped mid-note. Lanterns faltered. The house seemed to inhale—and then exhale.

Guards along the room perimeter faltered as light bled upward through the marble—thin, searing lines racing up the walls and across the ceiling like veins under pressure. The air itself seemed to tighten, humming with a strange resonance that set Nathan’s teeth on edge. Then came the crack—sharp, metallic, wrong—as if the world itself had been struck like a tuning fork.

“—Illusion’s down!” someone shouted.
“Sabotage!” another cried.
“Is this part of the performance?”
“Someone’s attacking—”
“Guards, do something!”

The sound deepened into a roar as those glowing veins split apart, bursts of white light bleeding through seams in the walls. The polished marble blackened where the heat struck it, and a curtain went up in sudden flame.

The auctioneer’s painted smile froze mid-gesture. “What—”

Then pandemonium.

Masked nobles shrieked and stampeded for the doors—tripping over trains, feathers, and each other in a scramble for survival. A jeweled shoe went flying. Someone lost a wig. If this were a movie, Nathan might’ve laughed. But this human avalanche of brocade was real—and he was about to get trampled.

Nyx’s grin went razor-sharp. “That’s our signal.”

Nathan spun as bodies slammed around them. “Of course there’s only one exit. Fire hazard, much?”

“Less speaking, more moving.” Nyx caught his sleeve, dragging him toward a narrower passage masked by collapsing curtains. “And try not to step on the gown—hard enough to run in this thing.”

He stumbled after her—until a flash of silver stopped him cold. The stag’s cage still stood on the platform, antlers catching the fractured light like liquid moonlight.

“We can’t leave it,” he blurted.

Nyx turned, eyes flaring. For a heartbeat she looked like she’d argue—then sighed. “You’re too nice for your own good.”

“Yeah, well, character flaw I guess.” Nathan pivoted toward the crowd.

She started toward the cage, reached into her bag and grabbed her stylus.

“Looks like a mirrored weave!” she shouted over the noise. “Can’t just pick it—you’ve got to undo it backward.”

Nathan followed, useless. “Backward? Does that mean longer?”

“Yes, longer. It’s a counter-glyph,” she snapped, already moving. “The whole cage is wrapped in a barrier.”

They were almost there—

The auctioneer’s amplified voice boomed, warped with fury. “How dare you touch the lots! Draegor, you—”

This piece of shit.

Nathan raised his hand the way Mason might’ve—and the auctioneer yelped, ducking for cover.

“Yeah, you better—”

“Stop them!” the man shrieked.

Guards were cutting through now, swords drawn and glowing.

Nathan took a step back. “Uh, Nyx... as you know, I can’t actually use magic at the moment...”

“I know.” Her tone was flat. “We’re going to have to fight. No weapons other than my stylus.”

Nathan snorted. “So—improv night. My favorite.”

He grabbed the nearest object—a silver platter from a shattered buffet—and flung it. It hit a guard square in the head with a sharp thunk. The man grunted, staggered, and toppled backward into another.

Nathan blinked. “Oh. That actually worked.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Nyx shouted. “There are more!” Heat bled from her stylus. “They’ve got augments, and we’ve got—”

“—tableware?”

“—brains. Ideally.”

A guard swung through the chaos, blade whistling past Nathan’s face. He ducked, snatched a crystal decanter, and smashed it across the man’s head. It split with a sharp crack, shards raining down as the guard dropped.

“See that? Using my brains and tableware!”

Three more closed in—one barking orders, one dragging his stylus through the air, another raising a short staff that pulsed red as he spoke the trigger-word. The air tightened with pressure.

“Focus,” Nyx snapped, sketching a sigil through the air. “Down.”

The marble beneath the nearest guard split; he dropped waist-deep, roaring.

That’s terrifying.

Another hurled a burst of sigil fire. Nyx twisted her stylus. “Return!” The flame bent midair, slamming back into its caster. He went down screaming, his coat smoking.

Nathan caught sight of a dropped blade glinting through the smoke. He snatched it up—and in the same breath he grabbed a silver punch bowl from the wreckage beside him. Multitasking. He flung it at the nearest mage; it hit with a solid, satisfying thud. Improvisation worked. Maybe I’m actually good at this.

“Hold them!” the auctioneer shrieked, his painted mouth twisting. “The merchandise—protect the merch—”

A crossbow twanged from the balcony. The bolt missed Nathan by a breath, ricocheted, and hit the auctioneer square in the chest. His jeweled collar caught fire. He yelped once, flailed dramatically, and went down behind the wreckage of his own podium.

