Nettle's breath hitched—sharp as a snapped twig—when Goburo's fingers brushed the bruise on her collarbone. The rooftop tiles shifted beneath them as she recoiled, her oversized ears flattening against her skull like cornered prey. "Hagra's *dead*," she spat, the words curling like smoke from a dying fire. "Your friends saw to that."
Watabei felt the words land like a thrown dagger. Goburo flinched, his mossy skin paling to the color of pond scum. Layla's ears twitched—once, twice—but she said nothing, her silver hair catching the moonlight like a net.
Then Nettle moved.
Fast for someone with shackle-gouged ankles. Fast enough that Watabei's grip slipped as the goblin girl twisted, her split sandal skidding on the rain-slick tiles. She was over the roof's edge before any of them could blink, vanishing into the maze of alleys with only the echo of her ragged breathing left behind.
Goburo made a sound like a gutted tree. "Wait—" He lurched after her, his boot catching on a loose tile. Watabei grabbed his wrist, but he wrenched free with a strength she didn't know he had. His eyes, when they met hers, were black with something raw and unrecognizable. "I have to—"
Layla caught his elbow. "Not that way," she murmured, steering him toward the opposite roof's edge with the certainty of someone who knew every cobblestone's secret. Goburo hesitated—just for a heartbeat—but then the swordsman's torchlight flared below, and the choice was made. He went with her, leaping the gap between buildings with a grace that belied his gangly frame. Didn't look back.
Watabei stood very still. The map in her pocket writhed, the linen twisting against her thigh like a dying thing. Above her, a crow cawed—mocking, always mocking. She could chase them. Could follow the silver flicker of Layla's hair through the rooftops, could track Goburo's uneven gait across the city's spine.
She didn't move.
Nettle's words hung in the air like smoke: *Hagra's dead.* The revelation settled between her ribs like a splinter. She'd known, of course—known from the moment the swordsman dragged that child into the torchlight with dungeon loot strapped to her back. Known when Goburo's hands shook. But knowing and *knowing* were different beasts.
The rooftop tiles were slick beneath her boots. Somewhere below, the swordsman bellowed orders, his voice fraying at the edges. The crowd's murmurs had curdled into something uglier—*greenskin treachery, stolen glory, the Golden Company's honor.* Watabei exhaled through her nose. The scent of fish guts and wet stone filled her lungs.
Then the map bit her.
She hissed, yanking it from her pocket. The linen had gone fever-hot in her grip, the ink writhing like trapped eels. One edge curled inward, teeth-like, pricking her thumb—a bead of blood welled, black in the moonlight. "Fuck," Watabei muttered, but the word barely left her lips before the map *twisted*, its folds snapping open like a sprung trap. The ink surged, rearranging itself with violent urgency: the lopsided hut wasn't northeast anymore. It was *here*. Right under the Golden Company's boots.
Below, the swordsman's torchlight flared as he kicked open a cellar door. His voice carried up, jagged with triumph: "Found the little rat's nest!"
Watabei's pulse stuttered. The map wasn't just breathing—it was *bleeding*. Dark smudges spread from the hut's sketched walls, seeping across the linen like rot. Nettle's words echoed in her skull: *Hagra's dead.* But dead things didn't make maps bite. Dead things didn't rearrange roots.
A tile shifted behind her. Layla's scent—mint and damp earth—brushed her nape before the elf spoke, low enough to skip over the rooftops: "You're holding it wrong." Her fingers closed over Watabei's wrist, turning her palm up. The map shuddered, its edges flattening. "It doesn't like being cornered."
Watabei swallowed a snarl. "Where's Goburo?"
Layla's thumb traced the map's fevered edge. "Chasing ghosts." Her ears twitched toward the eastern slums. "He'll circle back. Eventually."
Eventually wasn't now. Below, the Golden Company's laughter rose like a tide, punctuated by the crash of upturned furniture. Someone screamed—high, young. Nettle? Watabei's fingers twitched toward her dagger, but Layla caught her elbow.
"They'll gut you," she murmured, nodding toward the alley where the swordsman's archer lurked, arrow nocked. "And Goburo's too busy drowning in hindsight to pull you out."
Watabei wrenched free. "Then move."
Layla didn't. Her silhouette blocked the moon, silver hair haloed in its light. "Hagra's hut," she said, too soft. "It's not just oak. It's alive." Her breath fogged between them. "And it's *hungry*."
The map convulsed in Watabei's grip like a dying animal. Alive. Hungry. The words slithered down her spine as she stared at the shifting ink—the hut wasn't just moving. It was hunting. Somewhere below, the Golden Company's laughter curdled into shouts, their torchlight painting the alley walls the color of old blood. Nettle's scream cut through the noise, sharp as shattered glass. Watabei's fingers twitched toward her dagger, but the map *writhed*, its edges biting into her palms as if to say: *Look closer.*
The ink pooled suddenly, forming a single, jagged arrow pointing *east*—toward the forest's edge where the treeline swallowed the horizon whole. Where Goburo had vanished.
Goburo's fist connected with the oak's trunk hard enough to split bark. "Fuck!" The word tore from his throat raw as a fresh wound. Moss clung to his knuckles, green streaked with red. Behind him, Layla leaned against a birch, arms crossed, her silver hair snagging on the branches like caught moonlight.
"Done?" she asked, voice drier than the leaves underfoot.
Goburo whirled. "You *knew*." His voice cracked. "About Hagra. About—about *her*." He didn't say Nettle's name. Couldn't. The girl's face flickered in his memory—bruised, shackled, *terrified*—and his stomach twisted. "You knew and you didn't—"
"Tell you?" Layla's ears twitched. "Would you have listened?" She pushed off the tree, stepping into a patch of dappled light. Her eyes were black as the spaces between stars. "You were too busy playing nursemaid to that map."
The accusation hung between them like a noose. Goburo's breath hitched. He *had* left. Left Watabei standing on that rooftop with nothing but a bleeding map and a goblin girl's scream ringing in her ears. Left her exactly like *they'd* left him—in the dark, with the wolves circling.
His fingers curled into fists. "Fuck," he muttered, turning away—but the forest offered no escape. The trees loomed like witnesses, their branches whispering judgment. Somewhere beyond the canopy, the Golden Company's torches flickered like dying fireflies. He could still hear Nettle's scream. Still see Watabei's grip slipping—
Layla's hand closed over his wrist. Her skin was cooler than bark. "She's not dead," she said, softer now. "Neither of them are."
Goburo wrenched free. "You don't *know* that."
"I do." Layla's ears flicked toward the east. "Hagra's hut moves. So does the map." Her fingers brushed his knuckles, tracing the split skin. "Watabei's got both."