The sounds of rhythmic splashing and wet, heavy footsteps echoed through the darkness, muffled by the thick stone belly of Kark City. Beneath the streets, the air was a stagnant, humid weight, thick with the musky rot of the sewers and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. The tunnel was a narrow vein of dripping rock, barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, forcing the column of soldiers into a tense, single-file crawl.
At the center of the line, Drystan was being dragged like a broken kite.
His hands were bound tight enough to numb his fingers, and a rough, grit-filled cloth blinded his eyes. Every step was a fresh agony; his injured leg dragged through the ankle-deep current, the tepid, foul water stinging his open wounds. Above them, through layers of earth and masonry, he could hear the faint, ghostly vibration of the city—the distant, thunderous roar of the riots and the frantic ringing of bells.
Kark was screaming, but down here, there was only the sound of labored breathing.
By the way his captors stumbled, Drystan could feel their desperation. They weren't moving with the precision of soldiers; they were moving with the frantic energy of rats fleeing a sinking ship. He understood his purpose with a cold, hollow clarity: he was their shield. He was the only thing standing between these men and the "One Hundred Steps." They knew that if the Magoli scouts intercepted them, the sight of their captured Captain would freeze their hands. No Magoli archer would loose a shaft for fear of hitting the man who had led them through the Whitefang passes.
Drystan felt the humid steam cling to his skin like a shroud. He didn't struggle. He didn't speak. He had made peace with the dark long before they reached this tunnel. As the water pulled at his boots, he simply closed his eyes behind the blindfold and waited for the "Ghost Hour" to deliver its final judgment.
As they pushed deeper into the bowels of the city, the environment shifted. The rhythmic splashing grew heavier, the resistance of the current turning into a drag. At the start of the journey, the foul water had only kissed their ankles; now, it swirled thick and cold above their knees. The tunnel was filling, or perhaps the land was sloping down toward the river's exit.
"Are you fleeing the city, General?" Drystan's voice rang out, shockingly clear amidst the murky echoes. "You haven't even crossed blades with Chinua yet... why are you already so afraid of her?"
He let out a dry, rasping mock. "If I were you, I would stay. I would wait to have a little taste of what Chinua has to offer on her plate. You should know the old saying: 'Know thyself, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.'"
His laughter erupted then, bouncing off the damp stone walls and filling the narrow space until it seemed to vibrate in the soldiers' very bones.
Suddenly, Drystan felt two powerful arms seize him. He was hoisted into the air and slammed down onto the hard, uneven surface of a makeshift raft. The wood groaned under his weight as the raft bobbed in the rising current.
"Shut your mouth, or the next thing you feel will be my fist!" Mingle growled, his voice thick with suppressed rage.
Before Drystan could draw breath for another taunt, Mingle shoved a wad of rough, damp cloth deep into his mouth. The laughter died, replaced by the sound of muffled breathing and the frantic, rhythmic paddling of the soldiers as they began to navigate the raft through the deepening gloom.
Lying on the makeshift raft, Drystan felt the transition of the world. At first, there was only the frantic, rhythmic slapping of paddles against the sewer flow. But as the muffled voices of the rioting city faded into a ghostly hum, the current of the river became steady and smooth. The splashing stopped. The frantic whispers of the Payapasa soldiers died away, until even the sound of their labored breathing was overshadowed by the shrill chirps of night insects and the rustle of the wind.
Bound and blinded, Drystan shifted his weight. His fingers, numb but determined, searched the sash around his waist. Hidden behind the final layer of silk, he felt the familiar, cold weight of two silver coins. He pinched them hard between his fingertips.
How wide is this unknown river? Drystan wondered, his mind mapping the darkness. And where does this current lead?
With a flick of his left wrist, he tossed the first silver coin into the dark. He strained his ears for a splash—the sound that would tell him how far the water stretched. Instead, he heard only the soft, dry shimmer of tall grass.
"Fireflies. It's just fireflies," a soldier whispered, his voice trembling with nerves. "Keep quiet."
Fireflies? Drystan thought, a grim smile hidden behind his gag. If only you knew.
His fingers gently rubbed the last silver coin. He thought of Ozumeg and the bribe that will not be paid. He thought of the long journey ahead. Well, I guess I won't be needing you. What good is one coin when the toll is so high? If Or'en refuses me aboard his ferry, I'll just have to swim those seven rivers on my own.