Nathan wheezed, “Oh, poetic justice.”

Nyx flicked her stylus toward the shooter. The man’s bowstring turned molten; he screamed, shaking out burned fingers.

“Better,” she muttered.

“Nyx, we’re kind of outnumbered!”

“Working on it!”

Another guard lunged. She twisted aside, kicked his knee, then jabbed him in the eye with her stylus.

Nathan pivoted, blade flashing through the smoke. His strike caught the guard clean across the shoulder, dropping the man before he could recover.

The floor shuddered under another unstable spell. The room dissolved into pure chaos—shouts, sigil bursts, fire and smoke curling across the ceiling. The crowd still jammed the only exit, a heaving mass of silk and panic that showed no sign of thinning.

A voice cut through it all.

“MASON!”

The sound slammed through the chamber, sharp enough to silence even the screams closest to him.

Nathan froze mid-swing. He didn’t even need to turn to know who it was. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

Through the haze, Kieran shoved his way into view—shouldering aside nobles, catching one by the collar to hurl him clear. His sword was bared, storm-gray eyes locked on Nathan like judgment incarnate. Behind him, Guild troops fought to follow, forcing a path through the human tide, their blades blazing with spellfire that splashed color through the smoke.

Nathan stared, still holding the sword. Well. This situation is absolutely rife with misunderstandings.

He didn’t even have time to shout before Nyx hissed, “I have an idea.”

“Oh, no. Those words almost never precede anything good.”

She yanked a glass jar from her bag.

“Bob?” Nathan blinked. I forgot the little monster was here.

Before he could protest further, a guard barreled into her side. She pivoted, slammed a foot into his chest, but the jar went flying—hit marble—cracked—

—and with a wet pop, Bob wriggled free, burbling like a delighted gremlin.

Nyx’s smile turned feral. “Perfect.” She had her stylus up, scrawling, muttering something Nathan couldn’t hear. Bob floated.

Nathan’s eyes went wide. “What? No—”

Too late. She was still scrawling. “Launch.” The sigil flared, and then Bob was flung at Kieran like a grenade.

“GANG-ster!” Bob screeched, plastering across Kieran’s face with a wet smack.

“Oh good lord.” Nathan could only watch, horrified.

Kieran’s hands clawed at Bob, muffled curses snarling into something halfway between murder and disgust. He ripped Bob loose with one brutal motion and hurled him to the floor.

Once clear, his eyes snapped up—fury blazing—then down at the wriggling horror, pupils narrowing in disbelief—then back again, murder aimed squarely at Nathan.

Not like I threw it at you! Still hot even with the death glare in his eyes.

Sword blazing, he stepped forward—hard.

“Oh shit—whatever you’re doing, hurry up!” Nathan hissed.

Nyx flicked her stylus. A sigil burst midair and slammed into Kieran’s chest. His sword clattered against the floor as he sank, breath shuddering out. His soldiers stumbled too, the same white flare flashing across their eyes—then glassed over, movements slowing to a confused half-motion, as though reality itself had skipped a frame.

Nathan choked. “What did you just do?!”

Nyx’s grin was all teeth. “Memory warp. Mild dose of Draegor’s spell web—just enough to scramble the last few minutes… I mean, hopefully it’s just the last few minutes.”

Nathan blinked. “Hopefully?”

She was already sketching another sigil, unbothered. “Hard to say with Draegor’s work. I only had a few days to study it back at the manor.”

Nathan swung the sword at an oncoming guard, the impact jarring through his arms. “You are a terrifying witch, you know that.”

“Flattering,” she said, breathless. “But I’m nowhere near his level. So who knows if it’ll hold.” Her eyes flicked past him—toward the stag’s cage. “I needed another moment.”

“He’s going to be furious when he wakes up,” Nathan shot back. “Or a vegetable.”

More guards broke free of the crowd and charged through the smoke. Nyx’s hand snapped up—another flare of white light, another pulse of warped air. The newcomers staggered mid-stride, eyes flashing blank before they sagged, dazed and swaying like drunks.

“Okay,” she rasped. “Now we have seconds.”

Without waiting, she reeled Bob back with a sharp tug of her stylus. The creature zipped through the air, splattering bits of whatever he’d been chewing on. Then—without warning—she pitched him straight at Nathan like a football.

He fumbled but somehow caught him, clutching the dripping bundle of tendrils to his chest.

“Are you—” he muttered, helpless. “—you okay?”

Bob burbled, teeth clicking once.

