The Dark Knight Comes To The Rescue

Allora's body felt weightless as the Red Canary spun her away, twirling her into the rhythm of the parade.

Her feet moved automatically, her body following the flow of the dance—but her mind was reeling.

Malec—letting her go?

No anger.

No possessiveness.

No resistance.

Why?

She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see him charging through the crowd after her—but he wasn't.

He just stood there, his towering form partially hidden in the sea of festival-goers. His long white and gray coat rippled in the wind, his broad shoulders tense, his expression unreadable.

The guards were watching her.

But they weren't moving.

They were letting her go too.

Her chest tightened.

This wasn't right.

Something was wrong.

She couldn't stop to think. But….

The Red Canary spun her one last time, leading her toward the edge of the parade.

Then, suddenly—

A dark cloaked figure stepped from the crowd, grabbing her arm.

Her lips parted in shock as she turned to the cloaked figure, recognition hitting her instantly.

Oliver.

He lifted a finger to his lips in a silent warning. 

'Stay quiet.'

Then—swiftly, expertly—he yanked his own dark cloak off his shoulders and threw it around her instead.

The heavy fabric enveloped her, drowning out the rich scent of Malec's furs, replacing it with the familiar scent of leather, sweat, and something strangely comforting.

Her old world.

At the same time, he snatched her blue cloak from her shoulders, turned—

And threw it over a stranger.

A decoy.

Brilliant!

The Red Canary grabbed the disguised figure without hesitation, twirling them effortlessly into the parade's rhythm—just as they had intended for her.

It worked.

Allora exhaled sharply, still processing the maneuver.

But Oliver was already grabbing her wrist again, gripping it firmly.

Allora's breath quickened, her pulse pounding as Oliver pulled her through a narrow alleyway, away from the music, the flashing lanterns, the fireworks.

There were still people around—drunken festival-goers stumbling through the backstreets, lovers sneaking away for stolen moments.

It wasn't fully deserted, but it was dark enough.

Safe enough to disappear.

Time to move.

Without a single word, they disappeared into the darkness.

Oliver moved like a shadow, leading Allora through a twisting maze of passageways, darting under wooden bridges and slipping through narrow alleys barely wide enough for two people.

Allora followed his every move silently, her heart pounding, her breath measured.

She knew exactly what he was doing.

Checking corners. Counting steps. Pausing in doorways to listen for footsteps. Making sure they weren't followed.

This was military strategy.

A covert escape.

He wasn't just a soldier—he was a damn good one.

And she had to be just as good.

The risk was too high. If they were caught, Oliver would be executed. And her?

Allora swallowed hard.

She didn't want to find out.

They ducked behind an old merchant cart, staying low as a group of drunken Awyans stumbled past, their silver goblets sloshing with spiced wine. One wrong move, one misstep, and it could all be over.

But Oliver was a ghost, and she moved like one too.

They didn't exist.

They stopped at a darkened doorway, hidden deep within the twisting streets. The city was alive behind them, the parade's music still pulsing in the distance.

Oliver turned to her. "We wait here."

She nodded, pressing her back against the stone wall, her eyes scanning their surroundings. Her muscles ached from tension, but she ignored it.

Forty-five minutes passed. Every second felt like an eternity.

Then—

A whistle.

Low. Drawn out. Like a bird's call.

A lantern flickered to life in the darkness ahead, swaying gently as a hooded figure walked past. They never looked at them.

But as they moved, their free hand twitched—a barely perceptible signal.

Oliver exhaled and nodded.

"That's our cue. Let's move."

He gestured for her to follow as they stayed just far enough behind.

The figure led them down a narrow corridor, deeper into the city's underbelly, where the smell of damp earth and old wood replaced the scents of roasted meats and festival spices.

Then, the figure stopped before a large brown door.

He knocked.

Not once. Not twice.

A patterned rhythm.

A message.

Then, without a word, the figure walked away.

Silence.

Allora held her breath.

Then—

The door creaked open, just enough for them to see inside.

Oliver quickly asked Allora for the black coin. Remembering that the coin even existed she hurriedly reached into her pocket and gave Oliver the coin. 