He threw the final coin with all the strength his bound arms could muster. He didn't listen for water this time. He listened to the coin gliding through the air, a faint metallic whistle before it finally settled into the deep, rustling grass of the riverbank. He was penniless now, a captain with nothing left but his life—and the shadow of the girl who was coming to claim it all.
From the ridges overlooking the South Gate of Kark City, the Magoli soldiers who had marched through the ghost hour began to settle. They slipped into the "hidden" outposts the Payapasa had tried so hard to conceal, but for men trained alongside the Salran Hill bandits, these spots were as obvious as a lighthouse. They were soldiers of the mountain; the rock and the brush were their second skin.
It was a moonless night, the sky a bruised, ink-black void. Yet, for the men of Pojin, no night could ever be darker than the one they had lived through—the night they stood helpless, listening to the screams of their wives and daughters as the Razaasia soldiers set their worlds on fire. For them, the dark was not an obstacle; it was a sanctuary for their vengeance.
Siqi and Nachin sat perched on a thick tree branch just five feet above the forest floor, eating their meager rations in total silence. Suddenly, in the distance, a wave of light erupted. A cloud of fireflies surged into the air, glowing like embers in the dark.
"Do you think that is a signal?" Nachin asked, his hand pausing as he watched the insects scatter into the void.
Siqi scoffed, his voice a low whisper. "Not every movement of nature is a signal, Nachin."
He turned back to his meal, but then it happened again. Another group of fireflies rushed upward, scattering frantically across the tall grass that lined the soft, running river below. Siqi's eyes narrowed.
"Nachin... when we climbed over Whitefang Peak into the Gimsong territory, we used fireflies to send a message to Chinua, didn't we?"
"Yes," Nachin whispered, his voice rising with realization. "Chinua said having Mother Nature send our message is better than beating a drum—"
Before he could finish, Siqi had already dropped from the branch. He hit the ground silently and sprinted toward Zhi and Khawn, who were stationed a short distance away. The hunt was no longer a wait; it had become a pursuit.
"Father," Siqi whispered, coming to a sharp halt just a short distance from Zhi and Khawn. His breath was steady, his eyes bright with the thrill of the hunt. "Just now, down at the riverbank—less than a two hundred yards from here—we spotted two distinct flushes of fireflies."
He turned to Khawn, seeking the older warrior's support. "When we secretly entered the Gimsong territory, Chinua told us to use fireflies as our signal. I believe... I believe Uncle Drystan just sent us a message. He's down there with the Paayasians."
Khawn's brow furrowed, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "Siqi is correct about the method, but how can we be sure it is Drystan? Could it not be a frightened animal or the wind?"
Zhi looked toward the dark ribbon of the river, his mind calculating the distance. "Siqi, take your team to the bank. Signal your Uncle Jeet on the opposite side of the river. If it is Drystan, do whatever you must to alert him. But," he added, his voice dropping into a warning, "if it is just ordinary folks trying to flee the fires, let them pass. Do not let them know you were ever there."
"Understood, Father," Siqi said with a determined nod. He turned and sprinted back down the incline toward Nachin, who was already moving to meet him.
On the river, the flow was steady and the raft moved along with the currents, cutting through the dark water like a silent blade. Sitting on the lead raft, Mingle felt a sudden, unnatural chill creep up his spine. The night insects, which had been a deafening chorus moments before, had gone dead silent.
Just as he reached for the hilt of his sword, his breath catching in his throat, a single firefly drifted toward them. It didn't fly away; it landed directly on Drystan's blindfold, pulsing with a steady, rhythmic green glow—a heartbeat in the dark.
Then, without a sound, a white feather—the signature of a Magoli scout—drifted out of the sky. It danced on the air for a moment before landing softly on the blood-stained water rippling next to the raft.
Mingle looked up, and for the first time, he saw them.
They weren't in the tall grass. They were above.
Silhouetted against the moonless sky, Siqi and his men stood on the overhanging branches like vengeful spirits, their blades already drawn and silvered by the starlight. They looked down with eyes that held the cold fire of the mountains.
The "Ghost Hour" had finally arrived.