The entrance to Bourg-en-Clair loomed like a fortress guarding a jealously protected treasure. The stone walls, blackened by time and weather, rose high into the sky, standing as a bulwark against the passage of ages. The watchtowers, sturdy and austere, cast their shadows over the cobbled path, amplifying the overwhelming sense of grandeur. Every battlement, every arrow slit seemed to stare at visitors, weighing on them like invisible eyes.

  The main road, lined with cobblestones worn smooth by the endless passage of caravans, led to a monumental gate. The massive wooden doors, reinforced with heavy iron bands, bore the scars of past battles: gashes and burns, relics of a bygone era that was never truly forgotten. At the top of the towers, green flags emblazoned with a golden lion fluttered proudly, their undulating movement a silent warning.

  Guards clad in black armor stood on the ramparts, their silhouettes stark against the pale sky. Motionless, almost statue-like, their bows were at the ready, and their gazes, though hidden beneath their helmets, seemed to pierce through even the most deeply buried intentions. Below, a line of soldiers stood straight-backed at the entrance, their gleaming breastplates reflecting the sun's rays. The captain, identifiable by a golden lion insignia, oversaw the scene with calm yet unmistakable authority, his eyes scanning every detail.

  Rouis and Ambre were abruptly stopped before the monumental gate. A massive guard, his face partially hidden beneath a helmet of worn metal, stepped forward with deliberate slowness. His cold, piercing eyes swept over their figures, as though attempting to unearth hidden motives.

  — "Your identity and the purpose of your visit," the guard demanded, each word laced with unyielding authority.

  Rouis inclined his head slightly, keeping his tone deliberately neutral.

  — "Travelers. We’re simply looking for a place to rest."

  The guard narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing every syllable. After a brief silence, he gestured with his hand. Two soldiers approached, their boots echoing in unison on the cobblestones, accompanied by the metallic clinking of their armor.

  — "Search them," he ordered in an uncompromising tone.

  The first soldier placed a firm hand on Rouis’s shoulder. The touch, though measured, carried a silent warning.

  — "Stay still," he said, his voice edged with menace.

  Rouis complied, remaining perfectly composed. He watched as the soldier methodically searched his clothing, gloved hands lingering on the folds of his jacket, inspecting the seams, and patting down the belt that held his sword.

  — "A fine blade," the guard remarked, his tone tinged with sarcasm. "Do you know how to use it?"

  Rouis barely raised an eyebrow, his expression impassive.

  — "It’s mostly for show," he replied, a faint smile playing on his lips.

  Meanwhile, Ambre clenched her fists as another soldier approached her bag.

  — "There’s no need to look in there," she hissed, her voice a mix of annoyance and defiance.

  The soldier looked up, a cold smile appearing beneath the edge of his helmet.

  — "We must check. For security reasons, of course."

  Frustrated, Ambre turned away, her cheeks flushing slightly. She crossed her arms, attempting to mask her irritation, though her tense fingers betrayed her true feelings.

  After a long moment, the soldier inspecting Rouis straightened.

  — "Nothing to report," he said flatly, though his gaze lingered on Rouis one last time, as if to ensure he hadn’t overlooked anything.

  The captain, who had remained still until now, made a simple gesture. The heavy gates began to open, their hinges emitting a deep, almost ominous groan.

  On the other side, Bourg-en-Clair revealed itself in striking contrast. The meticulously maintained cobblestone streets were lined with white-stone houses, their pristine facades reflecting the daylight. Red-tiled roofs, aligned with near-perfect precision, added a touch of warmth to the scene. The town was alive with activity: merchants boasted about their wares with cheerful shouts, the melodic chime of bells rang out from a nearby church, and the laughter of children playing near fountains mingled with the constant hum of lively conversations.

  All of this stood in stark opposition to the austere rigor of the guarded entrance. Here, the joyful chaos seemed to defy the imposing order of the walls.

  — "There are so many guards," Ambre murmured, her voice wavering between astonishment and a hint of unease she struggled to hide.

  The sheer number of soldiers seemed disproportionate for a town of this size. The black-armored troops patrolled methodically, their boots striking the cobblestones in a calculated, almost hypnotic rhythm. At every street corner, their sharp gazes swept over the passersby, as though searching for an unseen threat.

  Ambre shifted slightly to observe the bustling surroundings, but she quickly averted her eyes, uncomfortable under the weight of the soldiers' inquisitive stares.

