The inn had gone quiet by the time I moved again.

  The common room below still murmured with distant laughter and the clink of cups, but up here the air was heavy with sleep and old wood. Ashe lay on his side facing the wall, breath slow, uneven. He murmured something under his breath—words half-formed, tugged loose by dreams.

  I waited.

  One breath.

  Two.

  When his breathing settled deeper, I eased myself from the bed. The floorboards creaked softly beneath my weight, and I froze until the sound faded into the night.

  From my satchel, I drew out the donkey mask.

  Its carved features stared back at me—long ears, blunt teeth, a mockery of humility. I turned it over in my hands once, then slid it back inside the bag. Not yet.

  I pulled my hood up instead, tightening the clasp beneath my chin. My boots went on without laces, soft-soled and quiet. The SIN stayed hidden, heavy at my side like a promise I didn’t want to keep but couldn’t abandon.

  At the door, I paused and looked back at Ashe.

  He shifted slightly, brow creasing, lips parting like he was about to speak—but the moment passed. Sleep claimed him again.

  “I’ll be back,” I whispered, though I didn’t know to whom.

  I slipped out.

  The back stairwell smelled of damp stone and old grease. I descended slowly, keeping to the shadows, timing my steps between bursts of laughter from the common room. No one noticed me as I eased through the back door and into the alley beyond.

  Night had settled fully over Bredford.

  Torches guttered along the streets, throwing long, distorted shadows against the walls. The city felt different after dark—less alive, more watchful. I pulled the donkey mask from my satchel and tied it over my face, the leather cool against my skin.

  A fool’s face.

  A servant’s face.

  The perfect one to move unseen.

  I kept to the alleys, cutting through narrow passages where refuse piled and cats scattered at my approach. The smell of flour gave way to incense as the cathedral loomed closer, its great spire rising pale against the stars.

  With every step, my heart beat harder.

  I wasn’t supposed to be doing this. Lucius had said wait. Marcel had said bide our time. Ashe had trusted me enough to sleep.

  But I’d seen her.

  Alive.

  The bells tolled once in the distance—low and solemn—and I turned toward the sound, the donkey mask grinning dumbly at the world as I walked deeper into the city’s shadow, toward the place where faith was twisted into chains.

  Toward the cathedral.

  I climbed until the sounds of the street thinned beneath me.

  The roof tiles were cold and damp, slick with evening mist. I moved slowly, testing each step before committing my weight, keeping low so I wouldn’t silhouette myself against the moon. When I reached the edge, I lay flat and peered down through the tall cathedral windows.

  Light spilled out in long golden bands.

  Inside, rows of candles flickered, their flames reflected endlessly in polished stone. Clergymen stood in white and gold, voices low and reverent. Before them knelt women in pale garments, heads bowed, hands folded as if obedience could be taught through posture alone.

  Wedding vows.

  That’s what they called it.

  I clenched my jaw. I remembered how slow the process always was—how the Church dragged it out, ritual after ritual, prayer after prayer. They wanted the waiting to break you. Wanted fear to soften into acceptance.

  They wouldn’t take them all at once.

  Not yet.

  They’d be keeping the women somewhere within the cathedral walls.

  I scanned the grounds below, my eyes adjusting to the shadows. Guards moved in lazy patrols, more concerned with appearances than threats. Servants slipped in and out through side passages, carrying trays, linens, oil for the lamps.

  Then I saw it.

  A narrow door near the rear of the structure, half-hidden by a buttress—plain wood, iron-bound. A servant exited with a bundle of cloth tucked under his arm. He paused, glanced around, then locked the door from the outside.

  The key turned once.

  He walked away without looking back.

  My pulse quickened.

  Storeroom, I guessed. Or holding quarters. Either way, somewhere they didn’t expect anyone to go back into tonight.

  That was my way in.

  I backed away from the edge and began my descent, fingers burning as I gripped stone and gutter. The drop was farther than it had looked from above. My boots hit the ground with a soft thud that sounded far too loud in my ears.

