"Looks like I'm not the only one with nowhere to go."
Evan's mind snapped into battlefield reflex when he saw the familiar scar and copper hair—too familiar, too convenient.
In one blur of motion, he slammed Sura against the stone arch, forearm pinning her collarbone while his short-sword edge kissed her throat. The lantern's flame guttered, throwing jittery shadows across their faces.
"Show me your eyes," he hissed.
Sura met his stare without flinching. "I thought you were dead, too."
For some reason, Sura chose not to resist. Was that because she had confidence in her innocence? Or perhaps she was inability to content herself with his signet? That was yet to be seen.
Evan's free hand squeezed her jaw, thumbs pressing into hollows beneath cheekbones, searching for inconsistencies or mask glue. A deceitful appearance by the enemy to cloud his judgment perhaps? But no. Her flesh was warm and bruising. Real. Still, he didn't lower the blade for fear of getting the tables turned against him.
"Who helped you out of the killing net?" he demanded. Blood from his knuckles dripped onto her cloak; his old cut had reopened with the sudden tackle.
"Mike," she answered. "The last thing I remember was him shielding me. I saw him die as I escaped. But I had lost too much blood by then and soon fainted."
Mike—the loyal Mike, always protecting his teammates. Evan couldn't help but recall that he had escaped death in the same way that Sura had. He too was saved by Maim's sacrifice. Had she not shoved him clear of the rune blast he would be on death's bed by now.
But was Sura's account to be believed? It sounded too good to be true and truth could still wear stolen faces.
Evan tightened the sword just enough to make Sura swallow. "Why didn't the Concord bag you on the roads?"
"They tried." She angled her eyes toward his chest. "Your ribs—Evan, you're soaking that bandage."
Only then did the pain catch up. His shirt clung dark and sticky; the sprint, the throw, the shove had split the stitched gash under his ribs. Warmth seeped down his flank. He tasted iron in the back of his throat and realized his vision was tunneling.
Sura's gaze flicked to the signet clasped in his left hand. Its violet core pulsed, weak but steady. "That shouldn't be here unless Godred lost it—or you stole it off his corpse."
"He's alive," Evan said, voice raw. "Very much so."
"Then you took it from him while bleeding like that?" She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. "Only the House heir can own a family rune. If you were servile to the Concord, you'd never be carrying it—much less waving it in my face."
Her words slid past the haze gathering at the edges of his sight. The logic was simple, brutal, unanswerable: traitors don't limp around with royal signets sparking in their palms.
Sword points trembled. For one long beat, they stared—two ghosts in a room that once held six living comrades.
"You're really hurt," Sura whispered. "Lower the steel, Evan."
He tried. The blade dipped, clanged against the stone floor, and skidded away. Darkness surged; knees buckled. Sura caught him under the arms and eased him onto a bunk.
"Don't—" His fingers closed around her wrist, but the grip was smoke. "Could still be trapped…"
"None inside the white door," she said, easing his hand away. "You drew that design yourself, remember?"
Evan's laugh was a ragged cough. "I did, didn't I?"
She tore open his bandage and sucked air through her teeth at the pink-black gash. "Lucky you're not gutted."
"Feels... argued otherwise."
"Hold still." From a shelf, she snatched a jar of honeyed spirits and clean gauze. "You had once patched me, today I'll return the favor. You just need to trust me once."
While she worked, pouring, pressing, wrapping—Evan fought the fog. Sura's hands were sure, the same compact efficiency he remembered on night watches, tying splints for injured civilians. She bound his ribs, wedged a blanket under his shoulders to raise him, and finally pressed a tin mug of watered brandy to his lips.
When the shaking eased, he turned the signet over in his palm, letting its weak glow light her face. "I need to know," he said, throat gravel. "Are you clean?"
She met the light head-on. No burn, no flicker of protest. "I need to know the same of you…", she turned her gaze down not meeting Evan's eyes, "Though at this point it doesn't matter anymore. In the Concord's eyes, you are the mole and you cannot disprove them."
Evan lifted his signet again pointing it to Sura. A violet glint flashed across its edges as if threatening to shred Sura alive.
"So, it was all a setup by you? To frame me?" Evan roared.
But Sura didn't even flinch as she stared at Evan with a trace of pity and helplessness. She could only let out a painful sigh.
"Evan… I think you need to clear your head. You are far too shaken now. I know that feeling," she said with pain in her voice. "Because no matter what I tell you now, I cannot prove my innocence and neither can you."
Evan still kept his stance pointing his signet at her despite his open wounds.
"If patience is not on the table, then kill me if you may. I don't have much left in this world anyway. Just make sure that the death is painless," she said and sank onto the opposite bunk, exhaustion pulling her shoulders low.
Silence spread, but it was not the lethal hush of a stalemate—more the heavy quiet of a medic's tent after triage. Wind prowled beyond the hidden walls; the stove ticked.
Evan broke the stillness first. "Thought you were gone too. To be honest, I couldn't stand the idea of… being the last."
"I almost was," Sura admitted. "But as long as one of us draws breath, they don't own the story."
He nodded, eyes slipping closed. "Dawn," he murmured. "We decide what to do with that story."
"Dawn," she agreed.
The ring's dim light settled between them—small, steady, unwavering until sleep claimed them both.