The sheer volume of sensation was debilitating. Marrakesh's Jemaa el-Fnaa was a furnace of life—a stark, overwhelming contrast to the cold, dead silence of the transit tunnels they had just fled.
Jake pushed himself up onto one elbow, tasting blood and gritty dust. The pain in his left side was a sharp, blinding anchor, but his first thought was Liora.
"Liora. We have to move. Now."
She was stirring, her face pale, the sweat already beading on her forehead from the heat. The powerful magic she'd channelled had left her looking like a dry husk; her usual intense light had dimmed entirely.
"The… the noise," she mumbled, pushing herself to sit up using her good arm. "It's too much."
"Good. Noise means distraction," Jake managed, gritting his teeth as he attempted to stand. A white-hot spike ran from his kidney up to his shoulder. He swallowed a cry and forced himself upright, leaning heavily against the utility grate they had just climbed out of.
They were a grotesque tableau in the middle of a carnival. Jake was dishevelled, covered in dust and grit, clearly clutching his side. Liora looked worse, her clothes torn, her arm hanging limp beneath the tattered remains of her academic robes. They were too noticeable, even in a square full of tourists and performers.
"We need a doctor. Or—"
"No doctors," Liora cut him off, her voice cracking but gaining urgency. "Hospitals report unusual wounds. We're in the open, Jake. We'll draw the wrong kind of attention." She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing her mind past the pain and the sheer energy debt. "I... I need to remember. Morocco... there has to be an outpost."
The Hidden Order maintained a system of emergency refuges—small, highly secret Arcana Havens—for field agents or ortravellerss in need of critical aid. They were never mapped on public Arcana documents, relying entirely on the memory of senior members.
Jake wrapped Liora's good arm around his neck again, taking her weight. "Guide me, then. Where is the Archive?"
"The Medina," she said, nodding toward the dense, labyrinthine heart of the old city. "It's hidden in the walls of the old city, away from the crowds. We need to lose ourselves in the alleys and find... a scent."
The scent she spoke of wasn't perfume; it was the unique, faint metallic tang of ochannelled energy that even a non-magus like Jake could sometimes perceive, if he knew what to look for.
A cart vendor shouted near them, and a passing donkey brushed Jake's bruised ribs, sending a fresh wave of agony through him.
"We go now," Jake hissed. He adjusted his grip, ignoring the throbbing pain, and started shuffling toward the nearest narrow street leading out of the square's chaos. They moved as one broken creature—Jake's legs unsteady, Liora's body slack—a desperate, limping path toward safety.
The crowds pressed in immediately. The heat was suffocating. Every jostle, every turn, demanded a fierce concentration from Jake to keep them both moving.
"Liora, help me. What landmark? What are we looking for?"
"A door that shouldn't be there," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the din. "No brass, no carvings. Just an empty archway, old stone, and the smell of ozone..."
They slipped into the narrow, shadowed streets of the ancient city. The air was marginally cooler here, trapped between the high, clay walls. The crowds thinned, replaced by small, closed shops and the occasional, silent figure draped in deep blue robes. Jake felt the weight of every eye, every potential watcher. The Sentinel may have been outwitted, but they were still exposed.
After ten minutes of excruciating movement, they came to a dead-end archway. It was plain, set with rough, ancient stone, leading to a shallow niche where a dried-up water fountain sat. It was completely unremarkable—which made it perfectly remarkable in this ornate city.
"Stop," Liora commanded, pulling at his arm. She slid down the wall and pressed her palm flat against the dust-caked stone of the niche. Her lips moved, forming silent, Latin syllables—not a powerful spell, but a simple test, an authentication.
Jake waited, holding his breath, his hands trembling with effort and pain. If this was a dead end, he didn't know if he had the strength to carry her further.
The stone didn't move. But slowly, the faint scent of charcoal and spice that permeated the alley was overcome by a new, almost imperceptible odour—the cold, sharp scent of ozone, like electricity discharged on stone.
A tiny, nearly invisible fracture line of deep blue light—the same colour as the script in the abandoned tunnels—appeared across the archway, tracing the outline of a door that had been perfectly seamless only seconds before.
"Go," Liora whispered, utterly drained. "It's the emergency ward. It's safe."
Jake didn't need to be told twice. He gathered the last scrap of his strength, pushed the glowing archway open, and stumbled through the opening, collapsing with Liora onto a smooth, cool floor beyond. The world went black, silent, and finally, safe.