Doc stepped out of the supply shop with Principles of Runic Architecture tucked under one arm. Fish padded beside him, her amber eyes sweeping the corridor ahead.

The book had cost more than expected, but the clerk confirmed it was the Academy-level text Cassira recommended.

His radio crackled inside his suit.

"Doc. Respond."

Bran's voice. Tight. Strained.

Doc's stride faltered. He stopped in the empty corridor and activated the transmit function through his neural link.

"Bran? Everything okay?"

There was a pause. Long enough that Doc felt his pulse quicken.

"No. Inn was attacked. Calen got Cass and Mira out and ran. They were heading for the checkpoint." Bran's voice steadied as he spoke, locking into the same calm he used when things went sideways in the kitchen. "He's not responding."

Doc's mind shifted immediately.  "How long ago?"

"Just now. Minutes."

"Mar? Garrik?"

"Standing. But hurt."

Doc processed what he just heard.

Calen had taken the girls and run. Smart. Toward the checkpoint made sense—guards, witnesses, safety. But they hadn't arrived.

"I'll find him, Bran."

"Doc—"

"I'll find him."

Doc ended the transmission.

"Lux. Analysis."

"Coordinated assault. Target appears to be Cassira, given her profile. Calen and Mira were collateral."

Doc's hand tightened around the book.

"Recommend immediate investigation," Lux continued. "Witnesses likely present at checkpoint or near inn. Gather intelligence before pursuing."

Doc nodded once, barely noticeable. "Agreed."

He turned and walked back toward the main hall, Fish keeping pace beside him. His stride was faster now. Deliberate.

People stepped out of his way without thinking about it.

---

---

Dain stood near the entrance with Ren, Kipp, and Maris, still listening to the boy's story. His expression shifted between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

Then he saw Doc.

The armored figure moved through the hall like a pressure front, his cloak shifting behind him. Fish's gaze swept left and right, alert and predatory.

Dain's smile faded.

Doc stopped in front of them. His posture hadn't changed, but something about the way he held himself made Dain's instincts tighten.

"Something happened?" Dain asked carefully.

"No time to explain," Doc said. His tone was flat. "Can you take the kids to meet with Bran?"

Dain straightened. "Where?"

"Old trade depot in the Outer district, the one Marron bought."

Dain looked at Doc's face. There was no anger in it — only a flat, total focus.

"I can do that," Dain said.

Doc nodded once. "Thank you."

He turned without another word and walked toward the entrance. Fish moved with him, matching his stride perfectly.

Ren started to speak. "Doc—"

But Doc was already gone.

Kipp watched him leave, then looked at Dain. "What was that about?"

Dain didn't answer immediately. He was still watching the doorway where Doc had disappeared.

Whatever had happened, it was bad.

---

---

Doc stepped into the street.

The cold air hit him immediately, sharp against his face.

He turned left. Toward the checkpoint.

"Lux. Route to checkpoint. Fastest."

A translucent overlay appeared in his vision—blue lines threading through the district, marking turns and intersections.

Doc followed it.

Fish moved ahead now, her form blurring slightly as she scouted the path. People gave her space.

Doc's mind worked through the scenario as he walked.

Coordinated attack. Multiple targets. Inn wasn't random. Someone knew Cassira was there. Knew her schedule. Her guard.

Mar and Garrik were both hurt. That meant the attackers had committed a large amount of resources.

But they hadn't stayed to finish the job. That meant they got what they came for.

Doc slowed as he approached the guardhouse.

The checkpoint was chaos. Watchmen stood in tight groups near the gate, boots scuffing over packed snow as they exchanged sharp words. Civilians crowded nearby, voices raised, gesturing toward the outer district. Someone was shouting about bandits. Another insisted it had been an Imperial affair.

Doc stopped a dozen paces from the gate and let the noise wash over him.

"Lux. Filter."

"Filtering."

The world dulled at the edges. Voices became layers. Specific words stood out from the ambient noise with perfect clarity.

"—said it was the princess—"

"—didn't see anything at the post—"

"—Imperial guards are already at the inn—"

He stepped closer to a cluster of watchmen standing near the guardhouse wall. Two older men, both in city colors, helmets tucked under their arms. One gestured sharply toward the outer district while the other shook his head.

"I'm telling you," the first one said, "the girl never made it here. If she had, we'd know."

"Then where is she?" the second demanded.

"How should I know?"

Doc's stride stopped and thought to himself.

If Calen had been heading toward the gate with Cassira and Mira, and they never arrived—

Either they'd been caught before they could reach it, or they'd been forced to turn around.

"Lux. Assessment."

"Multiple scenarios consistent with observed data. Most probable: subjects were intercepted before reaching checkpoint. Alternate route taken under duress."

