The wheels kept groaning beneath them, each turn of the axles grinding over stone and ice. Mikhael stared at nothing, his arms wrapped tight around Lionel's small frame. The boy had finally fallen asleep, his face pressed into Mikhael's ribs, breath shallow and uneven.

  Across the cage, someone was staring.

  He felt it before he saw it, a presence that was not hostile, just deliberate. Mikhael looked up.

  A man sat hunched in the far corner. Older, perhaps forty, with a thick blond beard and long, tangled hair hanging over one shoulder. His eyes were blue, the same cold shade as winter sky, and they held Mikhael's gaze without flinching.

  "You have the look," the man said, voice low and rough like cracked stone. "Hard stare. Blue eyes like frostbite."

  Mikhael did not answer.

  "Blond, too. Bit older than my boy, but not by much."

  Mikhael narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"

  "Nothing," the man replied. "Not unless you want it too."

  He leaned forward slightly, wincing at the movement. Bruising bloomed along his ribs and a swelling bulged at his temple, Greaves's hospitality written into his skin.

  "My name is Bram," the man said. "Got picked up two towns west. Stole food. Bread and salt. Nothing fancy. Just trying to keep my son alive." He paused, lips twitching with bitterness. "Guess they got me first."

  Mikhael stayed quiet, but something shifted in his chest.

  "I saw the way you stood up when they chained your brother," Bram added. "That was not fear. That was fire."

  Mikhael looked down at Lionel. The boy stirred but did not wake.

  "So," Bram asked, "how did two lads like you end up in here?"

  "We were sold," Mikhael said, his eyes still on Lionel.

  "Sold?" Bram repeated, frowning. "So, you are slaves. You do not look like such."

  "By our parents," Mikhael said. "We are not slaves."

  He hesitated, jaw tightening.

  "I do not know what we are now," he thought.

  Bram watched him in silence, the wagon creaking and groaning around them.

  "That sure is tough. I could never imagine doing that to my boy. But I've got a plan," Bram said, lowering his voice. "Tonight, when they stop to rest the horses, there'll be a chance. You, me, the boy, we slip out into the trees. I've been watching the guards. They're overconfident. Tired. Lazy."

  "You think they won't hunt us?" Mikhael asked flatly.

  "Oh, they will. They hunted me for bread and salt, let alone this, my boy." Bram chuckled. Mikhael couldn't understand where he found the strength to laugh in a place like this, but Bram just went on. "I'd rather die running than rot behind bars. Or worse. And if I make it… maybe I can get back to my son."

  He paused, eyes softening. "He's got no one else. Same as your brother."

  That landed harder than Mikhael expected.

  "You don't have to say yes now," Bram whispered, leaning back against the wall. "Just think about it. When the sun dips low, and the wagons stop, that's the only shot we'll get."

  Mikhael didn't respond.

  The wagon creaked on, wheels grinding over stone and frozen soil. A gust of cold air slipped through the wooden slats, cutting through the stink of sweat and fear. Around them, no one spoke. The other captives sat slumped or staring, their chains clinking softly with each jolt of the road.

  He looked down at Lionel, still curled against him. The boy's lips were chapped, his breaths shallow and uneven. Even in sleep his fingers clenched faintly in Mikhael's sleeve, as if afraid to let go.

  Bram didn't press him. He just sat, eyes closed, looking for all the world like a man tracing routes through the trees in his mind.

  Outside, somewhere near the front of the caravan, Greaves laughed. A sharp sound, too loud for the quiet. Cruel. Effortless. Like he was enjoying a joke only he understood.

  Mikhael's jaw tightened.

  He turned his face toward the wagon wall and rested his forehead against the cold wood. The iron cuffs around his wrists pulsed faintly with light. His strength was coming back in flashes now, small sparks in the fog, but not enough. Not yet.

  He closed his eyes and breathed.

  "If there's a way out, I take it," he thought. "But I am not losing him on a gamble."

  The sun dipped low behind the trees, casting long shadows across the winding road. The caravan slowed, the creak of wheels softening as the drivers called to one another in tired, clipped voices. The wagons lurched to a halt in a small clearing rimmed with frost-covered pines.

  Outside, boots hit the ground, thudding into the snow. Guards stretched and cursed, working stiffness from their limbs. Horses snorted clouds of steam into the evening air.

  Greaves's voice drifted from the front, bored and casual. "Feed them. Let the mutts piss, then we ride again before full dark."

  Chains rattled as a few captives were dragged from neighboring wagons. Mikhael didn't move. Neither did Bram.

  Then Bram turned his head, slowly, like every movement cost him. He looked at Mikhael. No smile. Just a single nod.

  Now.

  Mikhael's heart slammed once against his ribs. He gave Lionel a soft shake. "Wake up," he whispered. "We're moving."

