CHAPTER 574: THE STRANGE MISSION (END)

"Sorry. Very nice moustache. Wrong place, wrong time."

Lyan vaulted over the fallen big man, ducked under the still-rhyming guard’s clumsy swing—"I’ll crush your—ow, my knee!"—and reached the front door in three long strides.

The bar across it was solid iron. He grabbed it, dropped his weight, and heaved.

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then metal screamed. The bar lifted just enough to clear the brackets.

"Will," he grunted.

Will crashed into the door with his shoulder. Wood splintered. The door flew open, slamming into someone unlucky enough to be standing outside with their ear pressed to it.

Lyan and Will tumbled out into the street in a hail of glass, splinters, and drifting potion dust.

Lanterns swung wildly overhead, casting the chaos in a seasick golden sway. A couple of passersby froze mid-step as glittering powder settled on their shoulders, then decided, wisely, to pretend they had seen nothing and hurry away.

Behind them, the apothecary boiled with noise.

Gilded Morrow goons spilled after them a heartbeat later, whistles piercing the night as they signaled down the lane.

Lyan grabbed Will’s arm. "Run."

"Why does every solution you propose involve cardio?" Will wheezed as they sprinted down a narrow side alley.

"Because you keep insulting crime bosses," Lyan said.

They ran.

The alley kinked left, then right, then spat them into another street lined with shuttered windows and sagging laundry lines. Someone yelled behind them. Boots hammered the cobbles.

Lyan darted under a drooping sheet. Will followed and immediately got tangled, the fabric wrapping around his head and shoulders like a vindictive ghost.

"I can’t see!"

"Then stop running."

Lyan grabbed the sheet, yanked it off over Will’s head, and tossed it behind them. A pursuing thug crashed straight into it, got wrapped up, and toppled like a very angry, very loud parcel.

They darted past a cart piled high with cabbages. A stray bottle from someone’s hand—or maybe from fate—bounced off the wheel, knocked the wedge loose, and sent the cart rolling sideways into the alley.

Two Gilded Morrow muscle ran full-tilt into it. Cabbages erupted, bouncing everywhere. One man went down in a shower of leafy greens.

Lyan did not look back. He grabbed the edge of a half-collapsed market stall, planted one boot on a crate, and vaulted up, using the sagging wooden frame as a ramp.

"Up," he called.

Will, breathing hard, followed, boots slipping on the worn planks. They scrambled onto the low roof of the nearest building just as another thug tried to follow and went crashing through the stall instead.

The rooftops were a patchwork of tiles, gaps, and random chimneys. Tiles shifted and slid under their feet. Lyan kept his weight light, moving from beam to beam. Will nearly put his foot through someone’s roof twice.

At one point he did, up to the knee. He found himself staring into a small, tidy kitchen where a family of three sat frozen around a pot of stew.

"Evening," Will gasped. "Lovely smell. Sorry about the ceiling."

The old woman at the table hurled a chunk of bread at his head. It bounced off his hood.

"Get off my roof, you idiots!" she shouted.

"Working on it!" Will hauled his leg back up and scrambled after Lyan.

Whistles followed them in the streets below, high and low calls echoing off stone. Shadows moved in the alleys, tracking them.

"If the Gilded Morrow decides to hunt someone," Lyan panted, "the whole district becomes a net."

"Excellent," Will said. "I always wanted to be a very tired fish."

They cut across two more roofs, slid down a slanted one in a shower of loose tiles, and dropped into another alley. Lyan led them toward a more broken stretch of buildings where gaps and rubble offered hiding places.

A half-collapsed warehouse loomed ahead, one corner caved in. They slipped through the sagging doorway and into the dim interior.

It smelled of old grain and dust. Moonlight bled in through holes in the roof. Stacks of rotting crates and burlap sacks made islands of shadow.

"Here," Lyan murmured.

They ducked behind a half-toppled stack of sacks, pressing back into the cool wall. Their breath sounded too loud in the tight space.

Bootsteps thundered past outside. Voices shouted, grew nearer, then receded.

After a long minute, the night settled back into its usual noise—the distant clink of bottles, a dog barking, the murmur of the lower quarter never quite sleeping.

Will sagged down until he was sitting on the dirt floor, back against the sack, head thumping softly against it. His hair was full of stray herbs and glittering powder. One particularly stubborn sprig stuck out like a tiny tree at his temple.

Lyan leaned beside him, one hand pressed briefly to his ribs. His cheek itched where a potion stain had dried, leaving a faint, intermittent sparkle whenever he moved.

For a while, they just breathed.

Then Will patted his cloak absently, frowning. His hand dipped into an inner pocket and came back out holding something small and dark.

