The train gradually slowed as it approached the station.
Steam hissed from vents along its sides, drifting across the tracks in pale clouds.
Rows of mana-powered lanterns illuminated the small town ahead, their soft golden glow reflecting against the gathering evening mist.
Passengers began collecting their belongings.
Workers prepared cargo carts along the platform.
Conductors moved through the train making final announcements.
Nobody paid any attention to the two figures who slipped silently between the connecting cars moments before arrival.
A blur.
A shadow.
Then nothing.
Far from the station—
a dark figure suddenly appeared beside a clothesline stretched between two buildings.
Several shirts vanished.
A coat disappeared.
A pair of trousers followed shortly after.
Then the figure was gone once more.
Only the gently swaying rope remained behind.
Several minutes later—
Aldric stood in a narrow alley wearing an entirely different set of clothes.
Fresh boots.
Dark trousers.
A fitted black jacket.
Far more respectable than the blood-soaked disaster he had been earlier.
Beside him—
a small cloaked figure walked quietly.
Draven.
At least on the surface.
The hood no longer concealed white hair or crimson eyes.
Brown hair.
Blue eyes.
Fair skin.
An ordinary face.
The sort of face people forgot moments after seeing it.
Nothing remarkable.
Nothing memorable.
Nothing that would draw a second glance.
Aldric looked over.
Then slowly shook his head.
"...You know."
"We're supposedly going to reach Eirundor in three days."
A brief pause.
"Which is great and all."
He glanced around the unfamiliar town.
"But where exactly are we?"
Another pause.
"We don't even know where we are right now."
Draven removed his hood.
The ordinary face remained perfectly intact.
Completely natural.
No signs of illusion distortion.
No visible mana fluctuations.
No indication whatsoever that anything was unusual.
"They should know."
Aldric blinked.
"Who?"
Draven continued walking.
"The people who live here."
"...Ah."
Aldric rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Right."
The two exited the alley and merged with the steady flow of pedestrians moving through the town.
Nobody spared them a second glance.
Workers returning home.
Travelers searching for inns.
Merchants closing their shops.
Families wandering the evening streets.
Everyone simply walked past.
Aldric observed this for a while.
Then finally spoke again.
"Okay."
A pause.
"How are you doing that?"
Draven didn't look at him.
"What?"
Aldric pointed directly at his face.
"That."
"The appearance thing."
His eyes narrowed.
"Is it some kind of magic item?"
Another pause.
"It feels like you have more than one."
Draven remained silent.
Aldric continued anyway.
"I already know the cloak is magical."
"But I still have no idea what it actually does."
His gaze shifted toward the dark cloak.
"Does it have other abilities?"
For several moments—
Draven said nothing.
People continued passing around them.
The sounds of the town filled the streets.
Conversations.
Footsteps.
Distant laughter.
The rattling of carts.
Finally—
he answered.
"Yes."
Aldric glanced over.
"What?"
Draven looked at him once before facing forward again.
"It keeps people from asking questions."
Silence.
Aldric stared.
Then stared harder.
"...That's a stupid ability."
Draven continued walking.
"It works surprisingly well."
The cat suddenly poked its head out from beneath the cloak.
It looked at Aldric.
Then meowed once.
Aldric's eye twitched.
For several seconds—
he simply stared at Draven's back.
Then pointed accusingly.
"You absolutely did that on purpose."
No reply.
Aldric sighed deeply.
"...You know what?"
"Forget it."
Far away—
back in Blackwater—
the city was still burning.
Not as fiercely as before.
The worst of the fighting had ended hours ago.
Yet thick columns of smoke continued rising from the military skyport.
Rescue teams moved tirelessly through the wreckage.
Holy Knights maintained cordons around the devastated districts.
Engineers and mages worked to stabilize damaged structures before they collapsed entirely.
And everywhere—
people talked.
About the flagship.
About the demons.
About the battle.
About the destruction.
About the bounty.
The entire city buzzed with rumors.
Every tavern was packed.
Every inn overflowed with travelers.
Every street corner hosted another group exchanging increasingly outrageous stories.
Meanwhile—
far from the military district—
a woman walked casually through one of Blackwater's crowded streets.
A cigarette rested lazily between her lips.
Black hair swayed behind her with each step.
A long katana balanced comfortably across one shoulder.
Lady Xiomara.
The very same woman who had intercepted Aldric and Draven during their escape.
Beside her—
a brown-haired man walked while carrying a wooden staff.
He appeared to be somewhere in his mid-thirties.
A mage.
Or at least someone attempting to look like one.
The man glanced sideways.
Then released an exaggerated sigh.
"You know..."
A pause.
"I went through a lot of trouble getting you up there."
Xiomara didn't even bother looking at him.
The man continued.
"And after all that..."
"...you just let them escape."
Silence.
Then Xiomara slowly turned her head.
"What the hell are you talking about, brat?"
The man blinked.
"Brat?"
"You are literally twice my age."
Xiomara ignored that entirely.
"Didn't you see me fall out of the sky?"
The man opened his mouth.
She immediately pointed her cigarette at him.
"Some mage you are."
The man's expression darkened.
"That wasn't my fault."
"It was very high."
Xiomara scoffed.
"You're a Fifth-Circle Mage."
"And?"
"You couldn't even keep me floating."
His eye twitched.
"You got distracted and kicked the platform I was standing on."
A pause.
"Then you fell."
Another pause.
"Then I fell trying to save you."
Xiomara became unusually thoughtful.
"...That does sound like something I'd do."
The mage stared at her.
Then sighed deeply.
"I hate working with old—"
He stopped himself.
A beat passed.
"Swordswomen."
"Whatever."
Xiomara snorted.
The two continued walking through the crowded streets.
Around them—
rumors spread like wildfire.
Every tavern.
Every merchant stall.
Every inn.
Every marketplace.
Everyone was talking about the same thing.
The Demon King's son.
The bounty.
The battle.
The destruction.
The impossible escape.
The mage glanced toward the distant smoke still rising above the city.
Then lowered his voice.
"...So?"
Xiomara took another drag from her cigarette.
"So what?"
"How strong was he?"
For the first time—
Xiomara didn't answer immediately.
Her gaze drifted toward the horizon.
Toward the direction Draven had escaped.
Then she slowly exhaled a stream of smoke.
"...Strong."
The mage rolled his eyes.
"Very informative."
"No."
Xiomara's expression became slightly more serious.
"Strong."
A pause.
"Stronger than he should be."
The mage blinked.
That answer immediately captured his full attention.
Because Xiomara rarely praised anyone.
Especially not an enemy.
She continued walking.
"The kid was half-dead."
"Running on fumes."
"Missing pieces of himself every few minutes."
Another drag.
"And he was still trying to kill the Princess."
The mage's expression slowly changed.
The casual amusement disappeared.
Xiomara shrugged.
"Honestly?"
A pause.
"If he hadn't already been falling apart..."
She glanced toward the horizon.
"...I don't know how that fight would've ended."
The street suddenly felt quieter.
The mage remained silent.
Thinking.
Processing.
Replaying everything he had heard.
Finally—
he muttered,
"...And that's the one the entire continent is hunting."
Xiomara snorted.
"Yep."
The mage looked toward the burning military district.
Then toward the distant horizon where the fugitives had vanished.
A long silence followed.
Finally—
he sighed.
"...People are idiots."
Xiomara laughed.
A genuine laugh this time.
The cigarette bounced slightly between her lips.
"Now that..."
She glanced toward the endless stream of adventurers, mercenaries, and bounty hunters flooding toward the city gates.
"...is the smartest thing you've said all day."