The man at the door took the coin, examined it then gestured for them to come in. 

And before she could even register what was happening, a small body launched at her.

"MELODIE!"

Lilly's tiny arms wrapped around her waist, clinging to her tightly.

Allora staggered slightly, stunned, before she quickly hugged the little girl back.

Lilly's face was buried against her stomach, her tiny frame trembling with relief.

"You came! I knew you would!"

Allora's throat tightened, and for the first time since she entered this world, she felt truly safe.

Allora barely had time to process the warmth that enveloped her before they were inside.

The tavern's dimly lit interior smelled of aged wood and ale, with only a handful of patrons lingering in the shadows. A lone bartender stood behind the counter, drying a mug with a tattered cloth, his sharp eyes flicking toward them before nodding once.

A second figure, an older Awyan man, sat in a corner near the fire, his gaze unreadable. He looked at them without alarm. He was expecting them.

Oliver moved swiftly, leading them past the bar toward the back, where an unassuming rug lay in the center of the wooden floor. With a practiced motion, he lifted it, revealing a heavy iron hatch beneath.

He grabbed the latch and pulled.

The hidden door groaned open, revealing a dark passageway leading down into the earth.

Lilly clutched Allora's arm, looking up at her.

"This way," Oliver said, already descending the ladder.

Allora followed, lowering herself into the darkness, the cold stone biting through her boots.

The air down here was different. It smelled of earth, damp wood, and something else—something alive.

As her feet touched solid ground, a glow of lanterns flickered in the cavern ahead.

And then she saw it.

A massive underground chamber, its ceiling high, lined with wooden beams for support. Dozens—no, hundreds—of Canariae filled the space, their voices a low murmur of hushed conversation and quiet laughter.

Beds, crates, and makeshift stalls lined the walls. A hidden refuge. A sanctuary for runaways, stolen souls, and those who dared to fight back.

Allora stood frozen.

She had spent so long feeling alone.

And now—here, in this secret place—she realized just how many of them had escaped.

Oliver stepped forward, raising his arms.

"Another safe return!" he called out.

A cheer went up from the crowd.

People rushed forward, clapping Oliver on the back, greeting him like a brother.

Allora barely moved. Her breath was uneven.

She should have felt relief.

But something was pressing against her chest, something overwhelming—a weight she couldn't name.

Then—

That voice.

A sound so deep, so powerful, it stopped everything.

"ATTENTION! MAJOR MELODIE JAXXON!"

The world fractured.

Her knees buckled.

Her mind short-circuited.

The name rang in her head, a ghostly echo of the past—a name she hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime.

Allora's vision swam.

The room, the faces, the lanterns—they all blurred.

Her chest caved inward.

Her stomach twisted violently.

No. No, no, no.

That voice.

That voice.

She turned—slow, trembling, barely breathing.

The crowd parted like water.

And there he was.

A towering silhouette, standing against the dim lantern glow.

Broad. Unyielding.

The kind of presence that commanded attention without a single word.

And now—his piercing dark eyes were locked on her.

The air crushed her.

It couldn't be real.

It couldn't be him.

But it was.

Her breath hitched violently in her throat.

Her hands shook.

Her **heart clenched—**tight, too tight, like a fist wrapped around her ribcage.

A choked sound escaped her lips—not a word, not even a sob, just raw, suffocating emotion.

He took a step forward.

Her body moved on instinct.

She ran.

Not away.

Toward.

A broken, wrecked sob tore from her throat as she threw herself against him.

His arms caught her instantly—strong, steady, the same as they always were.

And suddenly, she was eight years old again, curled against this chest after a nightmare, feeling safe for the first time in what felt like forever.

Her fingers clawed into his uniform, gripping him with everything she had.

She felt his heartbeat.

Strong. Solid. Unwavering.

Her shoulders shook.

And then—the word tore from her lips, raw and broken.

"DADDY!"

His breath hitched.

His arms tightened.

His entire body curled around her, shielding her like a fortress.

His voice—rough, strangled, barely holding itself together.

"You're safe, baby girl. You're safe."