Doc nodded once, then turned away from the gate.

The crowd parted without noticing him. Fish moved ahead, clearing space just by being there.

They walked back toward the inn.

Doc kept his stride even.. The world moved around him in layers—civilians hurrying past, watchmen shouting orders, snow crunching beneath boots.

He filtered it all out.

Halfway back, Fish stopped.

Her head came up. Nose lifted toward the wind. Her amber eyes locked onto something Doc couldn't see yet.

He stopped beside her.

"Lux?"

"Fish has detected something."

"Show me," he said quietly.

Fish turned left, away from the main road. Into the narrow streets between buildings where snow had been trampled into a dirty slush.

Doc followed.

---

---

Fish led them deeper into the maze of alleys, her nose low. The pressed snow beneath their boots showed signs of traffic—recent and chaotic. People had run through here.

They turned a corner and Doc stopped.

Three men stood near the mouth of an alley ahead. Not watchmen. Their clothes marked them as locals—worn leather aprons over patched woolen tunics. One held a hammer. Another had a wood plane tucked under his arm. The third stood with arms crossed, blocking the alley entrance.

Craftsmen keeping their neighbors safe.

All three turned as Doc approached.

The one with the hammer straightened immediately. His posture shifted—wary.

"Imperial guard," the man muttered to his companions.

Doc blinked.

"Lux?"

"Your movement patterns and bearing might have registered as military or enforcement to local population. The cloak compounds the effect—appears ceremonial or official."

Doc filed that away.

He stopped a respectful distance from them. "I'm investigating the attack at the inn. I heard there was an incident here."

The three exchanged glances.

The man with the hammer nodded slowly. "Aye. Saw it myself."

"What did you see?"

"Men chasing a few kids through the district," the craftsman said. His words came careful, like he was still working it out. "Two girls came past first. The boy was last—couldn't have been more than fifteen. But he didn't run with them. Stopped at the mouth of that alley and turned to face the men chasing them."

He gestured behind him with the hammer.

"Held them off like nothing I've ever seen," the second man added, disbelief plain in his voice. "Took two of them down before the third threw something. Small flask. Whole alley lit up—explosion, dust, the works. Knocked the boy clean off his feet into the wall."

The craftsman's jaw worked for a moment before continuing. "We thought he was dead. Head cracked the stone hard enough to leave a mark."

Doc's chest tightened.

"The third man ran," the second craftsman said. "Didn't even check if the kid was breathing. Just turned and bolted."

There was a pause.

"Then the boy got up."

Doc's eyes narrowed. "Got up?"

"Aye." The man with the plane shifted his weight. "Shouldn't have been possible. That kind of impact—he should've been out cold for hours. Maybe worse. But he pushed himself off the wall, stumbled once, then followed after the third man."

The first craftsman shook his head. "Couldn't believe what we were seeing. Boy looked half-dead, but he kept moving. Like nothing was going to stop him."

Doc processed that.

"I'd like to examine the scene," Doc said quietly.

The craftsman with the hammer nodded. "We've been keeping people away. Didn't feel right, leaving it open. Not with the blood and all."

"I appreciate that," Doc said.

All three men blinked.

The one with the plane muttered something under his breath. The others just stared.

Doc moved past them into the alley.

The scene was exactly as described.

Two bodies lay in the snow. One near the entrance, throat opened cleanly. The second further in, knife wound visible beneath the mess of fabric and blood. Both had gone down fast.

Doc stopped where the blast had centered.

Scorch marks radiated outward across the stone. Snow had been vaporized in a rough circle, leaving bare cobblestone streaked with soot and residue. A broken crate lay splintered against the far wall. Blood smeared the stone above it—dark and still wet.

"Lux. Full analysis."

"Acknowledged. Activating spatial reconstruction protocols."

Translucent blue lines mapped the alley around him—walls, ground, the splintered crate against the far stone. Impact points marked themselves in soft amber. Trajectory arcs threaded the open space. Thermal residue from the blast still glowed faint orange where it had burned hottest, fading toward the walls.

The scene assembled in layers.

"Both subjects equipped for a planned engagement. Reinforced clothing. Concealed blades, weighted for thrusting. Footwear consistent with extended travel." A pause. "The explosive was not improvised. Casing fragments indicate issued equipment."

Doc crouched beside the nearer body.

A professional crew. Outfitted, briefed, and pointed at the inn.

"Calen's condition."

A figure resolved against the far wall—translucent, frozen at the moment of impact. Lines of stress bloomed red along the skull and ribcage.

"Cranial trauma probable. Force of impact exceeds the threshold for sustained unconsciousness."

Doc studied the red lines a moment.

