Marshal led the way, his shape now that of Sergeant Harlan—a hard-faced veteran known, if not liked, by the city guard. His broad shoulders stretched the borrowed uniform, its insignia smeared with grime to dull its newness.

  Tilda followed close behind. The oversized tunic and breeches hung loosely on her slender frame, her hair tucked beneath a dented helm. She walked with calm, steady steps, wearing the tired ease of a soldier coming off duty.

  Favian kept to her left. His spy bird, perched on his shoulder in utter silence, its dark eyes sharp with uncanny awareness. The bird had returned an hour earlier, feeding Favian broken images: few guards, half-drained ale mugs, no fresh troops. The way ahead was clear.

  Tristan brought up the rear, his fox-sharp smile lost in shadow, a small vial of foxglove hidden up his sleeve.

  “Remember,” Tilda had whispered as they tightened belts and buckles, “we’re not thieves tonight. We’re the relief shift. Look bored, not brave.”

  Now the gate loomed ahead, flanked by two watchtowers that speared the dark sky. Their hearts quickened. The portcullis hung a little raised, its iron teeth catching torchlight like a hungry jaw.

  Below, two guards lingered in the gatehouse; one leaning against the winch, the other pacing lazily between the towers. A third shape flickered in the window of the left tower, likely drinking.

  Just as the bird had seen it. Bare bones.

  Tristan slipped away first, dissolving into shadow without a sound. He left the trail, moving quickly, his boots silent on fallen leaves. The others slowed, giving him time to move ahead.

  Tilda’s fingers brushed the hidden dagger at her side as she scanned the walls. “Easy,” she murmured to Marshal. “Like this place belongs to us.”

  Tristan reached the base of the right tower unseen. The guard at the winch was humming off-key, back turned as he toyed with a flask. Tristan pulled the cork from his vial with his teeth, the faint herbal scent drifting on the night air. One drop was enough.

  He waited. When the guard raised the flask and belched mid-swig, Tristan surged forward and tipped the poison into the open mouth. The man noticed nothing, lost in thoughts of the festival he was missing.

  Tristan slipped away and set his sights on the second guard. This one was more alert, his gaze wandering now and then toward the trail. Tristan crouched behind a rain barrel, pulse steady.

  When the guard paused to adjust his belt, Tristan struck. A flick of the wrist sent a dart whispering through the air. It struck the man’s neck with a soft thud.

  The guard swatted at it, muttering a curse, but his eyelids were already sinking. He staggered, leaned against the wall, and forgot his patrol altogether.

  In the tower above, the third guard proved the easiest. Tristan climbed the rough stone where thick vines clung to the wall, hauling himself up to the narrow window. Inside, the guard slumped over a mug of ale, fast asleep. Tristan tipped a single drop into the drink, stirred it quietly with a finger, and was gone. He landed lightly on the ground and gave a low owl’s hoot— their signal that the way was clear.

  Marshal straightened at once, settling into Sergeant Harlan’s familiar scowl.

  “Right, lads,” he growled, voice rough as gravel. “Let’s have this done. Festival’s got the whole cursed city on edge.”

  He strode forward, and the others followed like a tired patrol. Tilda let her shoulders sag. Favian kept his eyes lowered. Darius kept his calm and the bird ruffled its feathers on Favian’s shoulder, harmless as any soldier’s pet.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The guard at the winch squinted at them, blinking slowly. “Who goes there?” he muttered, words thick with drink.

  Marshal laughed and clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Captain’s orders, you fool. Extra hands for the night watch. Trouble’s brewing in the square, and the Viceroys want every blade they can get. Now lift the gate before I write you up for sleeping.”

  The guard rubbed his eyes, thoughts swimming. He took in the group; grimy faces, dull armour, nothing out of place. “Aye, Sergeant,” he said at last, turning the winch. Chains rattled as the portcullis creaked higher.

