Katyl wiped a stripe of sweat from her brow, then took her own knife, still glistening from before, and slid it into place. She took Aolyne’s unhurt hand in hers, then beckoned for Xyron and Kai to flank the column of children. Luzia, with her strength returning little by little, moved to the back. Both she and Katyl were feeling the consequences of too much magic usage.

Xyron grabbed the sword so tight that his knuckles hurt. He didn’t feel brave, but he felt something. Behind them, the church burned, and ahead, the trail to the western gate was shined in the oily heat. Between both places, the sky broke again with the crack of another distant boulder. This time, Xyron saw it coming, and he was ready to move, no matter what waited on the other side.

They moved west, a wedge of survivors saving itself through the core of a dying village.

Xyron was almost grateful for the smoke; it clouded the chaos into shifting silhouettes, and it spared Aolyne and the other kids from seeing what really lined the streets now. Even with Aolyne curled tight against his chest and his chin tucked over his brother’s hair, Xyron couldn’t unsee the colors. Patches of red that looked wrong on the stones, or the darker shapes of people who had not been quick enough or were caught out by the crush. He kept his eyes on Katyl’s back, trying to match her pace, but the air burned going into his body, and he could barely taste anything over the weird mix of ash and dust clinging to his tongue.

Katyl didn’t speak unless she had to. When the crowd thickened, she said, “Left.” And they obeyed. When rubble forced a detour, she raised a hand, waved them low, and picked a gap between broken beams and the occasional burning plank. Sometimes she shouldered fellow villagers aside, a trembling older woman with a basket of nothing, a man holding a stained bandage to his head, or a boy Xyron’s age with a look so blank he might have slept his way into the end of the world. The way she moved was different now, heavy in her legs but springy at the knees, as if every step hurt and she refused to show it, and every few meters she flexed her right hand, working something loose in the knuckles.

Kai followed tightly behind, his eyes everywhere except where he was supposed to be. The sword he’d taken from the church fight kept banging his thigh, and every time it did, Kai’s hand snatched at the hilt like he expected something to leap from the smoke. Once he caught Xyron’s eye and flashed a nervous smile. Xyron wanted to joke, to say something like “Race you to the gate!” But it really was not the time for that.

Luzia was a few strides to their left, herding the orphans in a wavering line. Her face had gone pale after the shield and healing; the dried smear of blood on her lip made it look even paler. She kept a hand on the smallest girl’s shoulder, steering her away from anything too awful, and her mouth moved constantly, muttering to the children in a voice that was drowned by the chaos. Sometimes one of them tripped or sobbed aloud, and Luzia would gather them back in with a “Shhh”, doing all she could to keep them under control.

The main street was nearly unrecognizable. Where once were wooden stalls and a smithy, only a blackened frame stood, as if it was the skeleton of the now destroyed place. The sharper clang of swords had replaced the sound of hammers beating on heated metal. Every so often, from deeper in the smoke, came the shouts of fighting knights.

Katyl aimed the group away from the fighting, and if any villagers recognized her as she passed, none were fast enough to join in.

The crowd thickened, everyone squeezing toward the same direction, the western gate. It was complete chaos; people sobbed, elbowed, and cursed. A woman somewhere behind shouted at a man to let her through, and someone else was screaming out a child’s name over and over. The gate itself was visible only in flashes, two large planks thrown open, with a fracture of pale daylight beyond. Guards stood on either side, arms stretched wide, not to hold people back but to keep them from trampling each other. No one listened. The crowd was too big, and too chaotic, and at that moment Xyron understood the only way out was through. Katyl turned to them, sweat flowing through the soot on her face.

“Stay close.” Then she turned again and dove into the mass, her hand on the sword, her shoulders low. The boys and Luzia followed, or tried to. There was no order, only the instinct to keep Katyl in sight and to never, ever stop moving.

It was a mess of blurry noises and color. A man with an empty baby sling screaming at nothing, a pair of twins tripping in the mud and getting nearly stampeded before Xyron and Kai each grabbed one under an arm and yanked them forward, a cart stacked with bedding and clothes that lost a wheel and spilled everything, turning the street into a tangle of sheets. Xyron lost sight of Luzia in the surge, then found her again when the crowd flowed to the side to avoid a patch of burning oil, and she was suddenly right next to him, her arms full of panicked children who grabbed at her sleeve and would not stop crying.

Aolyne clung tighter and tighter, burying his head so deep in Xyron’s shoulder it hurt. Xyron tried not to think about what the boy was hearing, or what he might remember later, if there was a later. He was so focused on the way ahead he barely noticed when a hand, Katyl’s, locked on his wrist and jerked him sideways into a gap behind the broken cart. They were at the front now, only a dozen people between them and the open gate.

And then, the world ignited once again.

The third wave came without warning, the sky filled with the howl and shine of burning boulders. One struck near the eastern quarter, obliterating an entire block in a single flash of blinding light, the concussion wave rippling out and knocking the entire line of people to the ground. Xyron went down hard, Aolyne on top of him, and felt his bones tremble. Katyl was already up, dragging them both by the scruff of their shirts, yelling at Kai and Luzia.

“Get up! Go!” The gate seemed a blur, the guards yelling something, but the only thing that mattered was the open space just beyond it, the possibility that if they could get there, the danger would not follow.

Xyron half carried, half dragged Aolyne through the last stretch. He almost lost a shoe in the scramble, and his foot came down in something sharp, but the pain didn’t register. He was through the gate, he was outside, and the only sound now was the desperate panting of people who had made it a few steps farther than fate had let them.

He looked back.

The smoke was thicker than ever, hiding most of the village, but the boulders had done their work; where the eastern quarter used to be, only a flaming void remained. Xyron saw shapes moving in it, some upright, some not, but he couldn’t tell if they were enemies or what was left of friends. He searched for the church, but it was gone. For a second he wondered if Paul had made it, then shut the thought down, because right now what counted was saving himself and those with him.

Katyl scanned the field, counting heads. Kai was there, bleeding from a cut on his cheek, but otherwise fine. Luzia had gotten all the children through; one was limping, but Luzia lifted her up and just kept moving, not even slowing down to check her own bleeding nose. Aolyne didn’t say anything, not even a whimper, and Xyron realized the boy was in some state beyond shock, as if he was empty, running on pure animal need to stay close and breathe air that was not on fire.

They stood on the open grasslands, hundreds of others running out with them. For a single instant, the space felt limitless: the sky above, the sweep of green ahead, nothing but wind and the slight sound of weeping to remind everyone they were still alive. Behind them, the village was still burning, and the last of the boulder smoke rose into the sky.

Katyl looked west, towards the direction of the next town, Zakria. Her face was serious, the lines deeper than Xyron had ever seen them, but she relaxed just a bit and started walking. The others followed, one step at a time, away from the heat and the memory of flame.