  Lionel blinked up at him, confused. His lips parted to speak, but Mikhael pressed a finger to them. "Quiet. Stay close."

  Bram was already shifting, subtly testing the slack in his chain. Mikhael realized he'd been working at it for hours, twisting it just enough so it could break. Now, with the guards distracted…

  A shout rang out in the distance, someone cursing at a horse. More laughter. Then quiet again.

  Bram moved first.

  There was a soft snap as a link gave way, muffled under the creak of wagons and distant voices. He eased the loose cuff off, rubbing his wrist as he crouched low.

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  Mikhael grabbed Lionel's hand. "Stay with me," he said again. "No matter what."

  Lionel nodded, eyes too wide in the dim.

  Bram reached the door. One hinge was weak; he'd tested it earlier when the guards weren't looking. He pressed against it once. Twice. The wood groaned.

  Then, a pop. Just enough.

  Bram slipped out first, fast and quiet as a shadow. Mikhael pushed Lionel through after him, then followed, muscles tight with adrenaline. The cold slapped him in the face the moment they hit open air. The forest loomed ahead.

  Behind them, firelight flickered. Voices called out to one another in low tones. No one had noticed. Yet.

  Bram pointed left, toward the thicker trees.

  The three of them ran.

  The forest swallowed them in its dark embrace, broken only by thin strips of cold moonlight. Branches clawed at their sleeves as they pushed through, snow crunching under their feet in an uneven rhythm. Mikhael held Lionel's hand in a death grip, dragging him when he stumbled. Bram moved ahead, silent and sure-footed despite his injuries, like a man who'd run from worse before.

  "If they catch us, they won't drag us back," Mikhael thought. "They'll make an example."

  "Almost there," Bram whispered. "There's a split in the trees. If we reach that ridge, we'll be out of earshot."

  Behind them, the camp had shrunk to flickering light and distant murmurs.

  Then a voice. Sharp. Icy. Too close.

  "Mikhaaael…"

  They froze.

  Greaves's voice slipped through the trees like smoke, echoing off bark and snow, calm and mocking, as if he were standing right beside them.

  "Come back, boy," he called. "You know how this ends. Be smart. Don't ruin what little future your brother has left."

  Bram shook his head at once. "He is bluffing. We keep moving."

  Mikhael hesitated. For a heartbeat, the offer sounded almost sane. Go back, take the blows himself, spare Lionel whatever waited at the end of the road.

  Lionel looked up at him, eyes wet and shining in the dim. "Mikhael… please. I do not want him to hurt you."

  Branches snapped somewhere behind them. More voices now, guards crashing through the underbrush. Closer than they should have been.

  "Final offer," Greaves said, voice smooth and amused. "You. For them. Choose."

  The world narrowed to the sound of Lionel's trembling breath, Bram's teeth grinding, and the pounding in Mikhael's chest.

  He looked at Bram, defiant and afraid, ready to swing bare fists at men with whips. He looked at Lionel, small and shaking, already shrinking under Greaves's shadow.

  "If I run, he takes us all," Mikhael thought. "If I go back, maybe he leaves them."

  His throat burned.

  "I am sorry," Mikhael whispered.

  Before either of them could stop him, he shoved Lionel into Bram's arms and turned toward the voice. He did not look at his brother's face. He did not trust himself to. He just ran, straight back into the dark he had tried to escape, as if Greaves were the only thing keeping the world from breaking.

  "Mikhael!" Bram hissed behind him.

  Mikhael did not turn. The forest swallowed him.

  Branches whipped his cheeks, snow stung his skin, breath tore at his lungs, but he barely felt any of it. He ran until the trees thinned and torchlight licked at the edges of his vision. Until shadows solidified into men and hands seized his arms, yanking him down to his knees.

  Greaves stood a few paces ahead, one hand resting lightly on his cane. His expression was unreadable. For a long moment, he simply watched Mikhael breathe, watched the rise and fall of his shoulders, the fury shaking through his limbs.

  "I knew you would come," Greaves said finally, voice low and smug. "That is the thing about boys like you. You burn hot, but you fold fast when the heat lands on someone else. Admirable in its way, but not very useful."

  Mikhael said nothing. He stared at the snow.

  "Look at me."

  He did not.

  Greaves's smile thinned. "I said, look at me."

  Still nothing.

  Greaves stepped forward. The cane cracked across Mikhael's face, hard enough to split his lip and knock him to the ground. Snow rushed up to meet him, cold and bitter.

  "I do not give commands to be ignored," Greaves snapped, voice sharper now. "You are mine, boy. You will learn what that means."

  Mikhael pushed himself back up to his knees, slow and steady. Blood dripped from his chin. He still did not lift his head. He did not know if it was defiance or fear, only that he liked knowing it annoyed his captor.

  Greaves stared at him in the quiet, anger simmering under the surface. After a moment he straightened his coat with a quiet breath, like brushing something dirty off his sleeve.

