The Raven’s shout still echoed through the Pit, a sound that sliced the air like a blade. “I’m looking for a boy. Dark skin, scrawny. They say he did something strange in the market. Where is he?” The words were cold, precise, each syllable tightening Cain’s chest like a vice. His left hand, still sore from the failed attempt to shape his flesh hours earlier, clenched into a trembling fist. The market, he thought. The moment he’d hardened his skin to escape Mara, the vendor. Someone had seen. Someone talked. And now the Ravens, whoever they were, were coming for him.

  Lira stood beside him, motionless, her yellow eyes locked on the cloaked man. The dagger in her hand didn’t waver, but the tension in her posture—her rigid tail, her tilted ears—screamed danger. The shelter’s strays had scattered, some crawling into the shadows, others pretending not to hear. No one would speak, not out of loyalty, but out of fear. But Cain knew silence wouldn’t hold. In Iron Crest, everything had a price, and his had just skyrocketed.

  “Move,” Lira whispered, her voice barely a thread. She didn’t look at him, but her free hand pushed him toward the back wall of the warehouse, where a pile of debris hid a crack in the stone. “Now.”

  Cain didn’t argue. His body protested—wasted muscles, hunger like a knife in his gut—but instinct drove him to obey. He crouched, following Lira as she shoved aside a broken plank, revealing a gap just wide enough for a child. Or a bag of bones like him. Lira slipped through first, her feline movements precise even in the dim light, and Cain followed, ignoring the creak of his knees as he crawled.

  The gap spat them into a back alley, a tunnel of black walls coated in slimy moss. The rain had returned, fine but steady, soaking Cain’s tattered tunic and plastering it to his skin. The air reeked of rot and metal, a reminder that Iron Crest never stopped stinking of death. Lira stood, scanning the alley with narrowed eyes. “Run,” she said, her voice low but urgent. “If they find us, you’re done.”

  Cain nodded, though each step was a negotiation with pain. They ran—or rather, Lira ran, and he stumbled after her, his weak legs threatening to give out. The alley twisted, spilling into a web of narrow passages flanked by collapsed buildings. Blue torches flickered in the distance, but here darkness reigned, broken only by flashes of purple lightning in the sky. Cain kept pace, his mind working despite the exhaustion. Ravens. They’re after my ability. Why? To use it? To sell it? He had no answers, but he knew one thing: he wouldn’t let them catch him.

  A crunch sounded behind them, not the patter of rain, but heavy footsteps. Cain glanced back, catching a glimpse of shadows moving at the alley’s end. Two figures, black cloaks billowing, their boots splashing in puddles. One carried a short sword that glowed with a sickly green light; the other held a chain that jingled like a broken bell. Ravens, Cain thought, his pulse racing. They didn’t shout, didn’t threaten. They just advanced, swift and silent, like predators who didn’t need to boast.

  “Faster!” Lira hissed, veering into an even narrower passage. Cain followed, his breathing a harsh rasp. Hunger dizzied him, but fear was a stronger fuel. The passage opened into a crowded street, not the main square, but a makeshift market where vendors shouted under tattered awnings, hawking grayish meat and rusted tools. The crowd—humans, demi-humans, hunched figures that might be something else—was a shield, but also a trap. Cain stuck close to Lira, who moved as if she knew every shadow in the city.

  “This way,” she said, pulling him toward an abandoned stall, its torn canvas flapping in the rain. They ducked behind it, panting. The Ravens’ footsteps drew closer, the chain’s jingle now a clear, metallic heartbeat. Cain clenched his teeth, his mind scrambling for options. Fighting’s not viable. Body too weak, ability too erratic. Running was his only card, but his body was at its limit. The fruit and rancid meat from the Pit barely sustained him; in minutes, he’d collapse.

  Lira glanced at him, her slitted pupils dilated. “They won’t stop,” she whispered. “Ravens don’t hunt for sport. Someone hired them.”

  “Who?” Cain asked, his voice hoarse but calm. He needed data, not panic.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, her tail smacking the ground. “But if they know about your flesh trick, you’re a prize now. And sorry, but I’m not dying for you.”

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  Cain studied her, searching for a lie. He found none. A pragmatic woman, he thought. Keeps me alive because I’m useful. For now. “Then move,” he said, echoing her earlier words. “Find a way out.”

  She snorted but nodded. She peeked past the canvas, her ears swiveling like antennas. “There’s a drain two streets over. Leads to the sewers. It’s disgusting, but safe. If we make it.”