  They passed through without challenge. The gate slammed shut behind them.

  Beyond lay the courtyard, wide and empty, its cobblestones pale in the torchlight. High walls loomed on every side. A few torches burned low in their brackets, throwing long shadows. To the left, the guardroom door stood ajar, light spilling onto the stones. No patrols moved through the yard. The Festival had drained the Keep of life.

  “Split up,” Tilda whispered. “Tristan, Marshal— watch the towers and the yard. Signal if anything stirs.”

  They vanished into the darkness together, Marshal’s shape subtly blending with the stone. Favian, Darius and Tilda moved for the guardroom. The bird took wing, circling once before settling on the battlements, eyes sharp and watchful.

  Inside, the guardroom was cramped and untidy. A scarred table sat strewn with dice and crusts of bread. A ring of keys glimmered on the wall. A ledger lay open on a stool. One guard sat with his back to the door, snoring softly over a tankard.

  Tilda glanced at Favian. He nodded and drew a small dart from his belt.

  The dart struck the guard’s neck. He twitched once, reaching for it, then sagged forward. His head hit the table with a dull thud, and the room fell silent again.

  “Quietly,” Tilda breathed as she slipped inside. She lifted the ring of keys from the rack, the metal giving a soft clink. Favian seized the manifest and flipped through it, fingers flying.

  “Block C,” he whispered. “Political prisoners. The names match. Renn, Silas, the rest. Cells seventeen through twenty.”

  Tilda tucked the keys away, her jaw set. “Good. Move. The stairs are across the yard.”

  They slipped back outside, keeping close to the walls and clear of the open courtyard. Marshal and Tristan had already dealt with the tower guards; silent grips and careful darts leaving no trace.

  The group met again at the stairwell, a dark opening carved into the earth. Torchlight from above flickered down the damp steps, catching on mossy stone and falling drops of water.

  “Down we go,” Tilda said, leading them in.

  The air grew colder with every step, thick with mildew and old misery. The bird glided ahead, in the dark. At the bottom, a narrow passage split toward blocks A, B, and C. Iron-barred cells lined the walls, most standing empty, their silence heavy.

  Block C lay at the far end. A single guard sat there, slumped on a stool, half asleep. Tristan sent a dart into his neck. The man slid to the floor without a sound.

  Tilda worked through the keys until one finally turned. The main gate to the block creaked open.

  “Spread out,” she whispered. “Fast and quiet.”

  Favian took cells seventeen and Darius, eighteen. Darius' hands did not shake as he opened the first door. Inside, Kara, a thin woman with chains at her wrists and fire still burning in her eyes, stared at him.

  “Who—?” she began.

  “Friends,” Darius said softly, guiding her up. “Tilda’s plan. We’re getting you out.”

  In the next cell, Renn was already awake. Rebel markings showed beneath her torn sleeves. “About time,” she muttered as the shackles fell away.

  Marshal and Tristan freed the others. Soft breaths and stifled sounds of relief filled the corridor. Five prisoners in all, taken for daring to oppose the Viceroys. They were weak and worn, but hope lit their faces as they gathered in the shadows, ready to run.

  As the prisoners were led from their cells, Darius searched their faces. Ron was not among them. These were Truthers only.

  When the last door was opened, Tilda counted again. Her brow creased. There were five prisoners, not six.

  “Silas,” she said sharply. “He isn’t here.”

  Renn, held upright by Marshal, lifted her head. “They separated him,” she said weakly. “Once they learned what he could do.”

  Cold fear gripped Tilda. Silas had been their escape, Their sure way out on the far side of the Keep.

  She shook her head. “Then we split up and search the other cells. He’ll still be here. He has to be.”

  Marshal nodded. “Agreed.”

  Darius smiled faintly to himself. If they searched further, there was a chance, however small, that Ron might be among the others.

  Tilda passed out more keys, and they moved off at once, fanning out into the remaining cells of the Keep.