The slim vial glinted faintly in the moonlight.

Sample vial seven.

Lyan stared at it. "Tell me that is not what I think it is."

Will blinked at it, then grimaced. "In the chaos," he said slowly, "I may have... not put it back."

"You put it in your pocket," Lyan said.

"It was habit!" Will protested. "You examine, you pocket, you pay. I forgot the paying part."

They looked at each other. Then at the vial.

"You know what this means?" Will said.

"Yes," Lyan said. "We just robbed a crime syndicate of their fake miracle tonic."

Will blew out a breath and let his head thump back again.

"So now," he said, "we are on a hit list over a potion that barely works."

"Correction," Lyan said. "You insulted them, then we stole from them. Now they have motive and proof."

(At least you committed entirely.)

Hestia sounded half irritated, half impressed.

(You could sell it back to them later at a markup.)

Cynthia was still delighted.

Lyan pinched the bridge of his nose.

"On the bright side," he said, "tonight has confirmed that their miracle cures are scam-tier. That is useful information."

"This from the man who just nearly got me turned into rhyming stew," Will muttered.

They waited until the noise outside thinned, then slipped back into the alley, keeping to the narrowest paths. The city felt different now. The same lanterns burned, but every shadow seemed to lean in a little, listening.

They walked slower, the adrenaline draining from their limbs, leaving aches behind.

"So," Will said after a while, voice dry. "To summarize: I still have a psychological condition, I offended a syndicate boss, we destroyed a shop, inhaled at least three experimental potions, and we’re now wanted criminals in a part of town we barely know."

"On the bright side," Lyan said, "your problem is no longer the most urgent one."

"That does not help," Will said.

"It was worth a try."

They crossed into a slightly wider street where the faces in the windows were more curious than calculating. The lamps here were fewer, the air less thick with expectation.

"We did learn something," Lyan said. "About the Gilded Morrow’s operation. About their pricing. About their willingness to trap customers in back rooms."

"And that their best potion is overpriced mood tea in a bottle," Will said, lifting the vial to eye level. "Look at it. Sitting there like it’s important."

He turned it between his fingers, expression sour. "I should smash it and let the cobbles be disappointed too."

Lyan reached out and caught his wrist.

"Don’t waste it," he said. "Evidence. Maybe ingredients. If it’s something you know, we can improve it. Make a version that works for you, not for their profit margin."

Will hesitated. Then he sighed and slipped the vial back into his cloak.

"Fine," he said. "We’ll keep the overpriced optimism syrup."

They walked in silence for a few more streets. The buildings grew less crooked, the smell a little cleaner. Somewhere ahead, an inn’s sign creaked gently in the wind.

"Next time I ask for help," Will said finally, "remind me I don’t want it."

"Next time you insult a syndicate boss," Lyan said, "remind yourself to run sooner."

They reached an inn on the edge of the safer district—a place with plain shutters, a modest sign, and the kind of tired warmth that came from honest business. The innkeeper took one look at their bruises, their dust, and the way they handed over coin without haggling, and wisely asked no questions beyond "Two beds?"

"Yes," Lyan said, almost before Will opened his mouth.

"A tragedy," Will muttered.

They climbed the narrow stairs, boots heavy on the wooden steps, and found their room. Two narrow beds, a small window, a chipped basin.

Will all but fell onto the nearest bed, armor half-off, boots still on. He stared up at the ceiling as if it might apologize for the night.

Lyan set the vial carefully on the small table between the beds, where it caught the lantern light with a faint, accusing gleam. Then he sat on his own bed, exhaled, and let himself fall backward.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Will sighed.

"What a night," he murmured.

"Mm," Lyan agreed, already feeling sleep tugging at him. "And we still haven’t fixed your original problem."

"Shut up," Will said without any force.

Outside, somewhere in the lower quarter, a whistle blew, sharp and angry. Voices rose and fell. The city turned over in its restless sleep.

The vial on the table glinted faintly in the dim light, a tiny dark promise of more trouble to come.

Lyan closed his eyes.

(You are going to have to deal with this, you know.)

Arturia’s voice was soft now.

"I know," he thought.

(Preferably before he drags you back into another syndicate’s shop.)

Eira, at least, had a point.

"For tonight," Lyan answered them, "I am going to ignore the existence of crime, potions, and princes."

Cynthia’s laughter faded to a hum of warmth.

(For tonight, then.)

He let their voices blur into the quiet and, bruises complaining in polite rebellion, drifted off.

In the street below, the Gilded Morrow began to count their losses and mutter new names for their lists.

The night was not done with them.

But for the moment, in a small rented room, two very tired idiots slept like men who had survived just enough for one day.