Nathan sighed. Fantastic. Now I’m worrying about swamp vomit. That’s what I get for giving it a name.

Nyx was already at the platform. Her stylus slashed through the air, lines flaring sharp. The cage’s sigils flared, sputtered, spat sparks—and then shorted out in a burst of light. With a metallic clink, the iron door sprang open.

The stag stumbled out—not graceful, not divine, trembling from confinement—but the moment its hooves struck the marble, light rippled through the floor. Threads of silver crawled outward like tendrils, weaving between shattered glass and fallen bodies.

Only one guard remained upright. He swung his blade—too slow. The light coiled up his legs, flared, and he froze mid-motion before crumpling beside the others, breathing steady but unconscious.

Nathan’s breath caught. “You’re kidding me. It just—did that?”

Nyx threw him a wild grin. “Instinct magic. Guess the kid’s got good timing.”

Nathan opened his mouth. “We should—”

The stag surged forward in a flash of molten antlers and silver eyes, hooves clattering against marble as it burst free. It pressed to his side without hesitation, close enough for him to feel the heat of its breath.

Nathan stumbled back a step, breath catching. “Oh. Right. Okay then.”

Nyx smirked, already turning toward the corridor. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a shadow. Let’s go!”

Fresh reinforcements could be heard somewhere beyond the door.

“Time’s up!” Nyx barked. “Move! The servant corridor—go!”

Nathan shoved through the smoke with the stag tight to his side, Bob secure against his chest and Nyx leading the way.

They ducked behind a half-burned curtain, its embroidered edge still smoldering.
Behind it wasn’t marble or magic—just a narrow gap in the wall, dim and unadorned, like the house had tried to hide its own bones.

“Was this always here?” Nathan panted.

“Servant corridor,” Nyx said, pushing through first. “Every old estate has them. Nobles hate remembering who keeps their floors clean.”

The roar of the auction hall dulled behind them, replaced by the muffled crack of collapsing wood and the sharp echo of hooves on stone. The stag followed close, head low, nostrils flaring at the stale air. Bob squirmed against Nathan’s chest, muttering a wet little complaint.

The corridor stretched tight and uneven—functional, not decorative.

“Are we going the right way?” Nathan managed between breaths.

“There is no right way,” Nyx shot back. “Only less-on-fire ones.”

He squinted down the narrow length ahead. “This place looks old.”

“It is,” she said. “No one bothers making servant routes pretty. They just need to work.”

“So no one else knows this is here,” he said.

“Except servants.” Her fingers flexed on the stylus. “I’m sure they got out quickly—if they could.”

The stag snorted, ears flicking toward the next corner.

They reached another curtain—this one intact but heavy, the kind of embroidered silk that never belonged in a servant hall. Nyx shoved it aside with the heel of her hand.

Three mages stared back at them.

For one terrible heartbeat, everyone just froze.

“Oh, come on,” Nathan said.

The nearest mage blinked. “Intruders—”

Nyx cut him off with a sharp flick of her stylus. “Only three? I can take three.”

Nathan eyed her. “You sure? You look like you just wrestled an entire illusion network.”

“I did,” she said tightly, color gone from her face. “Twice.”

The stag edged up beside them, antlers brushing the wall. It lowered its head, nostrils flaring, eyes wide and unblinking. Its silver markings pulsed once—then again—and its flank rippled oddly, like something was trying to happen.

Nathan watched in dawning concern. “Is… it attempting magic or—?”

The stag grunted. Its ears twitched. Its expression said constipation, not combat readiness.

“Great,” Nathan muttered. “Our magical weapon is making the universal I-need-to-poop face.”

Bob burbled agreement from under his arm.

The lead mage recovered first, dragging his stylus through the air. “Drop your weapons!”

Nyx rolled her shoulders. “That would be a firm no.”

And just like that, the hallway exploded into motion.

Light cracked against stone as spells collided. The first bolt of force slammed into the wall where Nathan’s head had been a second earlier, showering him with plaster dust.

Nyx’s stylus flared crimson. “Backlash!” she barked—her sigil bursting forward in a web of red threads that wrapped the nearest mage and detonated in a pop of burning light. He hit the ground hard, breath gone.

“Two left,” she said through her teeth.

Nathan shifted Bob to one arm and gripped his sword tighter. The stag pawed the floor beside him, silver flickers crawling faintly along its flanks before guttering out.

Nyx turned her stylus on the last mage, who was already beginning another incantation. Her movements were slower now—breath shallow, sweat gleaming along her temple. The spell hit her barrier with a crack that left it flickering like broken glass.

