"There, there…" Evan stroked the pony's back as he fed him.
For days, Evan traveled on his pony. Always on alert. He couldn't be sure when the Concord might strike again.
Eventually, the pony refused to consume more."
"Already done? How could that be? Dine like it's your last day alive, Molly. You never know when it might be cut short," saying so he nudged the pony to eat more.
In the event of an ambush by the Concord, Evan might have to abandon the poor animal to its fate. This is why he couldn't help but treat the poor animal as best as he could.
As more days passed, each owl hoot jarred Evan's heartbeat; every crack of a random twig sounded like a blade closing in. Yet no torchlight gleamed on the ridge, no whistle broke the dark. Either the Concord had spread its net to the highways, or they believed the river had washed away Evan for good.
But Evan could never let his guard down. Being a member of the Disavowed himself, he was aware of their ruthless methods.
After a few days, the orchard hills softened into sheep country. Fog pooled in the folds of land like spilled milk, and Evan's pony picked its careful way between stone walls. At an abandoned charcoal burner's hut, just four sodden walls and a rusted roof—he kindled a fire small enough to pass for embers. Hard cheese melted in river water rasped down a throat raw from hours of cold air.
The night carried frost on its breath. Moonlit clouds parted to reveal the two familiar hills, and silver light quivered over elder thickets that hid the Hollow. The world held its breath—no runes, no boot tracks, only rabbit prints in the rime.
Evan dismounted. "Easy, old friend. Almost there," he murmured, rubbing its neck. He led the pony to a shed to shield it from the sun. "This will be our new home now."
Evan slowed down as he walked towards the Hollows with bated breath. Throughout his journey, he had been on the edge. He could finally let his muscles loose.
The door was covered in brittle branches which scraped against his glove and his Armor's iron, the half-height door had its hinges locked by rust.
"Open sesame." With one hard shove, one squeal of metal, it sagged inward like a tired lung.
Cold, peat-scented air rolled out. Sparks from his Armor woke dry moss, and a stair glimmered down into the hill. Chalk scribbles still scarred the walls, tallies of shattered glass, and broken furniture.
The Hollows seemed anything but abandoned but its current state was deliberate.
'Any prying eyes would immediately catch disinterest. And those with too much free time to venture deep inside would die to the traps, never to tell a living soul as to what they saw.'
Evan picked up the lantern stationed at the entrance. He shook it to check if it had any oil left. Finally, he lit it up. Dust swirled in the weak lantern glow. The passage looked every inch the dead end: rot-dark beams, broken crates, a tangle of cobwebs stitched across a ceiling crack. The wind moaned somewhere deeper, carrying the cold reek of peat. Anyone else would have turned back.
Evan tapped a floor stone with the toe of his boot—thud, thud—then edged left to skirt it. A square of soot marked the stone's center; stop there, and a hidden grate would drop you into a shaft only the rats knew. He kept moving, boots whispering through the litter.
Halfway down the corridor, a splintered barrel rested on its side. Evan braced one palm on the rim and pushed—nothing. He pushed again, this time tilting the rim north-west by two finger-widths. Metal clicked. A section of wall swung inward a hair, just enough to show a seam.
"Still loyal, aren't you, old place?" he whispered.
He ducked through the gap. Behind him the wall eased shut on silent hinges, burying the dust and the lie. Ahead, a cleaner tunnel sloped down. Here the air warmed; the smell shifted to wool, smoke, and faint herbs.
Evan slowed. Two brass studs glinted low on the wall—trip-line points. The cord itself was hair-thin, its slack tucked neatly against the stone. He pinched it between knuckle and thumb, lifted, slid past, and reset it.
A dozen steps later he reached a timber arch painted with a single white circle. When he touched the circle's center, the plank door lifted into the ceiling with a soft groan. Lamplight spilled out—steady, golden.
The safe core of the Hollow greeted him: stone walls brushed smooth, a compact stove giving off real heat, shelves lined with jars, a long table, and bunks under neat wool blankets. No lack of cleanliness here, only the hush of a room waiting for its owners to come home.
Evan let the breath he'd been holding flow out. 'Made it.' He set the lantern on the table, coaxed its flame higher, and drew the dragon signet from his coat. The gem's violet flecks woke and whirled, catching firelight as though pleased to see warmth again.
He balanced the ring on an overturned mug, then spoke to the empty bunks: "Last piece of us. Safe." The stove ticked in answer.
A quick inventory showed beans, salt pork, candles, and—he laughed softly—an untouched bottle of plum brandy. Enough.
He washed his dirty hands at the hand pump, splashed his face the same, and was easing himself onto a bunk when faint footsteps reached him, muffled by the traps, deliberate, closing, jolting Evan upright. Evan flowed off the bed and drew his short sword in one hand and the signet on the other, pressing to the wall beside the arch.
A slender figure stepped into view, hood low, gloved fingers brushing each stud to reset the trip lines behind her. Copper hair glimmered.
"Sura?" Evan breathed.
The hood fell back. A familiar scar crossed a weather-beaten cheek.
"Evan," Sura said. Her eyes flicked to the signet. "Looks like I'm not the only one with nowhere to go."