The night was absolute—a crushing, starless black that smelled of wet straw, old smoke, and the creek's dank silt. Alex lay on the straw cot, his body still, listening to the guttural, rumbling snore of Theron from the small partition separating their space. The air in the shack was thick with the reek of stale ale and cured leather, a sensory nightmare that was now, paradoxically, his anchor to reality.
At his core, the dense, freezing weight of the full Stillness tank pulsed quietly. It was his lifeline, purchased from the graveyard's quiet decay. He knew its rules: sufficient for two complex spells, or twenty seconds of simple, sustained vigor. He had to be surgical.
The Asset Raid
At the predictable rhythm of Theron's deepest sleep cycle, Alex slid off the cot. The cold dirt floor instantly sucked the warmth from his bare feet, a biting shock that sharpened his focus.
He moved to the hearth, where Theron kept his meager wealth hidden. The cavity was sealed by a loose stone, heavy and awkward. Moving it with pure human strength would create a scraping sound that would wake a dead man—or a heavy sleeper like Theron.
Alex pressed his fingers against the cold stone. He initiated a minimal, controlled flow of Stillness, lending a sliver of that unnatural vigor to the stone itself.
The heavy granite slab became light, lifting silently without grinding against the surrounding earth. It felt like moving a piece of bone. One second of low Stillness used.
Inside the dark cavity, Alex's hands—guided by memory and the subtle Stillness mapping—found the small pouch of silver and copper coin, and, more importantly, the rough map showing the Oakhaven Creek path and the route to the Thorp of Wyllow. He also secured a wickedly sharp, well-maintained leatherworking knife—his only weapon.
The Clothing of Escape
Next came the gear exchange, essential to survive the miles of damp forest. Elian's rags were useless against the cold, pervasive chill of the King's Wood.
He found Theron's best, dirtiest traveler's cloak—a heavy, coarsely woven wool that repelled the damp like a turtle shell. He shed his tunic and donned the cloak, the rough, dry wool scratching against his skin. He traded his worn, tied shoes for Theron's high-laced travelling boots. They were a size too large, but the thick, cured leather and dense soles offered critical protection against the cold and the uneven path.
His body was now burdened by weight and bulk, but shielded from the elements.
The Final Lock
Alex crept to the back door. It was a flimsy thing, secured by a wooden bar and a rusty iron latch that was guaranteed to shriek when opened. This was his final, critical obstacle.
He placed the knife in his teeth and, gripping the latch, commanded a sustained draw of Stillness, focusing it entirely into his hands and the metal mechanism.
"Stillness. Silence the friction. Hold the sound."
The flow was intense, an almost painful cold running through his arms. The rust on the latch seemed to freeze into silence. He lifted the bar, carefully, slowly, the entire mechanism opening without a single squeak or shudder. Three seconds of Stillness used.
He pulled the heavy door open just wide enough to slip through, then reversed the Stillness flow, silently locking the bar back into place. He had not only ensured silence but subtly froze the latch—imbuing the metal with enough residual Stillness that it would stick and take Theron precious, life-saving minutes to force open.
He was out. He melted into the pervasive darkness of the back alley, leaving behind the shack and the stench of Theron's decay.
The journey was now under the unforgiving open sky. He turned his heavy-booted feet toward the Oakhaven Creek path, his sole remaining possession being the dense, internal cold of the magic that had just paid for his freedom.