  — "It’s excessive," she added in a hushed tone, as if even the walls might overhear her.

  Rouis, still silent, let his gaze drift slowly toward the ramparts. His narrowed eyes assessed the soldiers' positions, the layout of the streets, and the organization of the patrols, memorizing each detail with methodical precision. He appeared neither troubled nor impressed, though his face bore an expression of cold focus.

  — "They’re taking no chances," he finally murmured, almost to himself.

  While Ambre sought refuge in the bustling streets, Rouis remained still for a moment, arms crossed, scanning the horizon.

  The two of them crossed the threshold of the inn, drawn by the promise of warmth and comfort. Hanging from a rusted chain, a wooden sign carved with the image of a bed and a steaming mug swayed slightly in the wind. The door, made of weathered planks, creaked with a long, sighing groan as it opened, revealing the interior.

  The inn was bathed in soft, flickering light. Oil lanterns hung from the beams, casting dancing shadows on the rough stone walls, while the fireplace, where a wood fire crackled, filled the room with comforting warmth. Sturdy wooden tables, worn smooth from years of use, added to the cozy atmosphere.

  The walls were adorned with faded maps, some illegible, others depicting lands with long- forgotten names. Above the counter, a clock carved in the shape of an owl marked the time with its slow, deliberate ticking, lending a soothing rhythm to the ambiance.

  A few patrons were seated, their voices blending into a murmur that was almost melodic. In one corner, a jovial merchant spoke animatedly, punctuating his words with sweeping gestures that made his beer mug sway precariously. At another table, a solitary man hidden beneath a dark hood appeared lost in thought, his fingers idly tapping the hilt of a knife.

  The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face, stepped forward, wiping his hands on a stained apron. His warm smile offset the starkness of the surroundings.

  — "Welcome, travelers! You’ve arrived at the perfect time: the fire is roaring, and the kitchen is ready," he said with a cheerful pride.

  In no time, two steaming plates were set before them. Tender, juicy lamb was paired with golden potatoes delicately seasoned with herbs. The aroma filled the air, promising a feast.

  Starving, Ambre grabbed her fork eagerly and attacked her meal with disarming voracity, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of the fireplace.

  — "This is... perfect," she murmured between bites, her eyes shining with a mix of satisfaction and relief.

  Rouis, on the other hand, ate slowly. He took his time to savor each bite, his calculating gaze sweeping the room. His eyes lingered briefly on the hooded man, then on the maps on the walls, before returning to the innkeeper bustling behind the counter.

  — "Long journey?" the innkeeper asked, setting a tankard down in front of another customer. He turned slightly toward Rouis and Ambre, a sly smile on his face.

  — "If you need advice, listen: avoid talking to the man in gray. A free tip," he added with a wink before disappearing behind the counter.

  The crackling of embers, the clinking of cutlery, and the faint whisper of wind seeping through the cracks. For a moment, the outside world felt distant, almost unreal. But Rouis’s constant vigilance was a reminder never to let one’s guard down completely.

  After finishing their meal, they headed to the market to gather provisions for their journey. Spanning a wide plaza, the market teemed with life. Wooden stalls draped in vibrant cloths formed a maze of winding alleys where merchants and buyers jostled for space. Above the stands, banners adorned with floral motifs fluttered in the breeze, adding a festive touch to the lively commotion.

  The air was thick with scents: the sharp aroma of fresh herbs, the sweetness of ripe fruits, and the smoky savoriness of grilled meats combined in an intoxicating symphony. The merchants’ shouts echoed incessantly:

  — "Golden apples at unbeatable prices!"

  — "Top-quality dried meats straight from the mountains!"

  The clinking of coins and the rustling of bags filled with goods created a familiar, rhythmic backdrop to the bustling scene.

  As they ventured into an alley lined with neatly arranged stalls, their steps led them to an herbalist's particularly intriguing stand. Blown-glass vials and ceramic jars, meticulously labeled, were displayed in perfect rows. The handwritten labels promised wonders: "Moon Camomile," "Elixir of Life," "Evening Balm," and "Dream Powder." Small wooden boxes revealed sachets of medicinal teas and dried herb blends in a variety of hues. Nearby, stone mortars and pestles, worn but sturdy, awaited use, ready to release the aromas of the plants.

