That night, Bakasa felt darker than usual.
Dayat, Dola, and seven prisoners whose bodies were devoid of strength shuffled through the narrow alleys of the Elite District. Their pace was slow. Far too slow. The prisoners—humans, Elves, Dwarves—could barely lift their feet. Some had to be guided, while two could only crawl.
Dayat supported a nearly unconscious Dalgor. The old Dwarf hung heavily on his arm, his breath shallow, his skin burning with fever. Behind them, the occasional sound of a body hitting the ground was followed by panicked whispers.
"Fast," Dayat hissed, his voice low but firm. "We need to reach the Middle District before—"
The sound of footsteps cut him off. Many. Fast. Disciplined.
Dola turned. Her blue eyes glowed dimly in the darkness. "They're close."
Dayat clenched his fist. Ahead, from the mouth of the alley, shadows began to emerge. Dozens of guards with spears and swords blocked their path. Behind them, the stomping grew louder.
They were trapped.
