Aldric ran.
He didn't think about it—didn't weigh options or calculate angles. He just moved, his body responding before his mind could catch up, sprinting toward the gap between two pines at the edge of the clearing.
Behind him, the leader's voice cut through the night air.
"Don't kill him. The Master wants him breathing."
---
The forest swallowed him.
Trees rose like pillars in the darkness, their branches interlocking overhead to block the moonlight. Aldric couldn't see more than a few feet in front of him, but he didn't need to see. He'd walked these hills for three years. He knew the paths, the slopes, the places where the ground was solid and the places where it would give way.
His feet found the familiar trail without conscious thought.
Force transmission. Multiple paths. Distributed load.
Garrett's voice, echoing from a different kind of darkness.
When you're losing energy, it's usually because you're fighting the terrain instead of working with it.
---
A fireball illuminated the trees behind him.
Aldric threw himself sideways, rolling through dead leaves and loose stone, feeling the heat wash over his back. The spell struck a pine and exploded in a shower of sparks and splinters.
They weren't holding back.
He scrambled to his feet and kept running.
---
The hills rose steeply to the east. Rocky outcroppings. Narrow passes. Places where a single person could move faster than three.
Aldric angled toward higher ground.
His breath came hard now, his lungs burning, his legs screaming. He'd been awake for hours, had walked miles through the hills before finding the cave, and now he was running for his life with no rest and no reserves.
But stopping wasn't an option.
---
Friction. Angles. The path of least resistance.
Garrett had shown him diagrams—arrows indicating force, lines showing the most efficient routes. Energy always followed the easiest path. Water flowed downhill. Heat moved from hot to cold. And a body in motion wanted to keep moving.
The trick was not to fight that motion.
To redirect it.
---
Aldric crested a ridge and saw his chance.
Below him, a narrow ravine cut through the hills—a dry streambed that wound between two stone walls. The path was treacherous, full of loose rocks and hidden drops, but it was faster than the slopes above.
And it would force his pursuers into single file.
He plunged downward.
---
The ravine was darker than the forest above.
Aldric moved by feel, his hands brushing stone walls, his feet finding purchase on the rocky floor. Somewhere behind him, he heard the three operatives descending—less careful, louder, their footsteps echoing off the walls.
They were faster than him.
That was the simple truth. They were mages. Adept-tier or higher. Their bodies were enhanced by mana, their stamina greater, their speed beyond anything a spellblade novice could match.
He couldn't outrun them.
Not in a straight line.
---
When every option is bad, pick the one that gives you the most information.
Felix's voice, rising through the panic.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
At least then you'll know what you're dealing with.
Aldric had already learned what he was dealing with. Three operatives. Crimson Pyre. Working for someone called "the Master." They wanted Felix's letter, and they wanted him alive.
But alive didn't mean unharmed.
---
He heard the first operative enter the ravine behind him.
The footsteps were closer now—too close. Aldric pushed harder, his body protesting, his mana reserves flickering like a dying flame. He'd been running for minutes, but it felt like hours.
The ravine curved ahead. A bend in the streambed.
And beyond it—
---
The cliff.
Aldric stumbled to a stop, his heart sinking.
The ravine didn't continue. It ended abruptly at a sheer drop, the stone walls opening onto empty air. Below, far below, he could hear the distant rush of water—a river cutting through the base of the hills.
He'd run out of ground.
---
"End of the line, boy."
The voice came from behind. Calm. Almost pleasant.
Aldric turned.
---
The three operatives stood at the bend in the ravine, their robes dark against the stone, their faces hidden in shadow. The leader stood in front, his empty eyes catching what little moonlight filtered down.
"You've made this more difficult than it needed to be," the leader said. "The letter. Now. And this ends."
Aldric's hand went to his chest, pressing against the hidden fragment.
---
The two subordinates moved to flank him, cutting off any escape route. Not that there was anywhere to escape to. Behind him, the cliff. In front of him, three mages who wanted what he carried.
The odds were impossible.
But impossible was where he'd started.
---
"You don't understand what you're carrying," the leader continued. "That letter contains information that could destabilize operations across the Eastmarch. The Master has invested years in this work. He won't allow some worthless spellblade to undo it all."
Worthless.