  Behind the counter stood the herbalist. Her gray hair, carefully braided and adorned with small wildflowers, framed a serene face illuminated by piercing green eyes. Her dark brown linen dress, paired with a wide leather belt, was adorned with pockets from which silver scissors, small knives, and seed sachets peeked out.

  A customer, leaning over the counter, was seeking advice.

  — "This back pain has been tormenting me for weeks. What do you recommend?"

  The herbalist nodded gently, examining the man with a critical eye.

  — "Try this," she said, handing him a clay pot labeled Evening Balm. "Massage it in twice a day. But remember, the mind is just as important as the body."

  Fascinated, Ambre slowed her steps, her fingers brushing against a sachet of medicinal tea resting on the stall.

  — "Are you looking for something specific?" the herbalist asked with a smile.

  — "Not this time," Ambre replied, slightly caught off guard. She hesitated for a moment before turning away and rejoining Rouis, who was waiting for her a little farther ahead.

  Rouis, for his part, observed the scene with a watchful eye. His gaze lingered on the herbalist’s belt and her silver tools. Something in her poise and confidence piqued his curiosity. Yet he said nothing. He continued walking, his face impassive, though his mind was analyzing every detail of the market like a puzzle to be solved.

  As they walked away, the herbalist’s gaze lingered on them for a moment.

  Next, they passed by the blacksmith’s workshop, an imposing figure at the heart of the market's bustle. Bare-chested beneath a thick leather apron, he hammered forcefully on a glowing blade resting on his anvil, each strike resonating like the beat of a drum.

  With every impact, sparks flew in an ephemeral dance, briefly illuminating his face, weathered by heat and labor. Around him, sturdy stalls displayed an impressive array of goods: elegant, slender swords, imposing axes, and practical tools like sickles and hammers. Each blade, meticulously polished, gleamed under the light. Rouis paused for a moment, his eyes settling on a finely crafted dagger, his scrutinizing gaze evaluating its quality.

  A few steps away, a fabric stall caught Ambre’s attention. Rolls of cloth were carefully arranged, forming a palette of colors and textures: raw, durable linens sat alongside shimmering silks with iridescent hues. Ambre stopped to stroke a deep blue fabric, her fingers sliding slowly over its cool, smooth surface.

  — "This blue, it’s the color of twilight," the merchant murmured with a smile, as if sharing a secret. Ambre returned the smile, captivated by the poetry of his description, before reluctantly placing the fabric back with care.

  A little farther on, the tempting aroma of fresh bread and pastries enveloped them. A round-faced, smiling baker, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of her oven, offered samples of her creations: fruit tarts brimming with sweet fillings, golden loaves infused with the scent of herbs, and crispy biscuits.

  — "Try this; it’s my specialty," she said, handing a still-warm piece of tart to Ambre, who eagerly accepted it.

  — "Delicious," Ambre breathed after a bite, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

  Nearby, a cheese merchant had set up a stall overflowing with aromatic wheels of cheese, their rinds varying from cracked to smooth and waxy. Goats grazed peacefully nearby, tethered to stakes adorned with colorful ribbons. The cheeses, in all shapes and sizes, released robust aromas that mingled with the sweet scents of pastries.

  — "This one comes from the high hills," the merchant declared, pointing to a round wheel with a golden rind. "It’s been aged six months in a stone cellar."

  Not far away, an entire alley was dedicated to local artisans, transforming the area into an open- air gallery. Finely crafted silver jewelry sparkled under the light, their designs evoking stars and spirals. Wooden sculptures, depicting animals or mythological scenes, seemed almost lifelike. Brightly colored pottery was carefully arranged, each piece a work of art.

  A bard, sitting casually on an overturned barrel, played an enchanting melody on his lyre. The crystalline notes floated through the air, mingling with the market’s lively hum. A small crowd had gathered around him, some swaying gently to the rhythm, others exchanging dreamy glances. A daring child stepped forward to place a flower at the bard’s feet, eliciting a radiant smile from him. Meanwhile, energetic children dashed and laughed between the stalls, occasionally brushing against the displays to the dismay of the merchants. One of them accidentally bumped into Rouis, who caught him by the collar before he could fall.

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  — "Be careful, kid," he said in a calm but firm tone before letting him go. The boy nodded, intimidated, before dashing off again.