  "Bring the others," he said.

  Mikhael flinched at the words. For a heartbeat he had let himself believe that coming back meant Lionel would walk free. Now, hearing them, he tasted the lie in his own hope.

  "A false promise," he thought. "Of course it was."

  He looked up, but Greaves had already turned away. The things he wanted to spit at the man jammed uselessly in his throat.

  Moments later the guards came out of the trees, dragging Lionel between them. He hung in their grip, barely conscious, a dark bruise spreading across his temple.

  A third guard followed, slower, carrying something heavy in both arms. A burlap sack. The stench of blood reached Mikhael before the shape did, thick and metallic. The bundle hit the snow with a dull thud.

  Greaves crouched beside it and used the tip of his cane to peel the cloth open.

  Blond hair spilled into the snow.

  "Bram the thief," he said, still not looking at Mikhael. "He believed in you. Now he is gone. All because you could not follow simple instructions."

  Mikhael did not move. Did not speak. Did not flinch.

  The cold gnawed at his skin. The blood on his lip tasted like iron and ash.

  Greaves lingered, gaze burning down on him, waiting for a reaction that did not come.

  "Do you understand now?"

  Silence.

  "Do you?"

  A long pause. Then Mikhael gave a slow, cold nod.

  Greaves exhaled through his nose, as if disappointed there was no more fight left to break. "Shackle him."

  The chains came again, heavier than before. The seals in the metal burned cold against his skin.

  Mikhael did not resist. He feared what they might do to Lionel. For some reason, because of that piece of parchment, he was important to Greaves and his masters. Mikhael did not yet know why. He was just glad his little brother was still breathing.

  A guard shoved him forward, chains clinking with every step. He stumbled toward the wagon, its dark mouth swallowing him whole. The air inside was colder than before, thick with the stink of rust and sweat. The floor was damp beneath his hands.

  Behind him, boots crunched in the snow.

  Then a dull thud.

  Lionel's body hit the floor hard, rolled once, then stopped. He did not move.

  Mikhael lurched toward him, shackles dragging and scraping behind. He pulled Lionel close and turned his brother's face up to the light that slipped through the slats.

  Still breathing. Pulse weak, but there.

  He pressed Lionel's head against his chest and wrapped both arms around him, shielding him as best he could. The metal cuffs dug into his skin, but he did not care.

  Outside, the guards slammed the cage shut. The lock snapped into place. A whistle. A crack of a whip. The wagon lurched forward.

  Mikhael stayed where he was, holding the boy as the wheels began to groan and turn again, carrying them deeper into the unknown. The road stretched ahead, cold, endless, unforgiving.

  He did not sleep.

  He held Lionel close and listened to his shallow breathing while the moon drifted past the gaps overhead. Time unravelled. Day bled into night. Cold seeped into bone. They rode for hours, then days. No one told them where they were going.

  Mikhael barely moved. He kept Lionel tucked against him, his arms around the boy like a second set of restraints. Lionel did not speak. His eyes were glassy, far away. Even the scraps of food they were given he barely touched.

  Mikhael worried about him more than ever.

  The first town came at dawn.

  A small place, crouched in frostbitten hills, its chimneys coughing weak smoke into the pale sky. They rolled in without fanfare. No one ran. No one looked surprised. A wagon full of chained souls was nothing new here.

  A merchant waited in the square, fat and well dressed, his gloved hands tucked into fur. He inspected the prisoners like livestock. Lifted chins. Pulled lips back from teeth. Barked a few numbers at Greaves's men.

  Eight were taken.

  The merchant left with them in a chain, leading them into the back of a storehouse as if he were putting grain away for winter.

  The wagons moved on.

  The second town was larger. Brick buildings. Guard towers. A square paved in stone and stained with old blood. This time there were three buyers. One carried a ledger. One a whip. The last had a girl clinging to his coat and a smile too wide for his face.

  Six more were taken.

  No one screamed. No one fought. The lesson of Bram was written clear enough. Greaves had got exactly what he wanted from Mikhael's little rebellion. Everyone knew their place now.

  The ones left behind did not ask why they had been spared. There was no comfort in surviving one more day on a road like this.

  Mikhael did not let go of Lionel.

  They passed a third town without stopping. Too poor, one guard muttered. Not worth selling to. The caravan did not even slow.

  On the fifth day, snow began to fall again, fine and thin, drifting through the wagon roof like ash. Mikhael looked up once. The sky was the colour of iron. Empty.

  Ahead, the road curved toward mountains. Stone walls emerged from the mist, sharp and dark against the white. Towers rose behind them, tall and ornate, carved with patterns he could not read.

  And a single gate. Iron. Wide.

  Mikhael felt it in his chest before anyone spoke. A pressure. A pull. Like a hand closing around his ribs and dragging.

  This was no town.

  This was the end of the road.

  Romulus's domain.