"Blood pattern confirms he left the alley under his own power, within minutes of the blast. In pursuit."

Doc deactivated the simulation.

He turned and walked back toward the alley entrance, where Fish waited.

She was already moving again. Nose low, tracking.

Doc followed.

The trail led them east. Away from the checkpoint. Away from the city.

Toward open ground where the district thinned into frozen farmland and empty road.

Calen was out there. Injured. Following kidnappers who had Cassira and Mira.

Doc's stride lengthened.

Fish broke into a lope ahead of him, her form blurring slightly as she moved faster.

Behind them, Glasshold's walls grew smaller.

---

---

 Calen crouched behind a snowdrift, breath fogging in short bursts.

His head still throbbed where it had struck the wall.

Ahead, maybe three hundred meters across open ground, smoke curled from the chimney of a small stone house. One of a dozen scattered across the frozen farmland where the village had been.

The kidnappers had stopped there.

Calen tried counting the shadows moving past the windows. It was hard to tell with the glass so dirty.

He shifted his weight and winced. The cold was settling into his bones now. He'd been out here for hours, and the sun was dropping fast behind the mountains.

Should've grabbed my coat.

The thought was stupid. There hadn't been time. The attackers had smashed through the inn's windows and he'd barely gotten Cass and Mira out the back before—

He cut the thought off.

Not helpful.

Focus on what's in front of you.

He pulled the radio from his belt and turned it over in his hands. The casing was intact, but the weight felt wrong.

Calen closed his eyes and let his Resonance Veins extend.

The radio's energy signature flickered into view—a faint lattice of copper traces and crystal nodes that should have hummed with steady current. Instead, half the circuit was dark. Dead.

He traced the break with his fingertips. There—a fractured trace near the transmission coil. The explosion must have cracked the solder joint when he hit the wall.

He pulled the small toolkit from his other pocket. Carl had given it to him weeks ago, insisting every craftsmen should carry field repair tools.

Calen had rolled his eyes at the time.

Now he whispered a silent thank-you.

His hands shook as he worked. Cold made the fine movements harder, but his Jury-Rig Intuition skill compensated. He didn't need to see the circuit perfectly—he felt where the energy wanted to flow and guided his tools to match.

Five minutes later, the lattice reconnected.

He activated the transmit function and spoke quietly into the receiver. "Bran? Doc? Anyone?"

Static hissed back at him.

He adjusted the frequency. Tried again.

Nothing.

Calen stared at the radio for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.

He was on his own.

He clipped the radio back to his belt and looked toward the village again.

The kidnappers weren't moving. Probably settling in for the night.

Which meant Calen had time.

Not much. But some.

He needed shelter. Food would've been nice, but he could survive without it for a day or two. Shelter wasn't optional. Not out here. The temperature would drop below freezing once the sun disappeared, and his coat was back at the inn.

He scanned the village.

Most of the houses sat clustered near the center, within sight of where the kidnappers had stopped. Too close. But further out, near the edge of the settlement, three buildings stood isolated from the rest.

Calen studied them.

The furthest one looked intact. Roof still up. Walls solid. No smoke from the chimney.

Empty.

He waited until the last of the daylight faded, then moved.

His Slipfoot skill kept his steps silent as he crossed the open ground. The snow was old here—packed and crusted—so his boots didn't sink. He moved low, using the terrain to break his silhouette against the horizon.

Two minutes later, he reached the side of the house.

The door was closed but not locked. Calen pressed his palm against the wood and extended his senses again. No energy signatures inside.

He slipped through the door and closed it behind him.

The interior was wrecked.

Furniture lay overturned. Tables split in half. Chairs reduced to kindling. Deep gouges scarred the walls—claw marks, maybe.

Whatever had happened here, the villagers were gone. Dead or fled. Didn't matter which.

He moved through the ground floor quickly, checking corners and doorways.

Upstairs, he found what he needed.

A small room near the back of the house. The window faced the center of the village, giving him a clear line of sight to the kidnappers' position. The floor was intact. The walls blocked the wind.

Good enough.

Calen positioned himself near the window and settled into a crouch. From here, he could watch without being seen. The angle kept him out of direct sight, and the darkness inside the house would hide his silhouette if anyone looked this way.

Smoke still rose from the chimney. Shadows moved past the windows occasionally. They weren't in a hurry. Probably thought they'd gotten away clean.

Calen's fist tightened.

They had Cass. They had Mira.

And they thought no one was following.

He leaned against the cold wall and forced himself to breathe slowly. His head still hurt. His ribs ached from the blast. The cold was starting to creep into his fingers despite his gloves.

But he was here.

And tomorrow, when they moved again, he'd be right behind them.