They headed north, the most direct path to the Forest. On the alleys, all was quiet and normal. It was a typical morning in the Upper City, people jogging, servants going to work, people walking their dogs.

The three kept silent for a while, but not willingly. The spy wished from the bottom of his heart to comfort them, but he struggled to find the words. Seeing them staggering here and there, gasping, crying in silence but walking on, was very hard for him; the princesses carried their burden better than most people, yet was a heavy burden to carry. In time, the awkwardness of their silence finally bore on them. If only to take their thoughts away from the pain, Heyra broke the ice and started a conversation.

“You have an elven name as we do, isn’t it? How did you get yours? Dad… said it was Providence who inspired him.”

They don’t know, he thought. All for the better; it would be embarrassing…

“My mother’s grandmother eloped with an elf,” he explained. “On her wedding day, no less. They had many kids, and grandma, their youngest child, returned to the Town, looking for an education. The University here is the best in the Realm. So it was in honor of her memory, I presume. My name got me into a lot of trouble.”

“It did?” asked Feyra, surprised.

“Of course. Almost all the kids in school taunted me, all the kinds of bad jokes you can imagine. It was tough. The one thing that saved me was my parents' shop. They had a deli.”

“Had? Are they…” asked Heyra, sympathizing with what he thought to be a fellow orphan.

“No, they sold it and moved to the Archipelago, together with my two brothers. They have a coffee plantation now, an inheritance.”

“Quevedo coffee? Is that yours? I like that one very much!” stated Feyra.

“Well, glad to hear. Yes, it’s my folks' brand. It’s a small plantation, but excellent coffee indeed.”

“So, how did your parents’ shop saved you?” asked Heyra.

“Oh, that... it started when dad told me to get tougher and to beat the bullies. It didn’t go well at all… Some were big. But that beat got me an idea. We had all sorts of good stuff in the store. I stole some good cognac and went to this guy. He was sixteen but huge; no one matched him in strength. He was and still is a boxer, will not give his name, he’s famous. We made a trade. I supply him with drinks, he protects me. He made a point on a few kids, breaking a few noses, then I had a normal school life.”

“Good for you!” stated Heyra.

“No, it’s not!” opposed Feyra. ” Drinking underage is terrible! You could have used cigarettes… ah, well… nevermind.”

He stopped suddenly.

“Do you hear?”

“No, what?” answered both.

“Hooves! Let’s hid behind the trees.”

Walking and talking, they had reached the margins of Ohst Nor. After a Piazzetta surrounded by restaurants, there was only a dirt road that descended into the Forest, leading to a lot of logging businesses and a few hunting lodges.

In the distance, back from where they came, a small dust cloud started to appear, a score of riders approaching, trotting, looking to the ground for tracks. He didn’t need more than a sight to recognize them, although he didn’t saw such riders before. They were riders of the Grass Sea, the steppe who reigned over the continent's northwestern part. Quite a faraway place. They were mercenaries; that was the only possible explanation. Small, fierce, dangerous when many, used to work in a group.

“Let’s fight!” hissed Heyra angrily.

The pain and the stress had got the best of her. She extracted a bow and a quiver of arrows from a package that was tied to her backpack. Istaìnn knew instantly it wasn’t a bow able to penetrate armor, but one for small game. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“We have less than five minutes. Behind that tavern, The Golden Chicken, there’s a path that goes to the Forest. Only a few people know it. Poachers use it to bring the game to the restaurants' kitchens. Take this,” he ‘put the map in Heyra’s hand, taking the bow for himself. “I’ll lure them away then catch up with you. If I don’t reach the lodge by tomorrow morning, leave for d’Ornia.”

“No way!” protested Heyra, but he didn’t have the time to argue. He shoved them and shouted.

“Just go, damn it!”

They obeyed and hurried to get behind the building. Istaìnn ran toward the tavern, put the string on the bow, took the quiver on the back, put on the shooting glove which had been put in the quiver as well, and went up to the terrace of the first floor, jumping the steps two by two. There, he put a foot on the railing, grabbed the water pipe, raised himself on the roof, and hid behind the chimney, taking the quiver off his back and putting it next to him.

A couple of minutes later, the riders were there. The one who looked like the chief, or Sargent, or whatever ranks they had, was examining precisely the spots where the girls had walked.

Goodness, he knows!

He felt like he was split in two. Inside, his real self was afraid and panicking, but somehow, the training he had never applied in real life was taking over, talking to him in the ear like he had a demon on this shoulder.

Aim the horses.

Before the Sargent had time to tell the others about his findings, the spy shot an arrow in the horse belly, then another, and another, and another, in as many horses he could. What ensued was chaos. The Sarge was thrown down and unconscious, horses were prancing, the tavern's patrons were screaming, panicked.

Suddenly, three loud bangs and his hair got covered with brick dust. Three arrows had hit the chimney, missing him by inches. A few riders had dismounted, ignoring the troubles, and went a little farther to shoot at the attacker.

Very professional, he thought. I’m done for. At least the tracks were erased in the process.

What saved him were the clients; they started to run away from the tavern, putting themselves in the mercenaries' way. The riders took the logical solution: wait for the public to evacuate, the fastest way to get rid of them. This was to his advantage; he abandoned the bow, ran on the roof, jumped, caught a branch, and in two seconds, he was on the ground, running due west.

Soon enough, he heard hooves approaching; they were trying to encircle and catch him. The border between the Upper City and the Forest's outskirt was tricky, and he had the advantage of knowing the terrain. Changing course to north-west, he ran directly to the rider who was the tip of the encircling crescent pattern. He threw his dagger in the chest of the horse, threw his blackjack in the face of the next archer, and jumped feet forward in a ravine. The thickets were thorny, yet he disregarded the scratches and the stings, pushing himself onwards, under the branches, farther and farther. He heard a few arrows whistling, but they missed, hitting only foliage and wood. There was no way a horse could come that way; that was confirmed by a horse and rider cutting foot and felling down, tumbling, almost crushing him. The horse got its back broken and the rider his neck.

He heard the hooves galloping west, in search of a way down. He felt relief. They were in the wrong; what looked at first sight as a shorter path around was making a turn south soon; he was safe for now. Crawling the last fifty feet down on his fours, he reached the Old City's ruins and started to run toward the Forest.