“Nyx—” Nathan started.

She tried to draw another sigil, but the lines sputtered out halfway. The mage smiled, stylus cutting through the air for the finishing blow.

A shadow moved behind him—swift, precise.
Steel flashed once.
The mage froze mid-word, eyes wide, and dropped. His stylus clattered against the stone.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Nyx straightened slowly, blinking through the haze. Nathan turned toward the source of the strike, sword still half-raised.

Ronan stepped out of the smoke, expression unreadable. “Having fun?”

Nyx let out a breathless laugh. “Well, aren’t you late?”

“Got a little caught up,” he said evenly. His gaze slid from her to Nathan—then down to the stag pressed tight at his side. “Collecting more strays?”

“Only the magical ones,” Nathan muttered. “Happy to see you’re alright.”

Ronan’s mouth twitched. He looked over the fallen mages, then back to Nyx. “You holding together?”

“Define holding,” she said, voice thin but dry.

“Good enough,” Ronan replied. He shifted his grip on the sword, turning toward the end of the corridor. “Come on. I’ll lead us out.”

He started forward without another word. The stag hesitated, then pressed closer to Nathan, hooves clicking softly on the marble as they followed.

They moved fast, smoke thickening the deeper they went. The once-immaculate corridors were a maze of firelight and collapse—painted ceilings blackened, gold leaf curling like paper. Ronan cut a path through it without slowing, sword angled low, every turn taken like he already knew the map by heart.

Nathan coughed through the haze. “So this was your doing, then?”

Ronan didn’t look back. “More or less.”

“Were you aware you were going to burn it to the ground?”

“Nope.”

A beam cracked above them, showering sparks. Nathan flinched. “Good talk.”

“Servants’ exit,” Ronan barked over the noise. “Just around that left corner.”

They turned—and nearly collided with a knot of people huddled near the far wall. Not nobles this time—servants, soot-streaked and terrified, clutching one another. Someone had tried the rear door; the latch had warped from heat, trapping them inside.

When Ronan appeared from the haze, they froze. One woman gave a strangled whimper.

“Move,” he ordered. The word cracked like a whip.

He slammed his shoulder into the frame; the wood groaned. Nyx braced beside him, stylus sparking along the hinges until the warped metal gave way.

The door blew open in a rush of air and smoke. The servants fled into the dark without a word.

Nyx didn’t even look back; she was limping now, breath ragged but eyes bright with that awful satisfaction she got from surviving something impossible.

Cold air hit them like a shock, slicing through the heat.

For a moment, the night outside felt unreal—crisp, starless, the fire’s glow bleeding over the trees like dawn from the wrong direction. Smoke rolled after them in choking waves.

They stumbled down a slope, toward the treeline where shadows pooled thick and low. The night was alive with distant shouts—guards still searching, orders echoing through the smoke—but no one followed them into the dark.

Nathan half-fell to his knees near the treeline, coughing hard enough to see stars. The stag stayed close, sides heaving, steam curling from its antlers. Bob made a small, triumphant burble.

Nyx leaned against a tree, wiping soot from her mouth. “We made it.”

Ronan scanned the burning estate once more, unreadable. “For now.”

He turned toward the forest path, where faint wagon lanterns flickered between the trees. “This way.”

Nathan pushed himself upright, lungs raw but still working. The stag hesitated only a heartbeat before following, silver eyes catching the firelight like twin moons.

Together, they vanished into the forest’s dark—leaving the mansion to burn behind them.

***

They broke from the trees a few minutes later, breath ragged.

Lanterns swung in the dark ahead—three wagons lined up, horses stamping against their reins, steam rising from their flanks. Mercs moved through the chaos with grim efficiency, voices low and clipped.

Ronan strode straight into it. “Is everyone loaded up?”

Brask looked up from securing a tarp. “Aye. We unshackled who we could, gave what care we could. They’ll need proper healers at the rendezvous.”

Dane stepped forward, relief cracking through the grime on his face. “Boss—you made it.” His gaze slid past Ronan, catching on the silver shape behind them. “And... a new friend?”

The stag stepped out of the shadows, silver hide dull with soot, antlers glinting faintly in the firelight. The nearest horses reared in alarm, snorting and pulling at their harnesses.

Nathan raised his hands. “Easy. He’s—uh—not here to eat anyone.”

He looked down at the creature. “Well, little stag, that’s the forest right there. You could run home now.”

The stag only stared, unblinking and unimpressed.