  If, Cain thought, but said nothing. They moved, slipping through the crowd, using stalls and carts as cover. The Ravens were close; Cain felt their gazes, a weight prickling the back of his neck. Once, rounding a corner, he saw the sword-bearer, his weapon glowing as he scanned the street. He was less than twenty meters away, and the gap was closing.

  Lira cursed under her breath, shoving Cain into a side alley. This one was different: wider, but littered with debris—broken carts, rotted barrels, bones Cain chose not to identify. The smell was worse, a sewer stench that churned his stomach. At the alley’s end, a metal grate covered a drain, filthy water trickling into the darkness. The sewers, Cain thought. Not a palace, but better than a sword through the chest.

  “Open it,” Lira said, kneeling by the grate. Her fingers, nimble but trembling, probed the rusted edges. Cain crouched beside her, ignoring the dizziness clouding his vision. The grate was stuck, the metal fused by years of grime. Brute force won’t work, he thought, his mind racing. Leverage. Fulcrum.

  He rummaged through the debris, finding a broken iron bar, just long enough. He wedged it under the grate, using a stone as a fulcrum. “Help,” he grunted, and Lira pushed with him. The metal screeched but didn’t budge. The Ravens’ footsteps were closer, the chain’s jingle now a steady pulse.

  Cain felt the tingling in his skin, the same sensation from the alley, the market, the Pit. Flesh Shaper. Part of him wanted to ignore it—the last attempt had left him shaking—but there was no choice. More strength, he thought, visualizing his right hand: muscles, tendons, bones. He didn’t try for much, just a small reinforcement, imagining the muscle fibers as twisted cables, an echo of the fractals he’d planned earlier. Pain came, sharp but bearable, and his hand tightened, fingers gripping the bar with more strength than they should have.

  “Now,” he said, and they pushed together. The grate gave way with a groan, opening a gap just wide enough to slip through. Lira went first, her feline body vanishing into the dark. Cain followed, the bar clattering as his hand reverted to normal, pain spreading like liquid fire. He crawled after her, the filthy water soaking him, and pulled the grate shut, praying the Ravens wouldn’t see it.

  The sewer was a tunnel of slick stone, the ceiling so low Cain had to hunch. The stench was unbearable—rot, excrement, something worse he didn’t want to name—but the sound of the Ravens faded, replaced by dripping water and his own ragged breathing. Lira led, moving with a certainty that suggested experience. Not her first escape, Cain thought, filing the detail away.

  The tunnel opened into a wider chamber, a stone vault covered in moss and claw marks Cain chose not to analyze. Water pooled in shallow puddles, reflecting faint light filtering through cracks in the ceiling. It was cold, damp, and vile, but it was empty. Safe, at least for tonight.

  Lira stopped, leaning against a wall. Her cloak dripped, and for the first time, Cain noticed her labored breathing, not just from the run. “They didn’t follow,” she said, her voice low but tense. “We’re safe for now.”

  Cain slumped against another wall, his body trembling. The effort of the chase, the use of Flesh Shaper, had pushed him to the edge of collapse. But they were alive. “Good hideout,” he muttered, his voice dry but with a hint of approval.

  Lira looked at him, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “It’s not a hideout, it’s a tomb if you don’t know how to move.” She paused, studying him. “You did it again, didn’t you? With your hand. I saw how you gripped that bar.”

  Cain didn’t answer right away. His mind replayed the moment: the muscle reinforcement, the imagined fractal pattern, the pain. It had worked, but barely. Not enough. “Maybe,” he said finally, dodging the truth. “Doesn’t matter now.”

  She snorted but didn’t press. Instead, she pulled something from her cloak: a piece of stale bread, smaller than the one in the Pit, and broke it in two. She tossed half to Cain. “Eat. I don’t want to drag you through the sewers.”

  Cain caught the bread, his stomach growling. He bit into it, ignoring the moldy taste, and felt a spark of energy. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him conscious. As he chewed, he studied Lira. She wasn’t an ally, not truly, but she’d gotten him out of the Pit. For her own reasons, he thought. But reasons or not, he was alive.

  “Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice calm but direct.

  Lira smiled, showing sharp teeth. “Because a prize like you doesn’t go to waste, little one. But don’t get comfortable. Down here, even allies can bite.”

  Cain nodded, swallowing the last bite of bread. The sewers were a refuge, but not a home. The Ravens were still out there, and his ability, his damned ability, was a beacon drawing trouble. Survive tonight, he thought. Tomorrow’s a new day. He closed his eyes, the drip of water like a distant heartbeat, and let exhaustion claim him, if only for a moment.