The climb to the watchtower took the rest of the night. By the time the torches on its walls came into view, the sky had begun to pale with the first hint of dawn, soon the sun Quintra would show her face above the trees.
Inside, the tower was cool and dim. Christopher guided them up a narrow stairwell to a small chamber with two narrow beds, a table and a shuttered window. He set their bags by the wall and handed Vasha her bow and quiver back with a quiet nod.
Thorn crossed the room without a word and laid Suraia gently on one of the beds. She stirred only faintly, murmuring something incoherent before exhaustion pulled her under again. He pulled the blanket over her shoulders and stood a moment longer, watchful, before straightening.
Christopher returned not long after with a tray—bowls of broth, coarse bread, and mugs of steaming tea. He set it on the table. “Eat what you can. Best stay inside today. The mood below is foul.”
Vasha leaned back against the wall, tail twitching restlessly. “Why? Why are they so outraged?”
Christopher shook his head. “I do not know. I suspect it has to do with the colour of her magic. Healing is usually warm—gold, amber, yellow. Hers is not.”
Thorn’s light-green eyes lingered on the red-haired woman asleep beneath the blanket. His voice, when he spoke, was low and steady, carrying the weight of someone who had lived through older truths.
“Because her light is not warm. To their eyes, that means it is not of the New Faiths. And if it is not of the New Faiths, it has to be of Quintra or Denday, the Old gods. So they name it heresy.”
Vasha’s ears flattened slightly, her tail giving an uneasy flick. “So if they see her, and they see only that.”
“Apparently,” Thorn said. His gaze did not move from Suraia.
Christopher exhaled heavily. “Call it a cell or chamber, I care little. There is no lock on the door. But if anyone asks, best you pretend there is.” He tapped his knuckles once on the wood, then turned to leave. “Rest while you can.”
The door closed behind Christopher and silence stretched in the little chamber. Thorn watched Suraia. She barely stirred, curls spilling across the pillow, her breaths shallow and uneven. Within moments the healer had sunk into heavy, dream-troubled sleep.
At first, the watchtower was quiet. The faint sounds of trade drifted through the shutters: carts creaking, distant calls, the hammer of a smith at work. Almost ordinary.
But before long, the tone shifted. A shout cut the air, answered by another. Then another. Soon voices clustered below, angry, insistent. Vasha’s ears twitched with each word she caught—witch, corruption, burn.
By midday the crowd had thickened. Their roar rolled through the stone, muffled but unrelenting. The rhythm of fists on wood joined it, like a drumbeat. Heretic. Witch. Burn her.
Suraia stirred, tossing in the blankets. “No… please…” she whispered, not waking. Thorn leaned closer, one broad hand resting lightly against her shoulder, steadying. His jaw was stone, but his eyes softened as he watched her.
Vasha paced the chamber, tail lashing, every muscle taut. Uneasily she ran her hand over her bow: “If only that window had a clear view…”
“It does not,” Thorn said without turning. His green gaze remained fixed on the door.
The chants grew louder. Something splintered outside—wood shattered, followed by a cheer. Smoke crept through the shutters, acrid and sharp. The mob had torches now.
The Oakhai’s ears flattened. “They mean to storm this place.”
“They will not,” Thorn said, but the tension in his frame betrayed the weight of it.
Afternoon dragged into dusk. The sky beyond the shutter slits glowed red, reflecting the torches massed below. The voices hoarsened but did not tire. Each fresh cry struck like a blow against the walls.
Suraia twisted again, sweat pearling her brow. She whimpered, breath catching, until Thorns hand settled over hers. Her trembling eased, though she did not wake.
Vasha sank finally onto the stool, still glaring at the shutter cracks as if sheer will could hold the mob at bay. “They will not be satisfied with shouts,” she muttered. “They want blood. Her blood.”
“They are fools,” Thorn said. His voice was low, steady, but iron hard.
The hours stretched mercilessly. Every sound from below pressed heavier, until it felt as though the mob’s fury might shake the tower apart.
Then, at last, heavy boots climbed the stair. The door opened. Christopher entered, his face pale and lined with strain. He shut the door quickly behind him, cutting off the echo of the crowd, though their fury still thundered faintly through stone.
“It is bad,” he admitted finally, voice low. “Aelric has spun the tale in his favour. To hear him speak, he is the hero who tried to purge the corruption, and you three brought it down upon us. Folk believe him, or want to.”
He looked at Thorn, frustration cutting through the weariness. “I cannot even give you the other half of the promised coin. I am sorry.”
Vasha’s ears flicked back, her tail lashing once, but Thorn only inclined his head.
Christopher ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I am going to call for the council. I will demand a trial— They will agree, not for justice, but for ceremony, for spectacle. It will draw the mob to the Harren hall. That, at least, will thin the streets on the east side.”
From his belt pouch he withdrew a folded slip of parchment and pressed it into Thorn’s hand. The wax bore the Xaverion Order mark. “Safe passage to the harbour of Stormhaven. That is all I can give you.”
