Chapter 142: Rules of Survival (2)

Her mouth tightened. Four days sounded better until one translated aggressively rationing into what it actually meant: smaller portions for people already exhausted, wounded bodies trying to recover on half the food they needed, children quietly learning to say they were not hungry because they had noticed the adults counting every meal. Then, after all that, they would still have to walk into another hostile Floor and fight whatever waited there.

"And that assumes nothing spoils and nobody else joins us," Dorian added.

The man said it plainly, without the slightest sneer or implication that additional survivors should be abandoned. It was just arithmetic and somehow, Misha found that more irritating than if he had tried to dress it up.

Misha crossed her arms. "And yet, you’ve already decided what you want to do."

He tipped his head slightly to one side. "What makes you say that?"

"You didn’t come in here to tell me we’re running low on food. You came because you already have a plan and want to know when the people currently ruining your schedule will be mobile." Her gaze stayed on him. "Aside from that, you want us to share our supplies."

The corner of his mouth lifted into a small, knowing smile. It was restrained enough that somebody less tired might have mistaken it for politeness. "You are rather direct."

"I’m tired."

"I’ll remember to ask difficult questions only after you’ve rested."

"Then you’ll never get to ask them."

A quiet laugh escaped through his nose. He unfolded his arms and let them fall loosely at his sides before he replied with, "You are right. I want your group to contribute supplies. And, I want your combat support through the next Floors."

Misha scoffed inwardly. ’Of course, of course. I knew it.’

Not only did Dorian want access to their food, potions, and whatever else he suspected she had stored away, he also wanted Astrid, Hiiro, Caius, and herself functioning as additional muscle for Blackthorn. How convenient for him.

"Your group defeated a Primarch," he continued, his voice losing the faint amusement from before. "Your combat strength is significantly higher than ours. Blackthorn can protect a civilian column through the next Floors, but the margin becomes narrower the farther we climb."

She leaned one hip against the chair. "You already know what’s waiting for us on the next floor?"

"I know enough. Floor Twelve is occupied by Hushers. There is one primary road cutting through most of the Floor, and hundreds of them line it. They are blind but their hearing compensates for that."

"Isn’t that almost the same as the Vestiges?" she couldn’t help but ask. "They follow sound too, and they at least have eyes."

"Vestiges are attracted to disturbance." The slight softness around Dorian’s eyes disappeared. His gaze sharpened as though he were no longer explaining a route but recalling one. "A Husher can sit within arm’s reach and remain completely still while you walk past it. You can brush against one, step over its legs, even stand beside it, and it will not react unless it hears something it considers wrong."

Misha frowned. "So we stay quiet."

He smiled faintly then, but there was nothing reassuring in it. If anything, the slight upward pull at one corner of his mouth made her dislike the answer before he even gave it.

"That is how people die on Twelve," he continued before she could respond. "Silence gets you through the beginning. Then the road starts working against you like loose stones are scattered, there are hanging metal, broken carts left in a narrow section, gates that have to be pushed open, and eventually the road continues to narrow between old walls until there are places barely wide enough for three people to pass shoulder to shoulder. There will be Hushers by the entrance, and more at the end. You’ll have nowhere to run if you wake them there."

She straightened away from the chair. That was rather disturbing since being stronger did not always mean they would be able to defeat whatever waited for them. Even a pack of wolves could be dragged down if enough corpses surrounded them, because eventually strength stopped mattering when there were simply too many bodies to fight through.

"What are we supposed to do then? How are we going to clear that floor?"

Dorian glanced toward the partially open door, his eyes lingering on the narrow gap for a moment as though checking whether anyone had wandered close enough to listen.

"The quest itself requires us to get a funeral cart all the way to the Bell House intact. While we’re transporting it, we also have to keep the funeral rhythm going on the drums. It has to be the same beat, same spacing, without changing once from beginning to end. Hushers don’t recognize that rhythm as prey, so as lon as we maintain it, they should leave us alone. We’ll use two drums and rotate players so the others can rest."

"Ah..."

