Chapter 14

  Departure and first words

  I fall into step beside Gerrick, keeping my expression neutral and your voice casual.

  "Yeah. Just waited like you said," I murmur, as if I’d been standing there the whole time. Gerrick doesn’t question it—he’s too focused on the fact that the Baron accepted the clock design without complaint, muttering about how maybe this will finally put his name above those other “half-baked tinkers” in town.

  The two of us exit through the rear gates, the morning light spilling over the courtyard. But before we’re even halfway to the road, the sound hits me—raised voices, hurried footsteps, the sharp bark of orders being shouted.

  "Fetch the captain!""Find the bastard who did it!""The Baron’s son is dead—"

  The words ripple through the gathered servants and guards like wildfire. Garrick stops mid-step, blinking. "What in the hell?"

  At the front of the estate, I see guards beginning to flood the grounds, others vanish deeper into the manor. with grim urgency. A few break off to the gates though they themselves are tightening with traffic—no one’s leaving without scrutiny.

  I feel the weight of the pocket knife in my pocket, still faintly warm from earlier, and the ghost of blood on my fingers. Somewhere beyond the walls, Luna is hopefully keeping the white-furred catgirl hidden.

  I step in close to Gerrick, keeping my voice low and urgent.

  "We need to move. Now. If they don’t know who did it, the first people they’ll suspect are outsiders—like us."

  Garrick blinks, his brow furrowing as the noise from the estate swells behind us. I see the moment the thought clicks for him—his lips press into a thin line and he gives a sharp nod.

  "Aye… no point stickin’ around to be questioned for something we didn’t do."The two of us pick up the pace, slipping down the dirt path toward where the wagon is waiting. The guards at the gate are distracted, their focus pulled inward toward the chaos inside. One glances at us both, but Garrick calls out something about “delivery completed, invoice to follow” and waves his papers without breaking stride.

  A few tense seconds later, we’re past the gates, the cold stone walls of the manor shrinking behind us. My shoulders loosen slightly, but the sound of shouts still carries on the wind.

  I can’t help glancing toward the treeline, wondering if Luna managed to get the other catgirl safely hidden… and if she’s already heard the news.

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  I keep my focus fixed on the road ahead, urging Garrick to keep the horse moving at a steady clip until the estate walls are a distant silhouette.

  It’s only when we’re deep into the wooded stretch between the manor and Springvale that I catch it—just the faintest shift in the wagon bed behind us. A tarp rustles, subtle but deliberate, and out from beneath it poke two heads.

  Luna’s amber eyes scan the trees first, sharp and restless, while the white-furred catgirl’s gaze is slower, more hesitant, as if she’s still trying to piece together where she is. The bruises along her cheek are stark against her pale fur.

  They both look around for signs of pursuit. Finding none, Luna’s gaze flicks toward me for the briefest heartbeat—then she ducks back under the tarp, pulling the other girl down with her. The fabric settles, perfectly still once again, just as Garrick glances back to check the load we got for payment.

  "We’ll be in Springvale before midday," Garrick says, oblivious. "Best you rest while we’ve got the road to ourselves."

  I let out a quiet breath, keeping your tone casual.

  "Think I’ll lay down in the back for a bit—still a little tired from last night."Garrick doesn’t even look over, just gives a distracted wave. "Aye, go on. Just don’t roll out when we hit a rut."

  I climb into the wagon bed, moving slow and deliberate so I don’t make the tarp shift too obviously. Settling myself against a crate, I keep my head turned slightly toward the covered section where I know Luna and the catgirl are hiding.

  There’s a subtle tension in the air back here—quiet breathing under the tarp, the faintest rustle when the wagon bumps over a rough patch of road. Neither of them says a word, but I get the sense Luna’s listening to everything—my steps, my breathing, maybe even the pace of my heartbeat.

  The steady creak of the wagon wheels and the clip-clop of hooves blend into a muted rhythm, masking you from Garrick’s notice up front.

  Springvale’s rooftops are just starting to peek over the next rise.

  I shift slightly, just enough to lean toward the tarp, keeping my voice so low it’s almost lost under the wheels.

  "Who is she?"

  For a moment, there’s only the creak of the wagon and the distant caw of a bird. Then, the tarp shifts just enough for Luna’s face to appear in the dim light. Her eyes lock with mine, steady, unreadable.

  "Seven," she says quietly. "We are named the first number of our slave collar."

  The words are simple, but the weight behind them is heavy—enough to make my chest feel tight.

  Before I can say anything else, she lets the tarp fall back into place. The wagon keeps rolling, and the noise of Springvale’s gate comes into earshot—guards calling out, wheels bumping over worn boards.

  I fall silent as the wagon passes under the archway, the hum of village life swallowing the conversation.

  I keep my voice low, almost swallowed by the chatter at the gate.

  "Luna… I want answers. I want to help."

  There’s no movement from under the tarp. No flick of her ears, no shift of fabric—just silence.

  The wagon rattles over the cobblestones into Springvale proper, and the crowd’s noise swells around me—merchants calling their wares, the clatter of boots, the smell of bread fresh from the ovens.Whether she didn’t hear me, didn’t believe you, or simply chose not to answer… I can’t tell.

  Up front, Garrick calls over his shoulder, "Alright, lad, we’ll unload here—help me get these crates inside."

  I climb out of the wagon and get to work alongside Garrick, stacking crates just inside his shop. The work is steady, simple—exactly the sort of thing that keeps my hands busy while my mind churns on everything that’s happened since the manor.

  One by one, the wagon empties. I lift the last crate down, setting it carefully on the stack inside. When I turn back, I spot something in the bed—a scrap of ragged cloth, half-tucked under a plank.Curious, I reach in and pull it free. It’s rough to the touch, worn thin, and the edges are frayed. But what stops you cold is the writing—one word, shaky but deliberate, drawn in the dark red of dried blood.

  Tonight.

  My fingers tighten around the cloth. I glance toward the alley at the side of the shop, but it’s empty—no sign of Luna, no sign of Seven.

  Garrick’s voice calls from inside, oblivious. "Close up the back when you’re done out there!"