  I pressed myself flat against the wall and waited.

  Nothing.

  No shout. No alarm.

  I let out a slow breath and moved.

  As I crept toward the door, my thoughts betrayed me—unwelcome and vivid. Her face, warm and familiar, resting against my shoulder by the lake. The way she’d leaned into me like the world could end and it wouldn’t matter as long as we stayed still.

  Mara.

  Alive.

  ***

  I swallowed hard and reached for the latch, every sense sharp, every nerve screaming for me to turn back.

  But I didn’t.

  I slipped into the shadow of the cathedral wall, one hand already searching for the tools I’d need to open that door—

  and prayed, for once, not for forgiveness, but for time.

  I knelt at the door and drew my knife, the blade dull with use but thin enough to slip where it needed to.

  The lock was old. Heavy. Confident in the sanctity of stone and prayer.

  I slid the blade into the narrow crack between wood and iron and twisted gently, feeling for the catch. My breath slowed, every sound magnified—the scrape of metal, the faint hiss of my own breathing, the distant murmur of voices echoing through the cathedral above.

  Click.

  The lock gave with a soft, almost apologetic snap.

  I eased the door open just wide enough to slip through and pulled it shut behind me, letting it settle back into place without a sound.

  Darkness swallowed me.

  Only a few candles burned down here, their light trembling against rough stone walls and casting long, warped shadows across the floor. I ducked instinctively, staying low, keeping to the edges where the light didn’t quite reach.

  The air was cool and damp, heavy with the smell of old wine, dust, and mildew. Somewhere overhead, voices drifted through the stone—muffled hymns, the rise and fall of vows being spoken slowly, deliberately, like chains being fastened one link at a time.

  I moved carefully, each step placed heel-to-toe to keep my boots from scraping. Crates lined the walls—grain stores, altar wine, bundles of linen marked with Church sigils. I brushed past them like a shadow, careful not to disturb anything that would betray my passage.

  A hallway opened ahead, narrow and sloping downward.

  My heart hammered in my chest as I followed it, the candlelight growing thinner the farther I went. Every instinct screamed that I shouldn’t be here. That if I was caught, there would be no talking my way out.

  But I kept moving.

  At the far end, I heard it.

  Soft sounds.

  Breathing. Shuffling. A quiet sob hastily smothered.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I froze, pressing myself against the cold stone wall, the knife tight in my hand.

  They’re here.

  Somewhere beneath the prayers and incense, beneath the holy words spoken above, the Church hid its sacrifices in the dark.

  I edged forward again, slower now, careful not to let my shadow stretch too far into the light.

  And with every step, one thought beat louder than the rest:

  Please. Let me be in time.

  The sound came again—soft, broken, unmistakable.

  Whimpering.

  I followed it down the narrow corridor until it led me to a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. Light spilled faintly from beneath it, trembling with each candle flicker inside. The voices were clearer now—women murmuring prayers, sobs stifled into sleeves, breath hitching in fear.

  No more waiting.

  I jammed my knife into the lock and twisted hard. The metal shrieked once before giving way. I shouldered the door open and slipped inside.

  A dozen women recoiled at once.

  Some shrieked, hands flying to mouths. Others scrambled backward, pressing themselves against the walls. A few froze entirely, eyes wide and glassy, like cornered animals.

  “Quiet,” I hissed, lifting my free hand. “Please—lower your voices.”

  It took a heartbeat, then another, but the room settled into a tense, terrified hush.

  A woman near the back found her voice first. “Who—who are you?”

  I swallowed and straightened, the donkey mask heavy on my face, absurd and grim all at once.

  “A donkey,” I said softly, “or your savior—if you want to be saved.”

  The words hung there.

  Some of them surged forward immediately, hope flashing across their faces like a match struck in the dark. Others shrank back, shaking their heads, clinging to one another.

  “They’ll kill us if we leave,” one whispered.