He hesitated, voice roughening. “You will want to be gone before dawn. Patrols will keep folk away from the east quarter tonight. The kitchen door of the tower. The lock…” His mouth twitched into something bitter, almost a smile. “It never stays shut. A good tug, and it yields. Convenient, that.”
He glanced to the bed where Suraia stirred faintly but did not wake. For a heartbeat, the hard lines of his face softened. Then he straightened, jaw set once more.
“I wish things were different. I wish they were better than this.” His gaze lingered on each of them in turn—Vasha sharp-eyed and coiled, Thorn steady as stone, Suraia pale with exhaustion. Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Within the hour, the shouts outside dulled to a restless murmur, then faded altogether. The silence was heavier than the noise had been, as if the crowd had shifted elsewhere.
“Get Ready,” Thorn told Vasha, who already stood with ears pricked, alert to every sound.
Thorn bent to the bed, laying a hand gently on Suraia’s shoulder. “Silverbell,” he murmured. Her lashes fluttered, blue eyes hazy with exhaustion. “We are leaving now. You must be quiet, as quiet as you can. Do you understand?”
She nodded faintly. Thorn shouldered his pack and Suraia’s bag, then gathered the red headed woman into his arms.
The kitchen door yielded just as Christopher had said, its lock refusing to catch. Beyond it lay only dark streets and the hush of a town holding its breath. They kept low, moving quickly through alleys left empty by the patrols. Once beyond the palisade, the road east opened under the stars.
Stormhaven lay ahead, hours away, but every step carried them further from the Three Points Trading Post and the voices that had called for blood.
By the time city walls rose ahead, the horizon had only just begun to pale. They had walked all night, their steps heavy with the weight of two sleepless nights. Even Vasha’s tail dragged low, her ears flicking wearily at every stray sound. Thorn carried Suraia still, her head pillowed against his shoulder, her breath shallow in dreamless slumber.
The gates of Stormhaven loomed tall, iron-bound and flanked by two Xaverion guards with spears crossed. One stepped forward sharply, torchlight glinting on his helm. “Hold. What business brings you to the city of Stormhaven at this hour?”
Thorn shifted his stance, drawing out the folded paper Christopher had pressed into his hand. He passed it over without a word. The guard scanned it, lips pressing thin, then exchanged a glance with his fellow guardsmen. At last, he grunted, lowering his spear. “You may enter.”
The second guard fell in step beside them as they passed beneath the gate. “Harbour’s quiet this time of morning,” he said briskly. “I’ll escort you there.” His presence was watchful, not unfriendly.
The streets of Stormhaven yawned empty around them, lanterns guttering low, the salt-smell of the sea growing stronger with every turn. Ahead, the masts of ships stood like a forest against the pale edge of dawn.
At the harbour, Thorn paused only long enough to nod his thanks to the guard. Then he crossed the wharf in long strides, shifting Suraia’s weight in his arms, and hailed the nearest dockhand.
“Which ship sails next?”
The man jerked his thumb towards a broad-masted vessel where sailors were stowing the last crates. “The Kestrel. Tide’s with her.”
Thorn made straight for it. The captain, a weather-lined woman with dark hair bound tight, stood overseeing the loading. Thorn inclined his head. “Is there room for three more? I do not care the destination, only that it is away from here.”
Her eyes swept them—the tall Ee’dornil with a human woman in his arms, the fox-tailed Oakhai at his side. “No hammocks left,” she said.
“Then we will sleep on deck, if need be,” Thorn replied evenly.
The captain tilted her head. “Perhaps there is a corner in the hold, among the cargo. Still—passage costs coin.”
“We have none,” Thorn admitted.
The first mate called from the gangway, “Last crate’s aboard, Captain! We’re ready.”
The woman studied them a long moment. Suraia stirred, blinking awake in Thorns arms, she looked at the captain with her bright blue eyes. Fatigue clung to them like a second skin, even Vasha’s ears drooped. At last the captain exhaled. “We won’t make port for days. But if ya’ll pull your weight, you’ll earn your place. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Thorn said.
“I... I’ll try...,” Suraia whispered.
Vasha gave a brisk nod.
“Then get aboard,” the captain said, brisk but not unkind. “We sail now.”
The gangplank clattered under their steps. Lines were cast off, sails caught the tide. The Kestrel pulled from Stormhaven’s harbour, carrying them into open water—away from Meriquy.
Thorn carefully set Suraia down at the rail, supporting her. Her curls stirred in the sea breeze, and the pale light of morning painted the water silver. She swayed with the ship, weary but awake, eyes fixed on the shrinking line of the harbour.
Thorn supported her, tall and steady, his presence a wall against the world. Vasha leaned on the rail a little further down, fox ears pricked forward, tail flicking restlessly. None of them spoke.
The cries from shore faded into gulls’ calls. The city dwindled, then blurred into distance. Only then did Suraia let out a long breath as the sight of the island began to shrink in the distance.