The morning sun had not yet pierced the heavy canopy of the outer slums, leaving the abandoned bathhouse trapped in a cold, gray twilight.
Hanjun opened his eyes.
He didn't blink away sleep or stretch; his mind simply clicked from "inactive" to "active," his large, vacant gray eyes staring directly at a crack in the ceiling.
He sat up smoothly,
the discarded linens sliding off his ribcage.
Beside him, Jayhon was already awake.
The boy hadn't slept so much as he had existed in a state of paralyzed exhaustion.
His ocean-blue eyes were bloodshot, staring fixedly at his own bare feet. He looked like a string that had been pulled so taut it was entirely stripped of its elasticity.
Hanjun walked over, his bare feet making no sound on the damp stone, and tapped Jayhon's shoulder with a single, rigid finger.
"Jayhon. It is light outside. We are leaving."
Jayhon flinched violently, his head snapping up. He looked past Hanjun toward the corner where Rika lay curled up, her fiery red hair spilling over her folded arms, her breathing deep and even.
"W-without her?"
Jayhon whispered,
his voice cracking, raw from yesterday's unscreamed horror.
"But she... she knows where to go.
She has a contact. Hanjun, if we go out there alone, the King's men—"
"She called you a liability,"
Hanjun stated, completely flatly.
"And she tastes like blood because I punched her.
If she wakes up,
she might try to trade us to the King for her stolen artifact to balance her losses.
Furthermore, she breathes very loudly. It is inefficient for stealth."
Hanjun reached down, picked up Beixin's old, scuffed leather shoes from the floor, and slipped his feet into them.
They were slightly too small, curling his toes uncomfortably, but his face remained a perfect blank.
He looked at Jayhon.
"Tie my boots.The knots on these are different, and my fingers do not understand them."
Habit was a powerful, numbing thing. Jayhon's hands trembled, but he dropped to his knees, his fingers moving mechanically across the laces, tying them exactly the way he used to when they were hiding in the alleyways with Beixin.
"Okay,"
Jayhon swallowed hard, standing up. "Where do we go?"
"Out," Hanjun said.
Five minutes later, they slipped through the broken iron grate of the bathhouse, leaving the high elf sleeping in the steam.
The lower districts of Morvane were a labyrinth of rotting timber, overflowing open sewers, and soot-stained stone walls.
The air smelled heavily of burnt coal, stale grease, and the damp rot of a kingdom that built its golden palaces directly on top of its garbage.
Hanjun and Jayhon stood at a jagged three-way intersection beneath a sagging wooden archway.
A heavy, suffocating silence stretched between them.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Neither of them moved a single inch.
"Hanjun," Jayhon whispered, his eyes darting frantically toward a group of rough-looking laborers carrying crates in the distance.
"Why aren't we walking?"
"I am waiting for you to take a step," Hanjun replied, staring straight ahead at a pile of discarded cabbage crates.
"Me? Why me? You're the one who said we should leave!"
"Yes. I made the strategic decision to leave that red haired elf. However, leading is an important task.
Beixin always walked first.
I walked behind Beixin.
You walked behind me.
That was what we always did." Hanjun turned his deadpan gaze to Jayhon. "Since Beixin is not here, the first position is empty. You are older than me by twelve months.
Therefore, by standard seniority, you are the front."
Jayhon's face went entirely pale.
"I can't lead! I don't know where we're going! I don't know what's right or what's wrong, Hanjun! I just... I just ran wherever Beixin ran!"
"This is an inefficient loop," Hanjun noted. "If neither of us moves, we will become stationary targets.
If we become targets, we will be broken like paper again."
Jayhon choked back a sob, the memory of the loyal guard's broadsword flashing through his mind. Diluted water, Rika had called it. Useless. A liability.
He looked down at his trembling hands.
While Hanjun stood there like an eerie statue, Jayhon secretly squeezed his right fist.
Deep inside his chest, he tried to feel the locked-away energy the King had spoken of.
He didn't want to be the reason they died.
He didn't want to be useless.
He closed his eyes for a split second, forcing the image of Beixin's fading gray eyes into his mind, trying to channel that absolute terror into the palm of his hand.
A tiny, erratic trickle of water seeped from his skin, splashing onto the muddy cobblestones. It wasn't a weapon; it was a leak.
I have to make it sharp, Jayhon thought desperately, his teeth grinding together as he wiped the moisture against his trousers.
I have to make it hurt.
If I can't, I'll die next.
"Fine," Jayhon hissed, taking a shaky, terrified step down the leftmost alleyway. "We go this way. Don't look back."
"Understood,"
Hanjun said, instantly stepping into place exactly one pace behind Jayhon's shoulder, his gray eyes scanning the rooftops for glowing mushrooms or angry men in armor.
.....
Back in the heart of the inner citadel, the air in the high throne room was still heavy with the scent of ozone and charred stone.
Workers were already sweeping away the shattered stained glass, their hands shaking as they avoided looking at the throne.
King Morvane sat with his cheek resting on a single propped fist, his long, spun-gold hair catching the morning light.
His golden eyes were cold, reflecting a profound boredom that was far more dangerous than active malice.
A high-ranking commander, draped in heavy iron armor, knelt deeply at the base of the dais.
"Your Majesty,"
the commander reported, his voice muffled by his visor.
"The tracking hounds lost the scent near the lower aqueducts.
The high elf girl... she possesses advanced Wood-Zheki stealth arts.
We believe she has fled into the slums. Shall I deploy the Iron Vanguard to purge the sector and bring her head?"
Morvane didn't move.
He didn't even blink.
"No," the King said, his voice a low, melodic baritone that made the air hum with heat.
"Do not touch the elf."
The commander paused, confused.
"Sire? She infiltrated the palace. She struck down a royal defender."
"The high elves are a tedious, bureaucratic race,"
Morvane sighed, waving a dismissive hand.
"They hold ancient bloodlines and a fundamental connection to the world's roots. If you kill one of their stray princesses in my slums, their elders will use it as an administrative excuse to cut off our timber trade routes and mobilize their border guards. It is a massive political headache over a minor insect."
The King's eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of genuine curiosity flickering in the gold.
"The elf is irrelevant. But the two human rats... the ones who were with her. Find them."
"The thieves, Sire? But... they are lowborn children from the gutter. Their Zheki is practically nonexistent."
"The dark-haired girl is dead. But the silver-haired boy..." Morvane's fingers traced the armrest of his throne.
"He killed an elite practitioner of my Sun-Zheki with a clumsy stumble.
His energy... it wasn't wood.
It was starved.
Cold. I want to see what happens when that broken stove is fueled.
Bring them to me alive. If they are broken before they arrive, your head will replace the stained glass."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
The commander bowed so low his helmet struck the marble, and he hurried out.