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The village is quiet under the morning sun, Inside Ana's cottage.
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Blake sleeps on his bedroll near the hearth, curled inside his sleeping bag, soft snores rising and falling. Ana paces the wooden floorboards, arms folded tight. Something is gnawing at her — a heaviness in her bones she can't explain.
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Paul lays on the couch, cleaned and bandaged. No blood. No dirt. Just thick wrappings around his ribs and stomach. His chest — broad, scarred, and hairy — rises and falls in shallow breaths.
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Then his eyes open.
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He coughs.
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Blake jerks awake.
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Blake:
“Paul! You’re awake!”
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Paul groans, voice gravelly.
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Paul:
“Wish I wasn’t.”
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Ana rushes to his side. Paul turns his head slightly, wincing.
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Paul:
“What… happened?”
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Ama:
“Here. Drink this.”
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She lifts a clear potion bottle to his lips. Paul drinks without protest, exhaling sharply as the warmth flows into his chest.
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Blake kneels beside him.
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Blake:
“You rode here on Stone yesterday — bleeding out. You told us the King’s Guard did this to you.”
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Ana and Blake watch Paul’s whole demeanor shift — the emptiness in his eyes filling with memory, dread, and something darker.
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Paul swallows hard.
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Paul:
“I should’ve never come here… There’s danger coming. Especially now. I need to leave.”
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He pushes himself upright, teeth clenched against the pain. Ama and Blake grab him, trying to hold him down.
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Paul:
“I’ll be fine.”
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BAM BAM BAM!
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The cottage door rattles violently. Ana freezes. Blake’s eyes open dramatically.
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POW!
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The door explodes inward, slamming against the wall. Soldiers in black‑tinted armor flood the doorway, spears level inside the cottage. Their boots thud against the wooden floor as more men surround the home from outside.
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Through the open door, Ana can see the full force waiting outside of her dirt trail:
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A royal carriage.
A prison wagon.
A dozen soldiers from The Great City.
And Zacharias — standing beside a temple priest, hands clasped behind his back, face carved still like a mean statue.
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Zacharias steps into the cottage with slow, deliberate confidence. Another priest unfurls a scroll.
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Zacharias (reading):
“Paul of the Outskirts, and Blake of the Market Square — we have two warrants signed by the great halls council consenting to your arrest. For suspicion of harboring a fugitive who escaped The Great Hall’s prison, and for fleeing when summoned for questioning.
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Zacharias's head tilts back slightly, his eyes gleam with pompous victory, his mouth slightly parted with joy.
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Zacharias:
Come now, or we will use force.”
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Blake stumbles backward, terror flooding his face. Paul pushes himself upright, breath ragged, pain tightening in every muscle.
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Ana:(jumps forward)
“No!”
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Paul raises his wrists without resistance.
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The soldiers shackle him.
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Two more grab Blake, lifting him off the floor as he struggles weakly. Cold iron snaps around his wrists. Both men are dragged toward the door. Ana follows behind them, head just outside her door frame.
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Ana:
“Where are you taking them?!”
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Zacharias doesn’t answer.
He only smirks — a small, satisfied curl of the lips — before stepping into the royal carriage with his priests.
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The soldiers shove Paul and Blake into the prison wagon and slam the barred doors shut.
Ana stands in the doorway, fingers gripping the frame so tightly her knuckles whiten. Her eyes shimmer, heartbreak swelling in her chest.
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The wagon lurches forward.
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Paul’s head hangs low, barely conscious.
Blake clings to the bars, staring back at Ana with a look that begs for help, forgiveness, anything.
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Ana watches them disappear down the road, swallowed by dust and sunlight. The black lacquer carriage rumbles down the dirt road, its wheels cutting through mud.
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Inside the carriage, Traeven sits relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled. Zacharias sits across from him, stiff-backed, robes immaculate, eyes sharp.
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Zacharias:
“Did you not think it wise to come to me before capturing a fugitive as dangerous as these men?”
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Traeven doesn’t even look at him.
He looked unimpressed.
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Traeven:
“If I’d come to you first, we’d still be debating protocol while they slipped away.”
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He turns his head toward the window, watching the trees pass.
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“I chose efficiency.”
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A beat.
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He adds, almost lazily:
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Traeven:
“And besides… I didn’t think it was wise. I knew it was necessary. There’s a difference.”
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Zacharias scoffs, leaning back.
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Zacharias:
“Besides Theron’s bamboozlement over that star lit monkey…”
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Zacks eyes flash red.
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Zack:
“I’m guessing you have your reasons for wanting him gone.”
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Traeven doesn’t flinch.
He leans back further, moving his crossed fingers.
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Traeven:
“If I wanted Metro dead, he’d be dead.”
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A small, knowing smile.
“You want him alive long enough to blame him.”
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Zacharias shakes his head, disgusted.
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Zacharias:
“Metro is a symbol now. Symbols must be crushed publicly.”
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Traeven’s eyes narrow, but his voice stays smooth.
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Traeven:
“Symbols can also be redirected. A useful pawn is worth more than a dead body.”
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Zacharias leans forward, glare sharp and humorless.
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Zacharias:
“Theron is losing control. The nobles are restless. The priests are whispering treason…”
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Traeven doesn’t blink.
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Traeven:
“And you want Metro to take the fall.”
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Zacharias smiles — soft, cold, satisfied.
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Zacharias:
“Someone must.”
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Traeven exhales through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief.
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Traeven:
“You’re playing with fire.”
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Zacharias:(smiling cruel, confident)
“Fire obeys the hand that holds the torch.”
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The carriage rocks gently as the black lacquer panels reflect the passing trees.
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-the air tightens inside the royal carriage-
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Traeven:
“Symbols and metaphors…”
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He sighs, rubbing a thumb along the edge of his glove.
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“When word reaches Hasan, even if they find Metro, they may still come down on us. What has Felix said about this case?”
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Zacharias:
“I’ve issued a warrant through Benjamin the Rabbi. Felix is searching for the rat as we speak. He will pay. Undoubtedly.”
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A beat.
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The carriage wheels groan beneath them.
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Zacharias:
“You were also late in reporting five murders on the outskirts of the village. I will make sure someone hangs for this — maybe you, if you’re not careful.”
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Traeven stares into Zack's solid stern mug.
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Traeven:
“Five murders… yes. I was late because I was busy preventing five more.
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But if you’d prefer bodies over answers, I can adjust for you...”
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Zacharias’ lips curl.
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Zacharias: (puffed up)
“Preventing five more?
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How noble.
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Shame nobility doesn’t erase incompetence.”
“Spare me your benelovelities, Traeven.”
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Traeven’s eyes narrow just slightly — a shift so small it could be missed, but not by Zacharias.
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Traeven:
“Spare you my benevolence?
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Gladly.
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But don’t confuse restraint for incompetence.
If I acted without it… you’d have far more than five bodies to explain.”
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Silence.
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Zacharias sits back, studying him.
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And in that stillness, Traeven’s eyes glow yellow — faintly, briefly — a quiet ember of something ancient and dangerous beneath the surface.
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Zacharias’ expression tightens.
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End scene.
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