The countryside was still, quiet. The Fae rarely ventured from major settlements and they had little need to send scouts to attempt to survey the massive expanse of mostly barren land.

  But that didn’t stop every rustle of leaves, every crunch of gravel, every gust of wind on the back of her neck from sending ice down Everyn’s spine.

  She wasn’t being followed; of that, she was confident. She was too fast, the route too unpredictable. There hadn’t been a sign of the Faedemon since she fled the docks.

  Still she couldn’t help feeling like a mouse in an open field; at any moment she could be snatched up.

  She pushed herself harder, feeling her Runebind sapping her energy away by the second as she moved so quickly through the tall grass that it lashed her exposed fingers and her shins where her pants didn’t quite reach her boots. The lightly bleeding cuts on her wrists stung with the night’s dew.

  Everyn’s energy was nearly completely gone by the time she reached the secluded cave’s mouth.

  The old wooden supports sagged, threatening to give up at any moment, but held together with freshly applied Wards, that glowed ever so slightly in the dark of nights They were smeared with dirt to keep them from shining, keep them from being spotted.

  This used to be a Dewsilver mine before the war. The occasional droplet still sparkled in the crevices of the rock. Little puddles contaminated with mud or rainwater sat untouched in pocks on the floor.

  Every paced silently through the dark, even in the near pitch black she knew the tunnel like the back of her hand.

  The rails and carts had long since been reclaimed to forge weapons and armor, even the spikes that held them in place became salvage.

  Even if this place were new to her, there’d be nothing left for her to trip on.

  Eventually the darkness gave way to the hazy purple glow of distant Lightrunes.

  Two guards waited patiently, but poised to strike as she approached.

  “Name, route, and Runebind?” Rivah demanded, his longsword pointed in her direction. The poor boy wasn’t even fifteen years of age yet. That weapon seemed too cumbersome for his slender frame. His armor was too big, slipping clearly uncomfortably down from his shoulders.

  “Evergreen. Route 241. Hare’s Fleet.” She replied, taking off her fingerless glove extending her hand, palm up, exposing her wounded wrists as Devi approached with his dagger extended. His own longsword had since been sheathed.

  Devi’s nerves had calmed with his experience. He was an older man, at least as old as most seemed to get these days, at the ripe age of 42.

  “We all know wounds and scars can be faked, Ev. I still have to test.” He responded, shaking his head disappointedly as though he himself didn’t truly believe it was necessary. No one could perfectly mimic the extensive scars up Everyn’s neck, the tiny white blurs like comets across her wrists. The tiny starshaped pattern of scarring and scabs on the heel of her palm from the multitude of previous ‘tests’. There were too many details to copy and these men knew her scars about as well as she did.

  “I know,” She replied, bracing herself for the dagger’s sting. There was something so much worse about the pain you knew was coming.

  He gripped her wrist gingerly, avoiding the shards of glass and scratches with his dirty fingers. He was swift with the blade, far more experienced than his counterpart.

  Of all the guards, Desi knew how to make sure it hurt the least. The younger men and women tended to mangle it, the blade slipping at painful angles. Everyn swore once she felt it pluck at a tendon in her palm.

  But with Desi, the tip of the old blade went in and was yanked free within the blink of an eye. Hot, fresh blood dripped from her cold hand.

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  Desi stared at it silently, waiting for any sign it would close up swiftly on its own. Though the boredom on his face was more than clear. He knew nothing of the such would happen. It never had and everyone knew that if the Fae ever found this place, their attack wouldn’t be so subtle.

  After the mandatory wait period, Rivah lowered his weapon. Desi tucked his dagger away and pressed his palm to the large Banelocked Door.

  His living tissue was briefly enveloped in the steel before the magic recognized the living flesh of this approved user and peeled itself back like a blooming flower.

  The narrow recently carved atrium was empty, save for a lone elderly woman at what was once a well carved table, but had since been scuff and mangled by heavy use. Ink splotches riddled the surface from the careless spills of the less careful.

  Everyn did not know this woman's name, but she rarely interacted with the Sparkless refugees. She almost envied the Sparkless, they had a choice to help or hide. Those with a Spark were conscripted and forced into Runebinds the second they displayed even a hint of aptitude. If she had the time outside of work and healing, she might have tried to make some friends in the compound, but her friends were limited to her teammates.

  As she approached the table, Everyn noticed that the old woman had the sophistication and poise of a noble. The soft hands of one too. But how a noble survived the scourge, especially one this aged, was a miracle in itself. Of course, she couldn’t be certain this woman was a noble. Few people dared to talk about their pasts and fewer bothered to ask.

  Whoever you were five years ago, you sure as the hells weren’t that person anymore.

  As Everyn approached the table, the elderly woman gave her a polite nod and a half-hearted smile.

  She grabbed a scrap of parchment that had clearly been washed and reused many times from the stack on her left before dipping a ratty quill in what appeared to be coal dust and some sort of oil, perhaps fat, and setting the tip against the paper.

  “Name?” Her voice was clear and melodic. Perhaps she had been a performer, not a noble. That would have given her a far more likely chance at survival.

  “Everyn. Deliveries. Dusk.” Everyn included her department and team without waiting to be prompted. She’d done this too many times to count.

  Next the woman would ask the name, route, and Runebind of the team with the parcel. They wanted to know when to expect the goods to arrive.

  Valan, it’s always Valan. You would expect they would know that by now.

  Regardless, Everyn let the woman take her notes, shuffle through her papers, before speaking again.

  “You’re the first one back," the elderly woman finally commented.

  Everyn nodded once, “Hare’s Fleet.” She explained.

  The woman chuckled in understanding, “Who’s got your parcel, sweetie?”

  “Valan. Route 19. Gods’ Eye. There were two crates tonight.”

  “Strong boy,” She muttered to herself, clearly impressed.

  The old woman jotted down the notes on Valan on a new piece of scratch paper, before looking up to Everyn, her face turning serious as she spotted her bloodied wrists, “Did you have trouble tonight?”

  Everyn let out a long breath, “Faedemon. Right at the docks.”

  The woman paled, “Oh… Poor thing. Are we-- Are we expecting your whole team to return?” She asked delicately.

  Everyn nodded, “By the grace of the gods. The injuries were minor. Everyone’s alive.”

  Tension released from the elderly woman's shoulders, “By the grace of the gods,” She echoed, before questioning, “Do you need to get those looked at, sweetie?” She pointed the flight of her quill at the bloodied streaks, “It looks painful.”

  “Oh, no," Everyn insisted. “I can take care of it myself.” She tugged her dark sleeve down over the minor wounds.

  “Did you at least manage to kill the bastard that did this?” The old woman asked, the harsh language a strange contrast to her sweet voice.

  Everyn shook her head.

  “Didn’t expect as much. They’re tough beasts.” The woman replied as she jotted something down among her notes.

  “Though we did manage to get two Lesser Scouts.” She added, not so much as a matter of pride but a condolence to herself for not killing that gods-damned demon.

  The woman's face brightened, “Well that’s some good news! And not an unimpressive feat for a courier.”

  Her quill scratched at the paper vigorously.

  “Do you have anything else you need me to note down before I let you go take care of those nasty cuts, sweetie?” She asked once her quill had stilled.

  “Nothing to report,” she concluded.

  With a nod of acknowledgement the woman smiled sympathetically, “You have a good night, Dear. Be sure to wash those wounds well.”

  “I will.” Everyn agreed as she began making her way through the carved halls of the mines.