  “We can’t,” another sobbed. “They’ll find us.”

  “I won’t go,” someone said firmly, chin lifted despite the fear. “The Father will protect me.”

  My chest tightened. I didn’t have time to argue theology in a cellar.

  Then—

  A girl near the far wall lifted her head. she was helping a little girl wiping her tears away.

  Black hair fell loose around her shoulders. Older than I remembered. Thinner. Her face was smudged with dirt and tear tracks on her cheeks—but when she looked at me, she smiled.

  A real smile.

  “A donkey?” she repeated, a breathless laugh escaping her. “That’s a new one.”

  My heart slammed so hard I thought it might tear free.

  “Mara,” I breathed, stepping toward her without thinking. “Are you alright?”

  She blinked.

  Just once.

  Then tilted her head, studying me with polite confusion.

  “Ser Donkey,” she said gently, “I think you have me confused.”

  The room seemed to tilt.

  She rose to her feet slowly, hands still bound in front of her, candlelight catching her features—similar, yes, but not hers. The curve of the mouth was different. The eyes weren’t right. Too round. Too soft.

  “My name is Rosa.”

  The name hit like cold water.

  I stopped a step away from her, my lungs burning as if I’d run a mile.

  “I—” My voice failed me. I swallowed and tried again. “I’m sorry.”

  Rosa’s smile faded, replaced by something kinder. Sadder. “It’s alright,” she said. “You looked so sure.”

  I looked away before she could see my eyes.

  Around us, the women watched—hope warring with fear, silence stretching thin.

  I forced myself to breathe. Forced myself to focus.

  “Listen to me,” I said, steadying my voice. “I can get you out. Not all at once. Not without risk. But there’s a way—if you want it.”

  Some nodded immediately. Others hesitated. A few shook their heads, retreating deeper into the room, faith or terror rooting them in place.

  Rosa met my gaze again. “And if we don’t go?”

  I didn’t lie.

  “Then they’ll take you upstairs,” I said quietly. “And you won’t come back.”

  The truth settled over the room like ash.

  Rosa squared her shoulders. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  One by one, others followed her lead. Even the little girl hugged tightly to Rosa's waist.

  I reached up and adjusted the donkey mask.

  Not her, I told myself.

  Not this time.

  But as I turned toward the door, leading them into the dark, my chest still ached with the echo of a name that refused to die.

  Mara.

  I eased the door shut behind us and led them back through the cellar, heart hammering with every step. The women moved quietly—too quietly—bare feet whispering over stone, hands clutched to one another like a chain that might break if anyone let go.

  At the rear door, I paused and cracked it open just enough to peer out.

  The street was empty.

  No patrols. No torches. Just the low hum of the city settling into night.

  “Now,” I whispered. “Stay close. No talking.”

  They followed me into the alley, shadows slipping from shadow, faces pale in the thin light. I kept my head down, leading them through the narrow ways like a pilgrim procession gone wrong.

  I needed help. Somewhere safe. Somewhere close.

  Cran.

  His shop wasn’t far—an old habit of the marketplace, always burning a candle late, always counting something. I spotted the familiar glow ahead and hurried the women along, motioning them to press against the wall while I stepped up to the window.

  I knocked softly. Once. Twice.

  “Cran,” I hissed. “Cran—open up.”

  A pause. Then a startled face appeared behind the glass.

  The door cracked open.

  Cran stared at me, then past me—eyes widening as he took in the line of women huddled in the alley behind me.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Thomas, was it your name day or something?”

  He squinted. “Or did you blow Lucius’s coin in the red-light district?”

  I grabbed the edge of the door and leaned in, voice sharp and low. “No you bastard. Just help me here, Cran!”

  His humor vanished instantly.

  He looked at the women again—really looked this time—at the bindings on their wrists, the fear etched into their faces. His jaw tightened.

  “By the Father…” he breathed.

  Without another word, he opened the door wider and gestured urgently. “Get them inside. Quickly. All of you.”