  As they continued on their way, an imposing armory stood at the edge of the market. Its stone walls, supported by sturdy oak beams, exuded an air of strength and history. Above the entrance, a wrought-iron sign depicting a shield adorned with two crossed swords swayed gently in the breeze, clinking softly. The tiled floor echoed beneath their steps, each sound adding a subtle solemnity to their approach.

  Upon entering, a familiar scent of metal, leather, and maintenance oil filled the air. Wooden racks overflowed with an array of weapons: finely sharpened swords, sturdy axes, and maces adorned with intricate engravings. Shelves displayed decorated shields and helmets, their visors seeming to silently observe each visitor. At the center of the room, wooden mannequins were clad in imposing armor, ranging from gleaming breastplates to intricately woven chainmail hauberks.

  The merchant, short and stocky, stood behind a massive blackened wooden counter, his ring- covered fingers idly playing with a dagger. He spun the blade in his hands with practiced ease, his piercing eyes quickly assessing Rouis and Ambre. A fleeting smile crossed his lips when his gaze met Rouis’s calm demeanor.

  — "Welcome," he said, inclining his head slightly.

  Rouis ignored the greeting and approached a weapons rack. His gaze drifted over the displayed arms, settling on a slender sword whose blade reflected a silvery gleam under the dim light. He reached out, brushing his fingers over the polished wooden hilt before lifting it slowly. The blade, perfectly balanced, swayed slightly in his palm as he rotated it to gauge its weight. He said nothing, the only sound being the creak of his leather belt as he adjusted his grip.

  he merchant set down the dagger he had been handling and crossed his arms. His rings glinted as he leaned an elbow on the counter, watching Rouis’s movements closely.

  — "How much?" Rouis asked, his voice cutting through the silence without taking his eyes off the weapon.

  The merchant let the moment linger before replying, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. — "Three silver pieces. A fair price for a blade of such quality."

  Rouis didn’t answer immediately. He lowered the sword slightly, his fingers adjusting their grip on the hilt, before raising his eyes to the merchant. A simple nod—a tacit agreement.

  Satisfied, the merchant extended his hand to receive the coins, but Rouis, already sheathing the blade, added in a neutral tone:

  — "A storage belt. And twelve throwing knives."

  The merchant’s smile widened almost imperceptibly. He stepped away from the counter, rummaging through shelves without a word. When he returned, he placed a sturdy leather belt and a small pouch of knives on the wooden counter with deliberate care, as if presenting a treasure. Without even inspecting the items, Rouis counted the silver coins and placed them on the counter. The metallic clink echoed briefly before disappearing into the merchant’s gloved hand.

  Meanwhile, Ambre wandered among the racks, her eyes sparkling with an almost childlike fascination. Her fingers slid over the hilts of weapons, grazing the polished leather and metal. Every blade seemed to catch her attention, but she quickly moved on to the next, unable to linger. — "Try this," Rouis said, approaching her with a sword in hand.

  Ambre turned quickly, excitement flickering in her eyes. She eagerly grabbed the blade, but as soon as she felt its weight, a small gasp of surprise escaped her lips. The sword, heavier than she had anticipated, slipped from her grasp and clattered loudly to the ground, drawing a brief glance from the merchant.

  The merchant, leaning against the counter, raised an amused eyebrow but said nothing. Ambre, her cheeks flushed, hurried to pick up the weapon, her fingers trembling slightly.

  — "This isn’t for me," she admitted with an embarrassed smile, carefully avoiding Rouis’s mocking gaze.

  Rouis retrieved the weapon with a smooth motion.

  — "Merchant, show us some daggers," he said calmly.

  The merchant disappeared into the back room and returned a few moments later with a red velvet cushion. Three daggers rested on it, their blades shimmering under the dim light.

  Ambre stepped closer, her eyes bright with curiosity. She hesitated for a moment before placing her fingers on a marbled blade set in a purple wooden hilt veined with delicate patterns.

  — "This one," she declared firmly, her fingers gently tracing the smooth surface of the handle. Rouis, on the other hand, chose a different blade. He selected a robust steel dagger mounted on a braided leather hilt. He let it sway slightly between his fingers, testing its balance with a precise motion.

  — "This one will do," he said simply, his neutral tone contrasting with Ambre’s enthusiasm.

  But the young woman wasn’t ready to yield.

  — "I want the other one!" she insisted, her impatience breaking through in her voice.