That was interesting. More importantly, her thoughts immediately went to Alaric. That man should be useful for Floor Twelve.

"That place also gives us nowhere safe to properly resupply," he added. "Once we enter. Stopping for a full camp is a poor idea. Even splitting firewood becomes dangerous if you’re close enough to the road."

Her eyes narrowed. "And you’re planning to bring everyone?"

"If I leave them here, they die."

"So instead you bring them somewhere else they can die."

"Yes." The answer came without hesitation. "I’m not pretending Twelve is safe, Gravekeeper. I’ve already told them the risks, but they still want out of Exodus. Staying here means waiting until food runs out and hoping no more Vestiges find the Crematorium. Moving gives them a chance."

"A chance through nine more Floors."

"Exactly."

Misha disliked how readily he admitted it. There should have been something harder to grab onto–a lie, perhaps, or false confidence. Instead, he sounded like someone who had already accepted that people might die and had chosen the route that gave them the better percentage.

"If you intend to climb anyway, our interests align. Your group has stronger fighters. Mine has people who know parts of the Floors beyond Exodus since Blackthorn keeps records."

Blackthorn. The name dragged something unpleasant through Misha’s memories, a broken crown wrapped in thorns. Kylo Stormcrow had once worn that crest, and was later hunted by the same guild he had once belonged to.

Misha did not know the full story behind it, and that alone was enough to make her wary. Guilds did not usually decide to hunt former members over minor disagreements. And now, the man standing in front of her was the one currently sitting at the top of that organization.

Whatever Blackthorn had become, he had access to its route records, internal decisions, and whatever history Kylo had once been tangled in. Trust was no longer something she handed over simply because a person behaved decently for several hours.

Dorian’s attention shifted toward Caius. "I had hoped our supply problem could be solved without relying entirely on what we currently possess."

She raised a brow beneath her mask. "How?"

"We have a Solmere heir here."

Her attention sharpened immediately.

He nodded toward the unconscious blond on the bed. "House Solmere is one of the Four Families. They control Virelia and enough trade interests that a direct contact could potentially secure supplies, or even outside assistance once we reach somewhere communication is possible." Then a small crease appeared between his brows. "Unfortunately, Solmere already told me he has no way of contacting them."

Glancing at Caius, it did not seem to surprise Misha nearly as much as it probably should have. Caius apparently possessed an impressive collection of information he simply failed to mention until circumstances physically dragged it out of him.

Dorian looked at him for another moment, lips slightly pressed together. Whether he thought Caius had lied or was simply disappointed to discover that a Solmere heir had no Solmere resources at his disposal, Misha could not tell.

"Then there was still Valehart," he said.

Her attention returned to him. "Valehart...?"

Dorian stared at her. For the first time entering the room, his composure genuinely slipped. His brows drew together, and for a second, he looked at her as though he was trying to decide whether she was making a joke.

"Alaric Valehart."

Something in her brain stopped, then several pieces of information that had apparently spent the last few days refusing to cooperate slammed into place at once. Right. Valehart was part of the Four Families so that meant... Alaric was not just any simple musician. The cowardly, shameless, excessively flirtatious Bard who had spent half his time together hiding behind stronger people, singing inappropriate songs during life-threatening situations... was one of those Valeharts.

Her eye twitched. ’You have got to be kidding me.’

With everything that had happened since arriving in Exodus, she had completely failed to connect the surname since her mind was busy enough with other things.

Carl, still holding the damp towel, looked between them. "What’s a Valehart?"

"It’s one of the noble families out there," Misha said. That should be an easier explanation to a kid like him.

"That old geezer is from a noble family?" He frowned deeply. "He doesn’t act rich."

"Because he isn’t in the same position Solmere is," Dorian explained. "Alaric Valehart is a bastard son."

Misha froze, her amusement for Carl’s words disappearing.

"He said if I intended to rely on House Valehart rescuing him, we should begin digging graves now and save ourselves the disappointment." He folded his arms again. "So Solmere has no usable contact, and Valehart either has no authority or no willingness to use his. That possibility is effectively dead."