  The women hesitated only a second before moving, slipping past him into the warm light of the shop. Cran ushered them in, locking the door behind the last one and drawing the shutters tight.

  He turned back to me, eyes hard now, voice barely above a whisper.

  “You have any idea what you’ve done, boy?”

  I pulled the donkey mask from my face, breath coming fast. “Yeah,” I said. “And I couldn’t leave them there.”

  Cran studied me for a long moment, then sighed deeply and rubbed his face with both hands.

  “Saints help us,” he muttered. “Alright. Alright. We’ll figure this out.”

  He looked at the frightened women huddled among bolts of cloth and sacks of grain, then back at me.

  “But if Lucius finds out,” he added quietly, “he’s either going to kill you… or promote you.”

  I let out a shaky breath.

  “Let’s hope for the second one,” I said.

  ***

  Cran didn’t ask questions.

  He moved fast, slipping out the back door and returning minutes later with murmured assurances and names I didn’t recognize. Favors called in. Debts remembered. The kind of quiet network that survived despite the Church, not because of it.

  “Take the rear exit,” he whispered, pulling on his coat. “Old service road. They don’t watch it much.”

  We moved in small groups through the back streets, keeping to shadow and refuse-strewn alleys where the city forgot itself. The women clung together, fear sharpening every step, but they followed—because there was nothing else to do.

  The wagon waited where Cran said it would.

  A plain thing. Wooden sides. No markings. A mule hitched to it, snorting softly as if it sensed trouble.

  A man stood beside it, cloak pulled tight, hand already on the reins.

  “Maurice,” Cran said quietly. “This is the lot.”

  Maurice’s eyes flicked over the women, then to me. He nodded once. No questions.

  “Quick,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

  Rosa helped the others up first, steadying shaking hands, whispering encouragement. One by one, they climbed into the wagon, crouching low beneath a tarp. When only Rosa remained, she turned to me.

  “If you ride north,” I said, forcing my voice steady, “you’ll meet a Darwick army within a day. Tell them you were freed. They’ll take you in.”

  She nodded, eyes bright despite everything. “Thank you, Ser Donkey.”

  She smiled.

  Then the night cracked open.

  The sound was sharp—wrong—followed by a wet thud.

  Rosa gasped.

  An arrow bloomed from her chest, dark against pale cloth.

  For a heartbeat, none of us moved.

  Maurice shouted and snapped the reins, the mule lurching forward instinctively. The wagon jerked ahead as the women screamed, hands reaching back for Rosa as she stumbled.

  I caught her as she fell.

  Her weight slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs as I staggered back, arms wrapping around her without thought. She was warm. Too warm. Her blood soaked into my sleeves, slick and spreading.

  “No—no—” I whispered, I lifted her body as I carried her through an alleyway. “Stay with me Rosa.”

  Her eyes fluttered, unfocused. She coughed, red staining her lips.

  “Are the girls safe...?” she asked weakly.

  The wagon was already rolling away, Maurice glancing back only once before disappearing into the dark, forced to choose between stopping and saving anyone at all.

  “You will,” I said, lying without shame. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Rosa smiled faintly. “That’s good.”

  Her hand twitched, fingers brushing my wrist.

  “I thought… you were an angel,” she murmured. “Or a devil.”

  I swallowed hard. “Just a donkey.”

  She laughed softly—barely a sound.

  "I'm glad you tried, Ser Donkey."

  she brushed my mask removing it to see my face.

  "My hero...," Rosa let out a small murmured chuckle, blood seeping from the corner of her mouth.

  The smile stayed on her face as her body went slack in my arms.

  Footsteps echoed in the distance. Shouts. The scrape of boots on stone.

  I stayed there, kneeling in the alley, holding her as the warmth faded—blood pooling beneath us, the night swallowing the last trace of her breath.

  Too late.

  Again.

  And somewhere above the city, cathedral bells began to ring.