They entered the city of Skariz under a sky the color of iron. The clouds hung low and heavy, as if they too were being dragged down by the weight of the place. Broko walked first, his pace steady, boots slapping against the wet stones with a dull rhythm that seemed to echo between the leaning houses. Somewhere far off, bells rang and bounced through the mist, their notes stretching and blurring until they no longer sounded like bells at all, but like the heartbeat of something vast and unseen. The streets were narrow, pressed tight between structures that seemed to fold inward, their pale stones eaten by centuries and their roofs sagging under their own tired weight. From the gutters hung long tongues of copper shaped like open mouths ready to swallow the rain. The water that dripped from them was black and thick, pooling in slow-moving trails that clung to the cobbles.

  Gemma stayed close to Aros. Her cloak brushed against his arm as she walked, her hood casting a deeper shadow over her eyes. Her breath came out in pale threads, each one curling before fading into the cold. The cobblestones shone with rain and soot, slick and uneven, reflecting the dim light of oil lamps caged behind iron frames. Above them, balconies jutted like ribs, their wood lacquered and peeling, sagging under years of neglect. Every few steps a shutter creaked without wind, as though the buildings whispered to each other about the strangers entering their domain.

  Aros noticed the walls pulsing faintly. At first he thought it was a trick of light or mist, but the rhythm persisted: a soft, steady beat like the breath of something sleeping just beneath the stone. Everyone in Dromo knew why. The Priesthood had blessed the city long ago, pouring the Light into its bones and veins. Some said the magic kept the streets from collapsing under their own decay. Others claimed the city listened, storing every sound, every secret. Aros could feel it beneath his boots, that faint hum, too precise and too regular to be nature. It gave him the sensation of standing on something alive, something patient, something perfectly obedient.

  The further they went, the heavier the air became. A layer of incense clung to everything, sweet and cloying, settling in the throat and masking the sour smell of wet ash. From the archways hung brass incense burners, their chains rattling in the slight wind. Pale smoke unfurled from their mouths, curling upward in thin spirals like restless souls looking for somewhere to go.

  Every door bore a mark. The Eye of the Sun, carved deep into the stone and filled with copper. In the wealthier districts the symbols glowed faintly, pulsing in harmony with the distant bells. In the poorer quarters the same symbols were painted with soot, mud and dried blood, uneven and desperate.

  And everywhere, there were bodies.

  The burned were left where they fell or had been placed, still standing on wooden stakes, their skin blackened and brittle like glass. Some clutched their charred robes to their chests. Others had nothing to hide behind. All of them faced east, toward the Great Cathedral, as if even in death they were awaiting dawn or judgement.

  At the center of a square, six corpses had been arranged in a circle around a cracked pillar. Someone had carved into the stone: Faith does not burn. Flesh does.

  Gemma turned away quickly, her shoulders curling inward as her hands trembled beneath her cloak. Aros did not look away. He had seen worse. He had made worse. If I had finished it then, he thought. If I had ended Jacobo when I had the chance.

  The memory arrived without mercy: a calm smile framed by a crown of bronze, the cold shine of the Light reflected on polished metal, the illusion of serenity wrapped around something sharp and merciless. Behind those eyes, the certainty that power and divinity could be treated as the same thing. Aros looked away before the image could complete itself.

  Broko's voice cut through the silence. "Keep walking. We don't stop here."

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  The streets bent inward as they climbed toward the upper tiers of the city. The houses grew taller, more elaborate, their windows framed with stained glass depicting saints and martyrs. But the figures were wrong somehow: faceless, their halos cracked, their hands raised not in blessing but in surrender. From a side alley, Aros caught sight of a collapsed building being rebuilt by invisible hands. Stones floated upward one by one, clicking softly into place. Mortar poured itself smoothly from a bucket that hung midair, swaying as if guided by invisible workers. No scaffolding. No workers. Only the low vibration of the Light humming beneath the street.

  Gemma slowed to watch, unable to hide her fascination. "Does it always do that?" she whispered.

  Aros nodded slightly. "When the city wants to please its masters."

  "Or remind us who owns it," Broko added without turning.

  They crossed beneath an archway painted with a massive mural: a sun bleeding over an ocean of bowed figures. At the bottom, someone had carved into the plaster with a knife: The sun weeps for the blind.

  Gemma's eyes lingered on the words. "They're not wrong," she murmured.

  Aros replied softly. "Careful. There are ears in every wall."

  Broko glanced back at them, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Relax. If I wanted to sell you out, you'd already be hanging from one of those lovely poles."

  "Forgive me," Aros said, "if I don't find that reassuring."

  Behind them, Diana laughed. Her voice cut through the muted hum of the city, sharp and playful. "He means you scare easy. Broko's face does that to people."

  Broko flashed a grin. "You would know."

  Gemma glanced at Aros, and for a brief moment the oppressive air seemed to ease. Her mouth curved into a small smile, fragile but real.

  The streets narrowed again, twisting between rows of small chapels and burnt storefronts until they reached an open square. At its center stood a ruined church, its steeple leaning perilously, the bells long cracked and silent. Vines crawled across the stone walls, gripping tightly to every crack. Pigeons nested where colored glass once glowed, their feathers rustling in the quiet.

  Aros stopped without meaning to. "No."

  Broko turned, watching him carefully. "What's wrong?"

  "That's not a church," Aros said. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the square. "That's a tomb."

  Broko tilted his head, indifferent. "Depends on what you worship."

  Gemma looked up at the leaning spire. Her voice was small beneath the weight of the city. "Why bring us here?"

  "Because this is where the good ones hide," Broko said.

  Aros tensed. His voice turned cold. "There are no good ones."

  Broko smiled faintly. "Then you'll fit right in."

  They entered.

  Inside, the light was thin and uneven, filtering through the fractured dome in trembling rays. The pews had been dragged aside and replaced by rough wooden tables covered in maps, broken rifles and melted candles puddled into hardened shapes. The air smelled of wax, rust and something older that clung to the stones.

  At the far end, where an altar once stood, a man addressed a small crowd. His tone was solemn, almost ceremonial, as though speaking a prayer.

  "…for even the purest flame needs shadow to be seen," he said. "Remember that. The Light was not meant to blind, but to reveal."

  When he noticed Broko and the newcomers, he paused. He spread his arms with slow, deliberate grace, his expression warm but edged with something sharp.

  "Ah," he said. "The wind brings us old legends after all."

  Broko gestured casually toward Aros. "Found him wandering. Thought you'd want a look."

  The man smiled, his voice rising as he addressed the listeners gathered around him.

  "Brothers and sisters, before you stands a name many believed dead. The man who shattered a throne, and with it, the illusion of divine blood. Aros Kevis, the hero, the Kingslayer."

  A ripple went through the crowd. Awe, fear, disbelief. Everyone, of course, knew the stories.

  Gemma turned to Aros, searching his face for something, anything. He did not speak. He only stared ahead, expression unreadable. But within his chest, something old and violent stirred. The echo of a crown breaking. The echo of a life unmade. The echo of every choice that had followed.

  Aros felt how his anger was suddenly reborned.