The lower districts of Aurelium had never felt so crowded yet so anonymous. Perfect for a fugitive duke and his companion. Azaril—still known as Duke Lucian of Novaris to the world—pressed himself against the wall of a narrow alley as another imperial patrol marched past. Their torches cast long shadows that danced against the worn buildings, but none penetrated the alcove where he and Silvius had momentarily taken refuge.

  "They're increasing the patrols," Silvius observed quietly once the danger had passed. "Third one in the past hour."

  Five days had passed since Emperor Tiberius's death and their desperate flight from the pace. Five days of constant movement, never staying in one location longer than a night, always alert for the next patrol or informant seeking the substantial reward offered for the "traitorous duke."

  "We can't keep this pace," Azaril admitted, fatigue evident in his voice. More than a decade of court luxury had softened him compared to his early days of exile from the Demon Realm. "We need somewhere to regroup, to pn our next move."

  "Perhaps I can help with that," came a voice from the shadows.

  Both men tensed, hands moving to concealed weapons, but rexed slightly when a small, wiry man with a face marked by countless minor scars stepped into view. Rat, as he was known in the lower districts, had built a reputation as the most reliable information broker among the city's impoverished.

  "Dangerous times to approach strangers in alleys, Rat," Silvius remarked, though his posture eased somewhat.

  "More dangerous to be the most wanted man in the empire," Rat replied, his eyes fixed on Azaril. "Though down here, that might work in your favor, Your Grace."

  "Expin," Azaril said simply.

  "The official procmation says you murdered the Emperor. The nobles believe it because they want to. But down here?" Rat gestured to the dipidated buildings surrounding them. "People remember who opened the first school that would teach their children without demanding noble blood or impossible fees."

  A flutter of hope stirred in Azaril's chest. His educational reforms had been his most cherished achievement—more than the agricultural innovations in Novaris or the trade reorganization that had brought prosperity to previously struggling regions.

  "You're saying the common people don't believe the accusations?" Silvius asked.

  "I'm saying you have friends who remember what you did for them," Rat answered. "Including one who can offer safer shelter than these streets. Follow me—but stay three paces back and keep your heads down."

  With few options, they followed the information broker through a maze of increasingly narrow alleys and passages that even Azaril, with his decade of residence in the capital, had never known existed. Eventually, they arrived at a modest but well-maintained dwelling tucked between a cooperage and a candlemaker's shop.

  Rat knocked in a particur pattern. After a moment, the door opened slightly to reveal the face of an older woman, her expression wary until she spotted Rat.

  "These the ones you mentioned?" she asked, her voice low.

  "Widow Marta, may I present two travelers in need of discretion," Rat replied with a formality that seemed at odds with his appearance.

  The woman's gaze shifted to Azaril, lingering on his face despite the dirt and stubble he'd cultivated as disguise. Recognition flickered in her eyes.

  "My youngest grandson learned his letters at your school in the eastern district," she said simply, opening the door wider. "Come in before the patrol returns."

  The interior was humble but meticulously clean—a single room with a small hearth, a table with four chairs, and a curtained area that presumably served as sleeping quarters. The aroma of recently cooked soup filled the space, making Azaril's stomach remind him how long it had been since their st proper meal.

  "You've taken a considerable risk, madam," Azaril said once the door was secured behind them.

  "Less risk than my grandson took when your school first opened against the Formu Orthodoxy's wishes," she replied, already dling soup into bowls. "Now he's apprenticed to an artificer, first in our family to read formu patterns. Wouldn't have happened without you."

  Rat declined to stay, slipping back into the night with promises to return with information the following day. As the door closed behind him, Widow Marta set the simple meal before them.

  "Eat," she instructed. "Then we'll discuss how long you can safely remain."

  The hot food and moment of retive security allowed both men to properly rex for the first time in days. As they ate, Widow Marta expined how news had spread through the lower districts—imperial procmations decring Duke Lucian a traitor, countered by whispered conversations among former students and their families questioning the official narrative.

  "People are asking why you'd kill the Emperor when he'd just approved expanding your educational system to the eastern provinces," she said. "Doesn't make sense to anyone with half a mind."

  "The Formu Orthodoxy never expected the common people to apply critical thinking to imperial pronouncements," Silvius observed with a hint of satisfaction. "That was precisely what they feared about your schools."

  "What of the pace?" Azaril asked. "Have you heard anything about investigations into the Emperor's death?"

