YAN

  THE FOOTSTEPS STOPPED just beyond the crates. A tall figure stepped into the flickering torchlight, face shadowed beneath a dented helmet.

  “Sienna?” the guard asked, voice wary. “Who’re you talking to?”

  She turned slowly, holding the bucket against her hip.

  “The wind,” she said calmly. “The spirits on the air. My grandmother used to say they listen if you ask nicely.”

  The guard frowned. “Spirits?”

  “They’ve been restless tonight.” She let her gaze drift upward, as if following some invisible current. “You haven’t felt it?”

  The man rubbed his arms, glancing at the dark sky. “Maybe. Place’s crawling with bad omens these days.”

  She smiled faintly.

  “That’s why I’m asking them to be kind.”

  He shifted his weight, uneasy.

  “You’re a strange one, Sienna.”

  “Strange keeps me alive.”

  The guard grunted.

  “Well, stay out of trouble. Jarl Breivik’s looking for excuses to tan hides.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll be quick.”

  He lingered a beat longer, then turned and walked back toward the glow of the campfires, his boots crunching over dry earth.

  Silence fell.

  Only then did Sienna exhale, her shoulders loosening. Slowly, she turned back toward the shadows.

  Yanick stepped out. His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came.

  She looked at him, eyes sharp even in the dark.

  “Go,” she whispered.

  Yanick hesitated.

  “I’m really…”

  “Don’t finish that,” she cut in, clutching the bucket tighter. “Don’t make it a favour. Just get out.”

  “I owe you.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You owe yourself. For whatever the hell you’re chasing.”

  Nemeth passed her without a glance, but Yanick stayed, caught in some quiet gravity between them.

  Sienna finally looked away. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  Yanick gave a shallow nod, then melted back into the dark after Nemeth, his pulse still beating in his throat.

  This time he turned, he looked behind. Gave that long overdue goodbye. Behind him, Sienna stood still beneath the wide, listening sky and the moon laughed above her.

  They passed without further encounters. Twice they had to wait out the patrol, but most activity now was happening in the neighbouring camp.

  When they reached the moat, it wasn’t water waiting for them down there. It was worse.

  A shallow trench of filth, half-sunk refuse, rotting scraps of food, and gods knew what else, all clinging to a muddy soup that once had been sand but hadn’t dried in weeks. The city’s waste. A moat of decay.

  Yanick gagged as the wind shifted.

  “Smells like they’ve been throwing corpses in here.”

  Nemeth crouched at the edge, squinting at the churned muck.

  “Maybe they have.”

  He dropped down first, landing with a wet, sucking sound that made Yanick’s skin crawl.

  “Come on.”

  Yanick hesitated, then lowered himself, careful of his wrist. The sludge sucked at his boots, sticky and resistant. Every step felt like pulling free from a dying man’s grip.

  They slogged forward in silence, breath shallow, until the moat narrowed and brought them face to face with the wall.

  It wasn’t just tall. It was impossible. A sheer, rough surface rising like a giant’s tombstone, patched with hasty repairs, slick in places with something Yanick didn’t care to name.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  He craned his neck, then shook his head.

  “Even if my hand worked,” he said, flexing his stiff fingers, “there’s no way. Nobody’s climbing that.”

  Nemeth stared up at it, lips pressed tight.

  “Not from here, no.”

  Yanick glanced back at the way they came, the stink crawling in his throat again.

  “You got another plan?”

  Nemeth’s eyes flicked along the wall, searching.

  “There’s always another way.”

  Without hesitation, he started walking along the base of the stone, gaze lifted as if reading some ancient, half-forgotten script written in cracks and seams. Boots squelched in the muck; the stink rose with every step, but it didn’t seem to register.

  Trailing behind, Yanick flexed his useless hand at his side, breath sour with frustration.

  “There’s no way in,” he muttered. “You’re wasting time. We’re just gonna end up caught. Or worse.”

  A raised hand silenced him without turning. Huffing, he fell quiet, following in reluctant silence.

  “We’re not getting over that wall. Unless you’ve got wings hidden under that cloak.”

  Another sharp gesture cut the words off.

  “Quiet.”

  They pushed on until the other man stopped abruptly beneath a narrow window, set high—barely more than a slit, a forgotten shaft or servant’s vent. Definitely unreachable.

  He squinted upward, lips moving soundlessly, counting distance, stones, or something else impossible to guess.

  Yanick sighed loudly.

  “That’s a dead end. Unless you plan on growing a few extra meters.”

  No answer. Instead, a bundle unslung from under the cloak: cords, a leather pouch. Kneeling, he picked a smooth stone from the muck, weighing it in his palm before slipping it inside.

  Yanick frowned, stepping closer.

  “What on earth’s that?”

  A faint quirk at the corner of his mouth.

  “A sling.”

  “Never seen anything like it.”

  “A weapon of the Wastes,” came the explanation, as the cords began a slow, practised circle. “Not many trees out there. No bows, no arrows. But plenty of stones. Endless stones.”

  The spin quickened, air whistling softly as he shifted his weight, eyes narrowing. He let fly.

  The stone bounced harmlessly off the wall with a dull clack, vanishing into the darkness.

  Yanick crossed his arms.

  “Great. We’re saved.”