Nyx had already opened the carriage door and looked back at him like he was an idiot. “They only bond to good-natured souls,” she said. “And it’s a baby. You think it can make that trip on its own?”

Nathan frowned. “So... that’s a no?”

The stag bounded up the step and into the carriage before he could argue.

Nyx arched a brow. “Guess that’s settled.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. We’ll, uh... take a rain check on dropping it off, then.”

Nathan trailed after Ronan, still coughing. “You really had this all planned.”

“More or less,” Ronan said. “Planning’s one thing. Surviving it’s another.”

Nyx stood on the carriage step, stylus still clutched tight, expression pale but triumphant. “We should get moving before Kieran remembers what century he’s in.”

“You can tell me what you mean by that later.” Ronan jerked his chin toward the waiting carriage and a few horses tied individually. “That one’s for us. Wagons are heading east.”

Nathan hesitated, catching sight of the gaunt faces inside a wagon—men and women hollow-eyed with exhaustion, a few children huddled beneath borrowed cloaks. His chest tightened.
“Will they be safe?” he asked quietly.

Ronan’s reply came flat, sure. “As safe as they can be. It’ll be better than what was in store for them here.”

Nathan nodded faintly, throat too tight for words. The wind shifted, carrying the crackle of fire and the faint, distant collapse of stone.

Ronan looked toward the road. “Let’s move out.”

The mercs responded immediately, climbing to their posts. Drivers snapped reins, wheels creaked, and the wagons began to lurch into motion one by one—lanterns swaying like a procession of weary fireflies, heading the opposite direction.

Ronan gestured toward the carriage. “You two first.”

Nyx was already half inside, soot streaked along her cheek like war paint, coaxing the stag away from trying to chew on the seat cushion.

Nathan hesitated at the step. “I guess his jar broke, huh?”

Nyx arched a brow. “Yup. Doesn’t seem to be causing any harm.”

Nathan glanced at the stag. It blinked slowly, then deliberately rested its head against the window frame, unimpressed.

“All right then.”

Ronan climbed in last, shutting the door behind them. The carriage lurched forward, wheels crunching over gravel as the night swallowed the last of the estate’s glow.

They brushed at their clothes as best they could, smearing more soot than they removed. For the first time in hours, no one spoke. The cushioned interior creaked softly with each turn, and the rhythmic pulse of hooves filled the dark.

Nathan slumped back in his seat, exhaustion catching up all at once. Across from him, Nyx had already closed her eyes. Ronan sat beside her, silent—steady, unflinching.

The stag shifted once, hooves clattering softly against the floorboards before curling itself into a small heap near Nathan’s boots. Bob purred against his chest, unwilling to leave his side.

Outside, the forest thinned. The sound of open road began to echo beneath the wheels.

Ronan finally spoke, voice low but cutting through the quiet. “Rest while you can. We’ll be meeting the rest of the mercenaries on the road in about eight hours. I sent thirty-five ahead.”

Nathan’s eyes were already closing. “Right,” he mumbled. “Just wake me up if we catch fire again.”

Nyx snorted softly without opening her eyes. “No promises.”

The carriage rolled on.

Nathan drifted in and out of sleep to the steady thrum of wheels and the faint hiss of hooves over gravel. The carriage rocked, rhythmic, almost gentle. When his eyes finally blinked open, the world beyond the window was dim and silver—moonlight sliding through thinning trees.

Bob was sprawled in his lap like a half-melted jellyfish, occasionally burbling in his sleep.

Across from him, Nyx was awake but quiet, hair a wreck, stylus balanced across her knees. Ronan sat beside her, cloak dulled with soot, watching the road through the window. He looked like he hadn’t blinked all night.

Nathan stretched, wincing. “Still night?”

“Dawn in a few hours,” Ronan said.

The road unspooled ahead, pale and empty beneath the fading moon. No one spoke for a while. The forest had fallen away to open plain; wind hissed through dry grass, and the world felt too wide.

The stag, wedged awkwardly beside Nathan, gave a small huff and rested its chin on his knee. Bob squirmed but refused to move.

Nathan looked down at the silver-eyed creature. “We’re really keeping him, huh?”

Nyx’s voice came without opening her eyes. “Looks that way.”

He rubbed at his face. “If Alia or Tamsin see him, they’ll try to eat it. Or dissect it.”

“Then keep him out of their reach,” she said flatly.

“I wasn’t planning on serving venison, thanks.”

That earned a quiet snort. “Good. You’d lose that argument.”

