I’m sure the travel bag I left behind in Center Square is long gone. I’m equally sure the bag I always keep at Oliver’s has been confiscated too. If the Commander thinks he’s backed me into a corner where my only two choices are heading home for more supplies or hitting up merchants who’ve undoubtedly been warned that the penalty for doing business with me is death, he’s wrong.

I have Rachel to thank for it. When I chased her to the Wall, I went through the alley between the armory and the deserted building at the base of Lower Market, and realized it was the perfect place to hide a backup escape plan. No one ever goes into the abandoned building. And as I have no ties to the place, the Commander would never suspect it as a base of operations for me.

It takes me nearly an hour to reach it. I stick to the shadows, sometimes sacrificing speed for stealth, but I never see any signs of pursuit. Either the bulk of the guards are converging on the North Wall, or the guards in the western edge of the city have the brains to keep silent about their search.

It doesn’t matter which is true. All that matters is that I’ve reached the building. I duck inside and use the faint moonlight streaming in through a broken window to sort through my stash.

Tossing the handgrips into my pack, I don a new tunic and pants and hastily chew on some mutton jerky to replenish my flagging strength. The leather of my cloak chafes the burn on my neck, so I take a minute to snatch salve and gauze from my first aid kit and secure a bandage in place. Then I strap on a sword, slide a sheathed dagger into my boot, wrap my cloak around myself again, and pick up my travel pack, ignoring the way my rib aches against the weight.

The distance between the building and the Wall is relatively short, but it takes me nearly twenty minutes because I’m constantly checking for guards. I aim for the curve of the Wall nearly at the halfway point between the two closest turrets. When another scan of my surroundings shows no glowing NightSeer masks, I drop to my knees at the base of the Wall, open my pack, slide on a mask to protect my eyes and filter the air I breathe, tug on a pair of heavy leather gloves, and remove a machine that looks like a metal crossbow with a thick spiral-shaped steel drill jutting out the front. Fastening my pack to my back securely, I slide my arms into the straps for the device, secure another strap around my waist, and flip the switch on the battery pack I built beneath the spiral drill. It comes to life with a muted whine.

Bending forward, I apply the spinning metal drill to the ground at the base of the Wall and it chews through the dirt, flinging debris to the sides. The vibrations send sharp jabs of agony into my ribcage, and I have to constantly remind myself to breathe through the pain. When the hole is large enough to accommodate me, I slide forward and switch my goggles to NightSeer, trusting the green glow to illuminate my path even as I quickly calculate angles, trajectory, and all the possibilities for failure.

Except that failure isn’t a possibility.

Not when so many depend on me.

The drill eats through the ground, and I aim deep. Deep enough to bypass the Wall’s foundations. Deep enough to avoid causing any trembles through the tons of stone and steel resting above me. Deep enough that calling the Cursed One is a real possibility.

My mask lights the dirt around me a few measly feet at a time, and the air feels damp and cloying as it brushes against my skin. Every breath ignites a fierce agony around my broken rib as if I never took any pain medicine. The need for space crushes me, whispering that I’ll go crazy if I don’t get back into the open now.

I ignore it. Mind over matter. I have plenty of other things to think about. There are math equations to solve. Minute adjustments to make. And beneath it all, a terrible grief for Oliver mixes with a desperate worry for Rachel until I can hardly tell the difference between the two.

I will not be too late.

I will not.

When I calculate that I’ve traveled well beyond the width of the Wall, I begin slowly tunneling my way back to the surface, making sure to continue my trajectory until I’m beyond the circumference of Baalboden’s perimeter. I break the surface with caution, instantly shutting off the machine so I can listen for threats.

I’ve come up between two ancient pin oaks. Keeping my NightSeer mask on, I scan the area. I’m far enough into the Wasteland that Baalboden is a distant, looming bulk on the eastern horizon. The western Wall appears quiet.

Best Case Scenario: No one discovers my true escape point until daylight.

Worst Case Scenario: The Commander realizes my flight north was a false trail and orders a search of the entire Wall.

The answer to both is the same: Run.

I close the machine, slip off the mask because I’d rather let my eyes adjust to the dark than announce my presence to others with the mask’s glow, and pack them both away. Then I slide a copper cuff from my bag, the gears on it lined with the same blue wire I used for Rachel’s, and pull it over my arm.

The wires glow faintly, but they’ll light up like a torch the closer I get to her. By my best guess, she should still have a week’s worth of travel before she hits Jared’s Rowansmark safe house. I take a moment to mentally review the map Jared once had me commit to memory for the day when the Commander would allow me to leave Baalboden on my first courier mission. If I push myself, using dangerous shortcuts Jared would never have used while on a journey with Rachel, I can cut the distance between us in half in just four days. Three if I don’t sleep much.

I have to hope Melkin didn’t want to risk bringing Rachel through highwaymen-infested trails either. If Rachel was spotted, she and Melkin would be viciously attacked within hours. Melkin would never make it out alive, and Rachel would wish she’d died too.