After long hours suspended in the hush of the skies, we returned at last to the port from which we had first departed.
It was familiar—yet not.
Snow still lay thick upon the docks, pressed flat by boots and cart wheels, its white dulled by soot and time. The port lacked the capital's grandeur, but its manners remained intact: backs straight, voices low, propriety preserved even where wealth thinned.
Humble, but not careless.
As we stepped into the waiting carriage, I glanced at Heiwa.
Is it the mythical race? I wondered. Is that why the people here seem so untroubled by a war burning just beyond their borders?
Emem greeted us with a polite bow and an easy smile as I climbed inside. My own expression must have betrayed me—I felt unimpressed, unsettled—because he merely chuckled and shrugged, as though this outcome had been expected all along.
Seated now, I recalled his earlier questions to Heiwa, and understanding clicked into place like a lock turning.
He knew, I realised.
And he hadn't told us.
My gaze slid sideways, catching Heiwa's profile reflected faintly in the glass. Her expression was unreadable.
Did Miss Lakshmi know too?
She must have.
The thought gnawed at me as I looked toward her. She sat composed, as ever, hands folded neatly, her calm unbroken.
Then why help us at all, I wondered, if the effort was doomed to be unproductive?
Heiwa said nothing. She watched the streets roll past, her posture stiff, as though holding herself together by habit alone.
"Hm," Miss Lakshmi murmured at last, peering out the window. "People seem rather tense today. Perhaps news of the foreign airship has reached them."
At the sound of her voice, Heiwa's body tightened—just for a breath. Then she exhaled slowly, schooling herself back into stillness.
Miss Lakshmi smiled faintly and said nothing more. Miss Halle remained absorbed in her book, turning a page with deliberate quiet, as though she had chosen not to hear.
It was agreed that we would remain the night and depart for Twin Hill Province the following morning.
Once settled, I found myself again alone with Heiwa in our room. The air felt compressed, as though waiting itself pressed upon it. She disliked the delay—I could see it—but chose not to contest it.
Neither of us spoke at first.
We unpacked in parallel silence, arranging belongings with a care that bordered on avoidance.
"What do you think Miss Lakshmi meant by that?" Heiwa asked eventually, her voice measured.
I paused, fingers resting on folded fabric.
"You mean," I said slowly, "when she mentioned the people seeming tense?"
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Heiwa nodded once.
I worried about the women at the shrine. About the others.
And then, inevitably, about her brother—still on that battlefield.
Evening crept in with winter's quiet authority. The sky dimmed, the cold deepened, and before long I lay in bed, staring upward through the window at a pale, distant sky.
Tomorrow waited.
Whatever it held, it was already moving.