Carlos Suarez ran.
The news of Korrin Vale's execution had spread fast, whispered from dock to market, from tavern to alley. The Council of Wolves had cut the mercenary down without hesitation. The only thing more dangerous than Korrin alive was Korrin dead—because before his death, he named names.
Carlos's name.
He reached the old mountain house at dusk, lungs burning. It was the last place he thought anyone would look. The roof sagged, shutters hung loose, weeds claimed the stone path. Anna had locked it years ago when they had left for better prospects. Now it smelled of dust and mildew.
He broke the lock with a stone. The door groaned. Inside, he dropped his satchel—half-filled with coins, letters, and one seal he dared not show. He sat against the wall and listened to the empty creak of the house.
For the first time in years, there was no noise of the docks, no sound of men calling for orders. Only the silence of a man on the run.