There was that word again.
---
Aldric thought about the Resonance Lamp. About the sneers and the stipend cuts and the systematic grinding down of anyone who didn't fit the mold. About Caelen's offer and his refusal and the expulsion notice on his door.
He thought about Therin and Joren and Pell, standing with him when no one else would.
He thought about Felix, dying to protect him, leaving behind a torn letter that pointed toward something darker than anything Aldric had imagined.
---
"I'm not giving you the letter," Aldric said.
The leader's head tilted. "You're not in a position to negotiate."
"I'm not negotiating."
---
The two subordinates tensed, ready to move. The leader's empty eyes narrowed.
"You're cornered. Outnumbered. And you have maybe thirty seconds before we take what we want by force." The leader's voice was still calm, but there was an edge beneath it now. "Don't be stupid. Hand over the letter, and you walk away."
Aldric looked at the cliff behind him.
At the darkness below.
At the river he couldn't see but could hear, rushing through the night.
---
When every option is bad...
He tightened his left hand at his side until his thoughts stopped scattering.
...pick the one that gives you the most information.
He'd learned what he needed to know. Crimson Pyre was operating near the Cloudridge Order. They were connected to someone called "the Master." They'd been watching him. They wanted Felix's letter.
And they were willing to kill for it.
---
"You're right," Aldric said. "I am cornered."
The leader's expression didn't change. "And...?"
"But you made one mistake."
A long pause.
"And what mistake is that?"
---
Aldric smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile.
"You assumed I was trying to escape."
---
He turned and ran toward the cliff.
Behind him, the leader's voice rose in alarm: "Don't let him—"
But it was too late.
Aldric reached the edge and jumped.
---
The fall seemed to last forever.
He had time to feel the wind rushing past his face. Time to see the stars wheeling overhead. Time to hear the operatives' shouts fading into the distance.
Then the river came up to meet him.
---
The impact was like hitting stone.
Cold water slammed into his body, driving the air from his lungs, spinning him in a chaotic tumble of current and darkness. He struck something—rock, maybe, or a submerged log—and pain exploded through his shoulder.
But he didn't let go.
He kept his arms wrapped around his chest, protecting the letter, even as the river dragged him downstream.
---
Garrett's voice, distant now, filtered through the roar of water.
When you can't avoid the impact, spread it across as much surface area as possible. Don't let it concentrate in one point.
Aldric went limp, letting the current carry him, letting his body-tempered muscles absorb the punishment. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't controlled. But it was survival.
---
The river carried him through darkness.
He struck rocks and branches and things he couldn't identify. The cold seeped into his bones, numbing his limbs, making it harder to think, harder to move. His mana reserves flickered and guttered, barely enough to keep his body-tempering active.
But he kept breathing.
Kept holding on.
---
The river slowed.
Aldric didn't notice at first—his consciousness was fragmenting, his awareness narrowing to the rhythm of his own heartbeat. But gradually, the current gentled. The impacts became less frequent. The roar of water faded to a murmur.
He was approaching calm water.
---
His feet found bottom.
He didn't remember standing, but suddenly he was upright, the water waist-deep, his legs trembling with exhaustion. The river had carried him far downstream—far enough that the cliffs were distant shadows against the stars.
He'd survived.
---
Aldric stumbled toward the shore, his movements clumsy, his body screaming with every step. The riverbank was muddy and steep, and it took him three tries to pull himself onto solid ground.
He collapsed onto the grass and lay there, staring at the sky, his chest heaving.
---
The letter.
His hand went to his tunic, fingers fumbling with the wet fabric. The cloth wrapping was soaked, but the paper inside...
He pulled it out carefully, unfolding it with shaking hands.
The ink had run in places. Some words were illegible now, blurred beyond recognition. But the key phrases were still visible.
The Hollowed Rite. They know about—
---
Aldric let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He'd kept it. Through the chase and the fall and the river, he'd kept Felix's last words.
Now he had to figure out what to do with them.
---
The night was cold. His clothes were soaked. His body ached from a dozen impacts, and his mana reserves were nearly empty. He was miles from the Order, miles from help, with enemies somewhere behind him.
But he was alive.
And for now, that was enough.
---
But the night isn't over yet.