  "Only that Prince Octavian has cimed the throne, but several noble houses are questioning his right," Marta replied. "The city guard has doubled patrols in all districts—supposedly looking for you, but really keeping order as factions begin to form."

  Night had fallen completely by the time they finished discussing the situation. Widow Marta apologetically expined her modest accommodations.

  "I've only the one bed behind that curtain, and the floor near the hearth," she said. "I'll take the floor—at my age, a hard surface is sometimes better for the back."

  "We couldn't possibly—" Azaril began, but she waved away his objection.

  "You need proper rest more than I do, Your Grace. The bed's narrow but should fit two who don't mind close quarters."

  With little choice that wouldn't offend their host, Azaril and Silvius retired to the small alcove behind the curtain. The bed was indeed narrow—barely rge enough for two grown men, and certainly not designed for a duke accustomed to the spacious chambers of Novaris or the imperial guest quarters.

  "This does bring back memories," Silvius murmured as they settled onto the thin mattress, their shoulders and arms pressed together by necessity. "That first inn near the border, when you had just left the Demon Realm."

  "I remember being scandalized that you suggested sharing a bed," Azaril replied with a soft ugh. "Demons don't typically share sleeping spaces."

  "More than ten years since then," Silvius observed. "Though sometimes it feels much longer."

  In the darkness, their proximity seemed more significant than it had in years. The familiar warmth of Silvius beside him brought comfort that Azaril hadn't realized he'd been missing during his years of increasing status and responsibility. Here, stripped of titles and position, there was something almost liberating about returning to the simplicity of two travelers sharing a bed in a modest home.

  "What will we do if we can't clear your name?" Silvius asked quietly.

  "Leave the empire, I suppose," Azaril replied after a moment's thought. "Perhaps visit the Sylvan Territories or the Floating Isles."

  "Would that be so terrible?" Silvius's voice held an unusual note of vulnerability. "To start anew somewhere else... together?"

  The question hung between them, den with meanings neither had openly acknowledged despite their years of companionship. Before Azaril could formute a response, a noise from outside—the distinctive sound of armored boots on cobblestones—brought them both to alertness.

  "Imperial patrol," Silvius whispered, rising silently to peer through a crack in the shutters. "Just a routine sweep, I think."

  They listened tensely until the patrol passed, but the moment for conversation had been broken. Both men settled back onto the narrow bed, more aware than ever of each other's presence.

  "We should rest," Azaril finally said. "Tomorrow we'll need to establish contact with potential allies."

  "Yes," Silvius agreed, though something in his tone suggested disappointment at the return to practical matters. "Livia would be a good start—she has connections throughout both the academic community and her old neighborhood."

  Sleep came slowly despite their exhaustion, each man acutely conscious of the other's breathing in the darkness. For Azaril, the physical closeness highlighted feelings he had long kept unexamined—a dependence on Silvius that went beyond friendship or political alliance.

  Just before dawn, they were awakened by a soft scratching at the door. Widow Marta, already up and tending the morning fire, went to investigate. She returned moments ter with a sealed message and an unlikely courier—a Calcution Cat that looked remarkably like Theorema, Azaril's own feline companion who had remained at his estate in Novaris.

  "Says she appeared at his window and wouldn't leave until he followed her here," Marta expined, indicating a young boy who waited anxiously by the door. "Brought this message from Teacher Helena at the First School."

  Azaril broke the seal, scanning the contents quickly before looking up with the first genuine hope he'd felt since their flight began.

  "Helena has organized a network of graduates who are spreading the truth about the Emperor's death," he expined to Silvius. "They've discovered evidence that the wine cup was poisoned with a formu that activated only when touched by the Emperor himself—a technique known to only the highest levels of the Formu Orthodoxy."

  "Evidence of your innocence," Silvius concluded.

  "More importantly, evidence that implicates others," Azaril corrected. "The public is already questioning the official narrative. With this, we might find enough support to demand a proper investigation."

  As they began pnning their next moves, Azaril found himself drawing strength from Silvius's unwavering presence beside him. Whatever came next—whether vindication or permanent exile—he was increasingly certain of one thing: the bond between them had grown far beyond what either had anticipated when they first shared a room at that border inn a decade ago.

  For now, though, they were fugitives in a city slowly turning in their favor, with unexpected allies emerging from the very communities Azaril had fought to educate. The Duke of Novaris might be branded a traitor by the nobility, but among the common people of Aurelium, a different story was taking root.