  Another stone found its way into the pouch before the sarcasm had faded.

  “Takes practice.”

  The sling whirred faster. A release—this time the stone ricocheted just beneath the window.

  “You obviously lack it,” Yanick groaned. “We’re gonna die out here.”

  “Shh.” The edge in his tone wasn’t subtle now.

  A third throw. The stone disappeared into the slit with a faint, satisfying plink.

  Yanick squinted upward.

  “And…?”

  Silence. Then a whistle floated down: sharp, three short notes.

  A thin smile ghosted across the older man’s face.

  “And now we wait.”

  He opened his mouth to question, but a firm hand pressed him flat against the wall.

  “Lean in. Close.”

  Heartbeat thudding, Yanick obeyed.

  “Why—”

  A scrape above. Stone shifting. A rustle.

  Then a rope unfurled from the window, slithering wetly into the muck at their feet.

  The sideways glance carried a spark of challenge.

  “Think you can climb it?”

  Fingers flexed against the fibres, eyes climbing the fraying line to the window.

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  Nemeth tested the rope with a tug, then another, his expression unreadable in the thin moonlight. He set his foot against the wall and began the climb without a word, moving slow and steady, hand over hand, his body a dark silhouette creeping upward against the pale stone.

  Yanick watched him go, dread coiling in his gut. The rope swayed gently in Nemeth’s wake, the knot slipping through the muck at his boots. His gaze climbed to the window above. So high. Much higher than it had looked from the ground.

  The old wolf paused halfway, glancing down.

  “Your turn.”

  Yanick swallowed. Flexed his fingers. His right hand still felt stiff, the wrist weak, muscles untrustworthy. The old break was healed but not strong. He hadn’t done enough of those exercises Ellie prescribed. Not nearly enough.

  But there was no way back now.

  He grabbed the rope with both hands, testing his grip. Gritted his teeth. Then pushed off the ground and began to climb.

  Each pull sent a dull ache shooting up his arm. His fingers cramped against the coarse fibres. His left arm did most of the work, hauling, tugging, dragging his weight upward while his right lagged behind, trembling.

  Above him, Nemeth climbed steadily, his boots knocking loose little bits of mortar. Yanick tried to keep up, but by halfway his breath was already ragged, his arms screaming.

  The rope swayed beneath him. He glanced down. The muck filled moat was a dark smear below, moonlight glinting off stagnant pools. The ground felt miles away.

  His right hand slipped.

  He gasped, scrabbling, the rope burning against his palm. His body jolted downward a few inches before his left hand locked tight again. He clung there, panting, forehead pressed to the rope.

  “Yanick,” Nemeth’s voice floated down, calm but sharp. “Don’t stop. You’re close.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Yanick hissed through clenched teeth. His wrist throbbed, a dull fire pulsing from bone to tendon. His right fingers wouldn’t close fully. Sweat slicked his back despite the night chill.

  He pulled again. Another inch. Then another. The window above loomed closer but still impossibly far.

  His left hand cramped. His right gave nothing.

  “Nemeth,” he croaked. “I can’t—”

  “Hold.”

  Suddenly Nemeth’s head appeared above, silhouetted in the narrow window. He leaned out, bracing himself.

  “Grab it.”

  A second rope snaked down beside the first. Thicker, sturdier, looped at the end.

  Yanick let out a strangled laugh. “You couldn’t have done that sooner?”

  “Didn’t think you’d need it.” Nemeth’s faint smirk was visible even from here.

  Yanick grunted, swung himself awkwardly toward the loop. Hooked his arm through it, locking it against his chest.

  “Ready?” Nemeth called.

  “No.”

  “Good enough.”

  The rope jerked as Nemeth—and someone else above—began to haul. Yanick felt himself lift, his feet scraping the wall, his hands hanging useless now. His shoulder burned from the awkward angle, but he let them pull, swallowing his pride.

  He rose slowly, swinging slightly, stone and shadow rushing past until the window gaped before him.

  Two pairs of hands grabbed him. Nemeth’s strong grip and another’s slimmer, unfamiliar. They dragged him through the narrow opening, tumbling him onto rough stone floor.

  He lay there, gasping, staring up at a low-beamed ceiling lit by a single flickering lantern. The chamber was small, barely more than a crawl space behind the outer wall, filled with crates, dust, and the stale scent of old straw.

  Nemeth crouched beside him.

  “Told you you could do it.”

  Yanick rolled onto his side, chest heaving.

  “I didn’t.”

  A soft chuckle from nearby. Yanick turned his head to see the second figure—a wiry man with dark hair, missing two fingers on one hand—and beside him, a woman with braided hair, sharp eyes, and a knife glinting in her belt.

  “You brought him,” the woman said.

  Nemeth only smiled faintly. Yanick wiped sweat from his brow, forcing himself upright. His arm hung useless at his side, tingling with exhaustion.

  “Welcome to Astoris,” Nemeth said quietly.

  Outside, the faint thunder of distant siege engines rolled through the night, shaking the walls around them.

  “We still have some time before dawn,” the wiry man said. “She’s asleep, but Ioana has a key to her chamber.”

  “Who’s chamber?” Yanick asked, feeling his heartbeat speeding up.

  The woman named Ioana smiled.

  “Amaia’s.”