The escape tunnels beneath the Winter Palace were ancient—carved during the Mage Wars to smuggle nobles in and out without detection. Cold, dark, and winding, they now became the path to survival.
Luenor held a small mana stone lantern, its blue glow flickering with every step. Hera clung to him, silent and pale, while Richard led the way, sword drawn.
Behind them, the muffled sounds of chaos echoed—wooden gates breaking, angry voices rising, and the distinct clash of battle.
"We're almost at the outer cavern," Richard said. "From there, we take the hidden trail north into the forest."
"But what then?" Hera asked. "We have no army. No allies."
Luenor's voice was calm, focused. "We survive. That's all that matters now."
The passage narrowed. They crawled through a tight bend before emerging into a moonlit cavern framed by frost-coated stone.
Richard stepped out first, scanning the treeline beyond. "Clear for now. We'll head to the ruins of Fort Gelran. It's abandoned, but defensible."
As they crossed into the forest, snow began to fall again.
But peace did not last.
From the shadows, figures emerged—cloaked in brown and gray, carrying blades and old muskets. Rebels.
"Found them!" one shouted.
Richard pushed the siblings behind a fallen log. "Stay down!"
Steel rang out as he parried the first attacker. Luenor clutched Hera's hand, trembling—but then, he saw Richard falter. A musket fired. Richard cried out, blood blossoming across his shoulder.
"No!" Luenor yelled.
The rebel aimed again.
Luenor stood, instinct overriding fear. He threw a rock—not with strength, but with desperate precision. It struck the musket's barrel just as the man fired. The shot went wild.
Richard seized the chance to strike. The rebels fell back.
Luenor's heart pounded. He had acted. Not hidden. Not run.
"We keep moving," he said.
And they did—into the wild, toward the ruins, into the unknown.
Where Luenor would carve his legend from snow and fire.