The square of Sbelto was unrecognizable.Where the Valval Priesthood had built its monuments of purity, there was only fire now. The great banners of white and gold hung in tatters from the balconies, their edges smoldering. The fountain had become a pit of blackened water, bubbling with smoke and ash.

  And over it all, the bells kept ringing.

  They were cracked, half-melted, out of rhythm, but still ringing, as if the city itself refused to stop the ceremony even after its priests were gone. Talon stood in the middle of the ruin, sword resting on his shoulder, the weight of it feeling suddenly light.

  For the first time in years, he smiled honestly.

  Around him, the Knights of Light moved through the wreckage like ghosts of a war that had already ended. Rethal’s soldiers were mopping up what was left of the Custodians, the survivors throwing down their arms, the devout ones choosing to burn where they stood.

  Renn approached from behind, his armor streaked with blood and soot. He looked both younger and older than he had that morning.“Talon,” he said, breathless, “we have to go. Half the wounded can’t move, and the rest can barely hold a weapon. If they send reinforcements from the citadel...”

  “They won’t,” Talon interrupted. His voice was steady, calm. “Not today.”

  He stepped up onto one of the execution platforms, the same ones the Priesthood had used for their public purifications. The wood beneath his boots was still stained with old blood, the kind that never really washed away.

  From there, he could see the city: the narrow alleys, the broken stalls, the faces peering from shuttered windows. The people of Sbelto were watching, hidden behind curtains and half-closed doors. None dared to step into the square.

  But they were watching.

  Talon sheathed his sword and raised his voice, not a shout, but something that carried through the smoke and the chaos like the last clear note of a hymn.

  “People of Sbelto,” he began. His tone was rough, more soldier than preacher. “You’ve seen what the Light does when it’s left to men who think they own it.”

  He gestured toward the fountain, its holy water now black and still. “You’ve seen your priests burn, your Custodians flee, your saints weep soot. And yet, the sky hasn’t fallen. The sun still stands. The air still fills your lungs.”

  He turned slowly, letting his words hang in the silence. “The Light was never theirs. It was never the Priesthood’s. It doesn’t belong to a banner, or a crown, or a god hiding behind marble.”

  The wind shifted, carrying smoke through the square. The bells faltered for a heartbeat, then resumed their uneven toll.

  “It belongs to you,” Talon said. “To anyone who dares to fight, to doubt, to live. Remember this day. Remember that the world did not end when the Light was defied. Remember that the ones who call themselves divine can bleed like you.”

  He paused, scanning the windows. Shadows moved, cautious, uncertain, human.

  “No one’s asking you to join us,” he went on. “No one’s asking you to die. Just don’t bow so easily the next time they ask you to kneel. That will be enough.”

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  For a long moment, nothing answered him. No cheers, no applause. Only the distant echo of collapsing timber, and the dull hum of the broken bells.

  Renn climbed up beside him, sword in hand, eyes darting to the side streets. “They’re not coming out,” he muttered.

  “I know,” Talon said. “They’re listening.”

  “That’s enough?”

  “For now.”

  He looked one last time at the square, the place where thousands had gathered to witness obedience, and saw, in its ruin, something almost holy.The Light was gone from the stones, but something brighter remained: the proof that it could be defied.

  That was worth more than survival.

  He turned to Renn. “Get them moving.”

  Renn nodded and leapt from the platform, shouting orders. The Knights began to pull back, grouping the wounded, gathering weapons, cutting away anything that would slow them down. The smell of blood and burnt cloth filled the air.

  Talon descended slowly, the stiffness in his legs reminding him how old he truly was. Victory made men feel young; the aftermath did not.

  As he crossed the square, he saw Broko limping past with a grin that didn’t match the bruise swelling across his face. “You see that, Captain?” Broko said, pointing his knife toward the burning temple. “They pray to Light, and we showed them what darkness looks like.”

  “Put the knife away before you cut yourself,” Talon said.

  “Too late,” Broko replied cheerfully, showing a fresh gash across his palm.

  Digiera passed next, face streaked with soot and blood, a smile still hanging crooked on her mouth. “Did we win?” she asked.

  “For today,” Talon said.

  “That’ll do.”

  She disappeared into the line of retreating soldiers, her laugh trailing behind her like smoke.

  Talon continued toward the fountain, where Rethal was overseeing the final withdrawal. The mercenary captain saluted him with two fingers, expression grim but satisfied. “We’ll hold the gate for ten more minutes, then burn the bridge.”

  “No need to be martyrs,” Talon said.

  Rethal’s grin was quick and cold. “Wasn’t planning to be.”

  Talon’s gaze shifted to the left, to where a group of Knights were carrying a stretcher. His breath caught. Aros.

  The man’s armor was dark with blood, his face pale beneath the dirt and smoke. Gemma walked beside the stretcher, her hands clenched tight around the wood, eyes wide and glassy.

  “Gods,” Renn whispered beside him. “He’s alive?”

  “For now,” Talon said quietly.

  He moved toward them, forcing steadiness into his steps. “How bad?”

  “Deep,” said Candriela, who walked on the other side. “Through the stomach. We stopped the bleeding for now. But he needs a healer. Or a miracle.”

  Talon nodded, his jaw tightening. “Then we find one. Get him on the first wagon.”

  They lifted the stretcher carefully into one of the carts. Aros didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. His eyes found Talon’s for an instant, the faintest flicker of awareness, of apology, and then closed again.

  Gemma climbed into the wagon beside him. Her face was streaked with ash, her hands trembling around her bow. Talon rested a hand on her shoulder. “You did well.”

  She didn’t answer. She only stared at Aros, her lips pressed together in silence.

  The retreat began.

  The Knights moved fast, guided by Rethal’s men through the smoke-filled alleys. Behind them, the fire spread unchecked, swallowing the holy district, turning marble to slag and sanctuaries to cinders.

  The sound of bells followed them all the way to the gates.

  When they reached the ridge beyond the city, the wind was cold again. The sun was dipping low, a dull red circle behind the haze. Below, Sbelto burned like an altar set for a god that no longer answered.

  Talon turned to look back one last time.

  The people hadn’t followed them. The windows were still closed. But somewhere, behind those walls, he knew a spark had caught, small, quiet, alive. It would grow.

  He looked at his soldiers, mud-streaked, bleeding, exhausted, and felt the weight of what they had done settle over him. They had won. For the first time in years, they had made the Priesthood bleed.

  It didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like breathing after almost drowning.

  Renn came up beside him, wiping his sword. “We actually did it,” he said.

  Talon nodded. “We did.”

  Rethal rode past, shouting for the rear to move faster. Digiera was arguing with Broko about who had set fire to the incense carts. Candriela was already bandaging another soldier, her hands steady despite the shaking ground.

  And in the first cart, Gemma sat beside Aros, holding his hand in silence, her eyes fixed on the burning city.

  Talon drew a long breath and exhaled. “Let’s go home.”

  They moved out, a column of smoke and light disappearing into the hills, carrying with them the knowledge that the Valval Priesthood could be hurt.

  Behind them, Sbelto burned until even the bells went silent.

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