  Rouis shrugged, his indifference barely concealed. The merchant, sensing an opportunity, presented them with a matching sheath. Made of dark brown leather, it was adorned with engraved patterns and accented with faintly shimmering gold threads. The silver clasp, delicately etched with floral designs, added a touch of elegance, while the velvet-lined interior promised perfect protection for the blade.

  — "Six gold pieces," the merchant announced, his smile widening slightly.

  Without hesitation, Ambre retrieved the coins from her purse and placed them in the merchant’s hand with visible pride. Rouis, watching the exchange, allowed a faintly mocking smile to touch his lips but said nothing.

  Outside, Ambre eagerly tested her new acquisition, her eyes alight with excitement. She waved the dagger energetically, but her awkward, overly dramatic movements made her look more comical than intimidating. The blade traced chaotic arcs in the air, each swing betraying her complete lack of technique.

  In an attempt at a martial flourish, she spun on her heel, her arms outstretched in an exaggerated motion. Her foot caught on an uneven cobblestone, and she teetered precariously, nearly colliding with a passerby. The man jumped back with his hands raised in protest as the dagger slipped from her fingers, clattering to the ground with a metallic ring before coming to a halt.

  Rouis, who had been silently observing, couldn’t suppress a mocking smile. Crossing his arms, he tilted his head slightly, as if to better enjoy the spectacle.

  — "Try not to hurt someone before you’ve learned how to use it," he remarked.

  Ambre, stung, raised her chin with feigned dignity. She placed one hand on her hip, the other reaching out toward the fallen dagger.

  — "Maybe you could teach me, then," she retorted.

  Rouis let out a brief laugh, shaking his head slightly. He bent down to pick up the dagger, spinning it deftly between his fingers before handing it back to her.

  — "Teach you? No, I’d rather watch you try," he replied, a sly grin lighting up his face. "It’s much more entertaining."

  Ambre snatched the dagger from his hand with an annoyed sigh, clutching it tightly as if to compensate for her embarrassment with a newfound seriousness. She muttered something unintelligible, her cheeks tinged with pink.

  Still amused, Rouis gestured for them to continue walking. As they moved forward, his gaze remained sharp, ever alert to their surroundings.

  Ambre, however, walked with newfound determination, the dagger firmly gripped in her hand.

  — "Wouldn’t that be good old Rouis, eh, brother?" called a raspy voice, each word drawn out with a hint of mockery.

  Rouis turned slowly. In front of him stood a short, stocky man with a predatory grin, his uneven teeth gleaming under the lantern light. His messy black hair and scruffy beard gave him a disheveled, almost feral appearance. His worn leather vest jingled faintly, stuffed with what looked like a dubious collection of trinkets hidden in its many pockets.

  Beside him loomed a giant, motionless and menacing. A scar running across his right eyebrow added to the intensity of his piercing gaze.

  — "I don’t know you," Rouis replied, his eyes darting between the two as he quickly assessed his options.

  The short man let out a dry laugh.

  — "Oh, but we know you. And you’re not welcome here," he added, his grin widening even further.

  Rouis didn’t move, his arms crossed but his muscles taut.

  — "I’m not staying," he replied sharply.

  The attack came brutally and without warning. The smaller man lunged forward, his fist aimed at Rouis’s face. Rouis dodged with a quick step, blocking a second strike before countering with a clean hit to the man’s jaw. His attacker stumbled back, clutching his face with one hand.

  But the giant didn’t wait. With a smooth motion, he swung a metal pipe, bringing it down with crushing force. Rouis raised his arm to block, but the impact reverberated through his bone, drawing a muffled groan from him. Before he could recover his footing, a second blow struck his stomach, sending him crashing to the ground.

  — "Rouis!" Ambre screamed, her voice slicing through the chaos like a blade.

  She gripped the dagger she had bought earlier with both hands, her thumb sliding nervously over the polished handle. Her breathing quickened, but she refused to give in to panic.

  Clenching her teeth, she took a step forward, brandishing the blade with a trembling hand.

  — "Stop!" she shouted.

  The short man turned toward her, a sneer spreading across his scarred face.

  — "Look at that... the little doll wants to play," he chuckled, a dry, mocking laugh escaping his lips.

  Ambre, though trembling, forced herself to stand her ground. Her fingers tightened around the dagger’s hilt as she took another step forward, raising the weapon higher.

