The riots raged long into the afternoon. By the time the smoke cleared, the streets of the capital smelled of ash, blood, and fear.
Cael, Rowan, and Elira found shelter in the back of an abandoned smithy, its forge cold and its tools scattered across the floor. Rowan barred the door with an iron rod while Elira tended to a cut on Cael’s arm—he had been clipped by a flying stone in the chaos.
“You can’t keep stepping into danger without thinking,” Rowan growled, pacing. “One wrong move and you’ll expose yourself.”
Cael winced as Elira dabbed at the wound. “I couldn’t just stand by. They were hurting innocent people.”
“And what will you do when an arrow finds your heart, boy? Noble intentions won’t stop steel.”
Elira shot Rowan a sharp look. “He’s not wrong to care. That compassion is w
