Casteel hesitated, eyeing the narrow opening with concern. "Nero's wounds—"
"Will have to endure," Nero finished grimly, his face pale but determined. "Help me down."
The passage was worse than it appeared from above—damp stone walls that scraped against shoulders, the ceiling so low they were forced to crawl in places. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through Nero's chest, but he pushed forward with single-minded focus. Through their bond, Casteel felt each spike of pain as if it were his own, yet he also sensed his mate's iron resolve.
Behind them came the distant sounds of the safehouse being breached—shouted commands, splintering wood, the clash of steel. Eryken urged them forward with hushed intensity, his own injuries forgotten in the desperate flight.
"Almost there," Lucan called back softly. "I can see the exit grate."
The narrow tunnel widened slightly as they approached its end, allowing them to crouch rather than crawl. Lucan worked at the rusted grate with a small pry tool, the metal groaning in protest before finally giving way.
"Clear," he whispered after a quick survey. "Brewery storage cellar."
One by one they emerged into a cavernous space filled with barrels and brewing equipment. Nero's face was gray with exhaustion, his breathing shallow and labored. Blood had seeped through his bandages, staining his shirt in a widening crimson patch.
"We need to rebind his wounds," Casteel insisted as Makim helped Nero lean against a stack of barrels.
"No time," Eryken countered, already moving toward the cellar stairs. "The Silver Guard will realize we've escaped within minutes. We need to be well away by then."
"Five minutes," Casteel demanded, his voice taking on a hardness that surprised even himself. "Five minutes or he won't make it past the city walls."
Something in his tone—perhaps the echo of the wolf beneath his skin—made Eryken pause. The rebellion commander studied them both, then nodded curtly. "Five minutes. Not a second more."
Makim worked with practiced efficiency, cutting away the blood-soaked bandages and applying fresh ones with herbs packed tightly against the wounds. Nero endured in silence, his eyes never leaving Casteel's face.
"This will hold for a time," Makim said finally, securing the last bandage. "But he needs proper rest, clean dressings, and stronger medicine."
"None of which we'll find here," Nero said, pushing himself upright with effort. "What's our exit strategy?"
Lucan had returned from scouting the upper level.
"There's a delivery wagon in the alley behind the brewery," Lucan reported in hushed tones. "Driver's gone, probably fled when he saw the Silver Guard. We could use it to get through the city gates—less conspicuous than trying to move on foot."
Eryken nodded grimly. "The northern gate is our best option. Captain Aldric has contacts there—guards who might look the other way for the right price."
"And if they don't?" Casteel asked, helping Nero toward the stairs despite his mate's attempt to walk independently.
"Then we fight our way through," Eryken replied with the cold pragmatism that had kept him alive through years of rebellion. "But it won't come to that. The guards at the northern gate have families to feed—they'll take our gold and ask no questions."
They climbed the brewery stairs in tense silence, each creak of old wood seeming to echo like thunder in the stillness. At the top, Lucan peered through a grimy window before gesturing them forward.
The delivery wagon was exactly as described—a sturdy cart with high wooden sides and a canvas cover, designed for haulinggrain or other bulk goods. The horses were still in their traces, stamping nervously at the sounds of conflict drifting from the direction of the boarding house.
"Get in the back," Eryken ordered, checking the harness quickly. "Stay low and stay quiet. If we're stopped, you're injured farmers fleeing the unrest in the eastern quarter."
Casteel helped Nero into the wagon bed, trying not to jar his wounds as they settled among empty grain sacks and straw. Through their bond, he felt his mate's pain like a constant ache but also sensed Nero's grim satisfaction at being in motion again, taking action rather than lying helpless.
Makim climbed in beside them, his healer's satchel clutched tightly. "I've packed supplies for several days," he whispered. "Pain draughts, binding herbs, fever reducers. But if infection sets in..."
"It won't," Casteel said with more confidence than he felt, his hand finding Nero's in the straw. "The bond will help him heal."
Lucan took the driver's seat while Eryken positioned himself as lookout. With a gentle snap of reins, the wagon lurched into motion, wheels creaking over cobblestones as they began their perilous journey through the city.
Through gaps in the canvas, Casteel caught glimpses of Abergenny in chaos. Smoke rose from multiple points across the city, and Silver Guard patrols moved through the streets with increased frequency. Citizens hurried past with their heads down, unwilling to meet the eyes of armed men who served a High Priest rather than their rightful king.
"This is what I've brought them," Casteel whispered, guilt weighing heavily on his chest. "Civil war, brother fighting brother.”
"You didn't bring this," Nero replied firmly, his voice low but steady despite the pain. "Doran did. The moment he decided to use you as a puppet for his ambitions." Through their bond,Casteel felt his mate's conviction even if he wasn't sure he agreed. "These people were already suffering—drought, famine, corrupt officials bleeding them dry. You're not the cause of their pain."
