Swift stirred slowly, groaning as the stiffness in his back made itself known. He peeled himself off the workbench and took a deep breath. The helmet sat there, unchanged in appearance, but Swift knew from the faint fatigue behind his eyes.

  The night vision blessing must have worked.

  He turned the helmet over in his hands. The etchings were subtle, nearly invisible, carved on the inside of the visor—so faint they’d be missed unless you knew where to look. Just the way he wanted it.

  His wrist bore the signs of his effort: the tattoo was still intact but dimmed to a light charcoal gray. It would take time to recover. Again.

  The front door creaked open.

  Lee stepped in, chewing a piece of dried meat. She stopped mid-bite when she saw him standing next to the workbench.

  “You… slept here?”

  “Passed out again,” Swift said with a tired smirk.

  She sighed but didn’t scold him. “I guess you’ll have to try again another time.”

  “Seems like it.”

  He placed the helmet gently into the top of his backpack, careful to nestle it between padding and spare cloth. The vest and gloves were already packed. He wouldn’t wear any of it until he was away from Crescent City. No need to draw attention until he was outside the walls.

  Lee walked over slowly, glancing into the pack. “Looks like you’re set.”

  “Just about.”

  She didn’t say much else, just pulled a small oilcloth pouch from under the workbench and handed it to him.

  “Field lens kit,” she said. “For when—not if—you scratch that fancy visor.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “And if I break it?”

  “You’d better not.”

  Swift finished with a smile. “Got it.”

  He slung the pack over his shoulder, picked up Excalibur, and turned to go. But as his hand reached for the door, she spoke again—quiet, but clear.

  “Stay alive, Swift.”

  He paused. Not a command. Not an order. A wish.

  He nodded once. “I’ll try.”

  Swift stepped out into the crisp, gray light of pre-dawn. The air was thin and sharp, the streets half-awake. He wore his green flight suit, Excalibur slung over his right shoulder. The reinforced backpack sat on his back, a heavy but familiar weight.

  The city was quiet with a just-before-dawn stillness. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the streets were nearly empty. Swift kept his pace casual, nonchalant, avoiding eye contact with the few patrolling guards.

  He moved east first—toward the Mercenary Guild.

  The front office was just opening, a clerk lighting lanterns and yawning as he flipped the daily board. Swift gave him a small wave on his way past and slipped into the side desk, where outgoing missives and supply notes were usually posted.

  He left a folded letter, marked simply:

  To: Inara (Sharpshooter)

  Beneath it, a single line:

  Didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I’ll be back—don’t blow anything up until then.

  He smiled faintly, then tucked the note in the slot.

  Swift signed the departure ledger, formally logging himself as enroute with Convoy 5 to the capital.

  By the time Swift reached the outer trade gate, the sun had begun to rise.

  The sky was painted in pale blue and gold, and the city walls cast long shadows over the cobbled road. Four wagons stood ready at the gate, each heavy with supply crates and canvas-covered bundles. Guards finished last-minute checks, strapping gear, patting down mules, adjusting buckles.

  At the front stood a man with steel-gray hair, thin as a rail, a cigarette dangling from his lip. His rifle hung loosely from a cross-strap, like it was more decoration than weapon. It reminded Swift of a H&K G36 with a clear magazine and raised sight rail. The man didn’t look like much. But he looked like someone who’d been doing this a long, long time.

  Swift approached.

  The man gave him a lazy once-over.

  “You’re late,” he said, the cigarette bouncing with each word.

  “Didn’t know I was supposed to show up earlier.”

  “Ah whatever,” He jerked his head toward the back of the line. “Name’s Voss. I’m running security.”

  “Swift.”

  “Cool name.” He flicked some ash. “Ride in the last wagon.”

  Swift nodded once and walked past the others without a word. He climbed into the rear wagon, setting his pack down carefully and settling in between crates of dried goods and wrapped bundles of tools.

  The gates creaked open and the wheels groaned as the convoy began to move. Behind him, Crescent City stood quiet, stoic, caught in the first touch of sunlight. The walls glowed faintly gold at the top, as if trying to catch fire from the sky.

  Swift didn’t look back.