The smallest flicker of normalcy settled the air. The wheels clattered steady, hypnotic; the scent of smoke still clung to their clothes.

After a while Nyx stirred enough to find a clean scrap of linen from her satchel. “You’ve got soot everywhere,” she mumbled, half-asleep, swiping at his temple before dropping it on his lap.

Nathan brushed at his sleeve. “I think the soot actually improves this ridiculous outfit,” he muttered.

Ronan handed her a waterskin without comment, wiping his own face with the edge of his cloak. Nyx took it, wet the scrap of linen, and passed it to Nathan.

He accepted it with a tired nod, wiping at his face before leaning back against the wall. “We look like hell.”

“We survived hell,” Nyx murmured, already drifting again. “Counts for something.”

He smiled faintly—more breath than sound.

The carriage rocked on; hooves drummed an even heartbeat over the packed road. One by one they slipped back under. The stag curled tighter at Nathan’s feet, and Bob purred a wet little sigh before going still.

Outside, the world kept sliding west, silver and quiet.

Nathan jerked awake as the carriage jolted over a rut.
Light streamed through the window now—real, bright, and gold.

He blinked, disoriented. The fields outside glowed with early morning sun. His neck ached. His lungs still tasted of smoke.

Across from him, Nyx was already awake, petting the stag. Ronan watched the road, eyes rimmed with fatigue. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

Nathan stretched. “Morning?”

“Almost afternoon now,” Ronan said. He didn’t look away from the road. “We’ve been moving steady since the treeline.”

Nathan blinked the sleep grit from his eyes. “There’s something I forgot to tell you. Back inside—before the auction—one of the nobles cornered me. I think it was that Corvina woman. She said a contingent was already moving to the rendezvous—‘down in the deep, where stone remembers everything.’”

Ronan’s jaw flexed. “That sounds like Droswain phrasing.”

“So Mason was a spy too,” Nathan said quietly. “A traitor, as if he needed to add more to his rap sheet.”

“Traitor,” Ronan said. “A selfish person to his core. Probably traded whatever he knew for a bit of forbidden magic or some relic. He’s always had a talent for surviving other people’s disasters.”

Nathan exhaled. “So that means there’s already a Droswain contingent waiting for us.”

“Most likely,” Ronan said. “In or around the dungeon.”

Nathan groaned softly. “Fantastic. Love that for us.”

Ronan’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “We’ll manage. Truth is, they’re probably waiting for you.”

“That’s reassuring. Thanks, Ronan.”

“You’re adaptable,” Ronan said dryly. “That’s the polite word for it.”

“Right—and I smell another misunderstanding coming on.”

Ronan said, "That seems on par for you."

Nathan huffed out a laugh, but it faded fast. The wheels kept turning; outside, the road blurred into streaks of sunlight and dust. Afternoon had begun its slow slide toward dusk by the time they reached the encampment where Mason’s mercenaries waited. The column stretched along the bank—tents, wagons, the clatter of tools and armor.

“Stay here for now.” Ronan jumped down, exchanged a few low words with a sentry.

“I won’t say no to that.” Don’t need thirty-plus men yelling ‘Boss’ at me right now.

Ronan returned a few minutes later with a couple of tin bowls and climbed back inside. “Eat,” he said simply, handing one to Nathan and passing the other to Nyx. “I told them to pack up quickly after eating. We move again at nightfall. Should reach muster by early morning.”

Nathan stared into the stew—lukewarm, gray, but edible. “Can’t wait,” he muttered. He offered some to Bob. The creature slurped it with relish. Huh. Likes human food.

Nyx sat opposite him, coaxing the stag to take a handful of dried greens she’d scrounged from a sack. The creature accepted them delicately, chewing slow and content.

Nathan glanced out the window as Ronan moved among the men outside, steady and methodical, giving quiet orders. I’ll have to face Kieran again. Really hoping he doesn’t remember seeing me there. The thought knotted low in his gut. If he does... there’s no explaining any of it.

Outside, the last of the sunlight bled away behind the hills, leaving only the dim red smear of dusk on the horizon. The column was already moving—wheels crunching over gravel, wagon lanterns swaying in the dark.

Muster. I really hoped I’d be back in my body by now. Safe at home in Korea. Instead, I’m in a carriage with swamp vomit of a creature, a magic deer, and people who have mana in another world, heading toward a dungeon where an enemy contingent is waiting. Great.

The road unspooled ahead in bands of shadow and silver moonlight. The wagons creaked and jolted onward; the rhythm steady, relentless.

I wonder what nightmares await me this time.