The catacombs opened into an abandoned mining shaft just past the northern ridge.
Ash marked the walls.
Rotting beams sagged above.
But for now—it was shelter.
Lucia collapsed beside a half‑cracked lantern, breath catching in her throat. “No guards?"
Ares listened.
Then nodded. “They think we died in the riot tunnel collapse."
She smirked. “Almost poetic."
He didn't smile.
Not yet.
---
The fugitives already hiding in the mine—the pickaxe-wielding exiles, old conscripts, and runaway healers—surrounded them warily.
Then someone recognized Ares's face.
“War Prince," the man whispered. “The dead one."
Ares didn't flinch. “Still breathing."
Lucia stepped beside him. “And still dangerous to those who serve cruelty."
The crowd shifted.
One woman pointed at Lucia's wrists. “You we