  — "I’m warning you! Let him go, now!" she shouted, her voice a mix of fear and determination. The giant, who had been focused on his task, slowly turned his head toward Ambre. His icy eyes locked onto hers, slicing through her fragile courage like an invisible blade. Without a word, he took a step in her direction, the iron pipe swaying slightly in his massive hand. The metal seemed to whisper a promise of pain, a silent threat that froze Ambre in place.

  She felt her heart stop, her breath becoming erratic. Instinctively, she stepped back, her boots scraping against the cobblestones. Her hands trembled, the dagger wavering slightly in her grip. Part of her screamed to run, but another, quieter part clung desperately to the idea of staying and protecting Rouis.

  The giant advanced again, raising the pipe slightly in a slow but deliberate motion, heavy with intimidation. Ambre, frozen, felt a strange warmth spread down her legs. It took her a moment to realize what had happened. Terror had overpowered her control, and humiliation rose within her like a suffocating wave.

  The smaller man, noticing the scene, burst into a coarse, cruel laugh.

  — "Look at this, brother! She pissed herself!" he exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at Ambre, his shoulders shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

  The giant, a faint sneer tugging at the corner of his lips, lowered his pipe slightly, his deep voice cutting through the tense air.

  — "Brave one, huh?" he chuckled, shaking his head, his eyes still fixed on her.

  Ambre felt tears welling in her eyes, but she refused to lower her head. The shame weighed heavily on her, but another emotion surfaced—burning and insidious: rage. Clutching the dagger tightly in her hand, she refused to give in to their mockery.

  The smaller man lost interest in her, amused, and turned his attention back to Rouis. His fists came down again, brutal and erratic, each impact punctuated by his laughter. The giant, meanwhile, resumed his methodical rhythm, raising and striking his pipe with relentless precision. Ambre felt her body stop trembling. She gripped the dagger so tightly that her knuckles turned white, and her feet ceased retreating.

  — "Let him go!" she screamed again, her cry resonating with renewed intensity.

  This time, the giant slowed, his gaze once again settling on her, evaluating her resolve. His expression remained unreadable, but his shoulders tensed slightly.

  Ambre stepped forward, raising the dagger higher despite her trembling hands. She pointed the blade directly at the giant, focusing her courage on that single motion to avoid faltering.

  — "You don’t want this to end badly," she said, her voice wavering slightly but tinged with defiance she struggled to maintain.

  A sharp whistle sliced through the air, piercing the chaos and halting the action instantly.

  — "The guards!" growled the smaller man, his laughter extinguished in an instant, replaced by raw panic.

  The two attackers froze, their furtive glances meeting as if assessing the severity of the situation. Then, without a word, they bolted into the shadows of the alleys, their silhouettes quickly vanishing into the darkness. The hurried clatter of their boots on the cobblestones echoed one last time before fading, leaving behind an oppressive, almost suffocating silence.

  Ambre collapsed to her knees beside Rouis, her ragged breaths mingling with sobs she no longer tried to suppress. Her trembling hands clutched his shoulders, shaking him gently but with

  desperate urgency.

  — "Rouis, get up..." she murmured, her voice breaking with emotion. Tears streamed down her cheeks, carving trails across a face marked by fear. "Please... stay with me."

  Rouis’s eyes fluttered open slightly, his heavy lids struggling against the overwhelming weight of exhaustion. Each breath he drew seemed like a battle.

  — "The... guards... Ambre... don’t... get caught," he murmured, his words dragged out by his ragged, labored breathing.

  His eyelids closed slowly, his body surrendering to an unbearable exhaustion.

  Ambre’s heart pounded wildly as she scanned the alleys around her, her eyes desperately searching for help that refused to come.

  She slipped her arms under Rouis’s shoulders, pulling with all her strength to lift him. But his heavy, inert body remained rooted to the ground, unyielding to her efforts. Her trembling arms gave way, and she fell backward with a muffled cry—a mix of frustration and despair.

  — "Someone, help us!" she finally screamed, her voice tearing through the silence of the deserted streets.

  Her plea echoed through the empty alleys, but no answer came. Exhausted, Ambre curled up next to Rouis for a moment, her gaze fixed on him, searching for any sign, any movement, any proof that he wasn’t slipping away from her.

  The minutes stretched endlessly, each beat of her heart amplified by the oppressive silence. The city, shrouded in darkness, seemed to transform into a hostile entity—a silent witness to their anguish.