The separation happened without ceremony.
No announcements. No farewells grand enough to soften it.
The Bastions peeled away from one another at the outer gates of the capital like branches breaking from the same trunk—each turning toward a different horizon, banners lowering, formations tightening. Commands were given in low voices. Boots shifted. Routes were claimed.
Midarion felt it the moment the Sanctuary of Tides turned southward.
The palace was already behind them.
That surprised him.
He had expected the weight to linger longer—to trail after him like a shadow. Instead, the marble towers receded quickly, swallowed by distance and white stone haze. The iron certainty of the Hall of Oaths loosened its grip with every step they took away from it.
His breathing eased.
Not because he felt safe.
Because he felt released.
Reikika noticed before he did.
His hand throbbed dully at his side, wrapped and bound, every movement reminding him that the fight had not ended when he fell. He flexed his fingers once and stopped. The ache was sharp enough to warn him.
"You're lighter," she said quietly, matching her pace to his.
Midarion blinked, glanced sideways. "I didn't realize I was heavy."
"You were," she replied. No judgment. Just fact.
Ahead of them, Captain Aelyss walked without turning, cloak shifting with each measured step. She had not spoken since the dismissal. Had not addressed them. Had not slowed or quickened her pace for anyone.
She did not need to.
Behind Midarion, Lior walked in silence.
That, too, was new.
The boy who had once filled every space with restless confidence now kept his gaze forward, hands clasped behind his back as if holding something in place. His steps were precise. Controlled. He did not look at the city as it gave way to open road.
The capital released them.
Something else did not.
The road south was wide at first, paved in pale stone and lined with markers etched in flowing script. Supply wagons and mounted escorts joined them briefly, then peeled away toward other routes. By the second day, the stone gave way to packed earth, the air warming, thinning.
The recruits settled into a rhythm.
Morning march. Short breaks. Sparse meals. Evening camps without fire unless permitted. Discipline without cruelty.
Captain Aelyss enforced distance without isolation.
She walked near enough to see everything.
Far enough to say nothing.
Whispers began on the second night.
Not loud. Not conspiratorial.
Just… curious.
"Did you hear?" one recruit murmured near the water skins. "Apparently the Tides expect a lot. Endurance tests. Long watches."
"They say their Sanctuary never sleeps."
"I heard they pull recruits straight into patrols."
Another voice, lower, edged with something sour: "That one—Ashborn. Do you know where he's from?"
A pause.
"Slums, apparently."
"Then why is he—"
The sentence died.
Reikika had turned.
She didn't glare. Didn't frown.
She smiled.
It was small. Pleasant. Almost warm.
Her eyes met theirs.
The whispering stopped instantly, like breath cut short.
No apology followed. No challenge.
The recruits looked away, suddenly absorbed in straps, packs, anything else.
Reikika turned back to Midarion, smile unchanged.
Lior noticed something else.
"They stopped staring," he said quietly later, when the camp had settled into low murmurs and the stars pressed closer overhead.
"Who?" Midarion asked.
"The others." Lior hesitated, then added, "Now they're looking again."
Midarion frowned. "I don't mind them."
Captain Aelyss paused near the edge of the camp then—not turning, not addressing them—but her gaze swept the recruits once. Calm. Assessing.
It lingered on Midarion for half a breath longer than necessary.
Then she moved on.
No comment.
Which somehow felt heavier than correction.
The land changed gradually.
The third day brought the scent of salt on the wind.
Not sharp. Not overwhelming. Just present—woven into the air like memory. Grass grew shorter here, bending more easily. The wind carried sounds that were not voices, not quite—hollow echoes shaped by water and distance.
Reikika breathed it in. "It smells alive."
"It smells like salt," Midarion said.
His hand ached again as the air grew damp, the bandages tightening slightly. He adjusted them with his left hand and kept walking.
Children watched them pass near a small crossroads village—two dozen homes clustered around a shallow canal. They did not hide. Did not whisper. They stared openly, eyes wide, expressions bright.
A boy waved.
A girl bowed too deeply, nearly toppling forward before laughing at herself.
Fisherfolk set aside nets. An old woman pressed her palms together and murmured something that sounded like thanks.
No suspicion.
No distance.
Hope.
The realization struck Midarion harder than anything in the capital had.
These people weren't looking at him as a problem to be sorted.
They were looking at him as an answer.
Reikika saw his shoulders tense.
"Don't carry it yet," she murmured.
"I'm not," he replied.
But that wasn't entirely true.
They reached the outer edges of Hydros on the fifth day.
There was no wall.
Not at first.
Then the road curved—and it rose.
Not stone like Ignis.
Metal.
A vast sheet of darkened steel rose from the earth, segmented and layered, its surface etched with channels where water flowed constantly, cooling it, feeding mechanisms unseen. The gates were colossal, reinforced with overlapping plates, guarded by ranks of soldiers in deep blue armor that caught the light like the surface of the sea.
They stood ready.
Not ornamental.
Prepared.
An impressive wave rather than a rigid formation.
The moment Captain Aelyss came into clear view, something shifted.
The blue-armored soldiers straightened as one.
Fists struck breastplates.
Helms dipped.
The sound rang out—sharp, unified.
Respect.
Not fear.
Not ritual.
Recognition.
"Welcome back captain Aelyss," the gate captain called, stepping forward and bowing deeply. "Hydros stands secure."
Aelyss inclined her head once.
"That is expected," she replied.
The gates opened.
Not hurried.
Certain.
Once through, they did not stop.
They moved forward into the city itself.
Hydros unfolded around them.
Water ran everywhere—open channels lining streets, arcing beneath bridges, flowing through courtyards and beneath homes. Stone and wood curved rather than resisted, architecture shaped to guide movement instead of block it. Wind bells chimed softly from eaves. Boats drifted lazily through wider canals, their wakes barely disturbing the surface.
The city was beautiful.
Not polished.
Alive.
Midarion felt it immediately—the difference in pressure, in sound. The city breathed. It did not crowd. It did not loom.
Reikika slowed half a step, eyes bright, taking it in without hiding her wonder.
"It's… gentle," she said.
Midarion flexed his injured fingers slightly, feeling the ache respond.
The city noticed them.
People paused. Some bowed. Others simply nodded.
They did not crowd Captain Aelyss.
They trusted her.
A man removed his cap as they passed. A woman pressed her child closer and smiled—not at the recruits, but at the Captain.
The shield of Hydros.
Captain Aelyss acknowledged none of it.
She did not need to.
The Sanctuary of the Tides rose at the heart of the city without pretense.
Massive—but unadorned.
Stone layered upon stone, worn smooth by time and water. Channels ran openly through its lower levels, disappearing beneath thick gates and reemerging farther on. Wind passed through it. Water moved within it.
The structure breathed.
They stopped before the gates.
The Sanctuary did not open.
It did not announce itself.
It waited.
Midarion felt it—not welcome, not rejection.
Assessment.
As if the walls already knew who would endure.
Captain Aelyss halted.
"This is not the palace," she said.
Her voice carried without force.
"What you were there means little here."
She looked at them—at all of them—but her gaze settled briefly on Midarion.
"Belonging is earned daily."
The gates remained closed.
Water whispered somewhere within.
The city behind them fell quiet.
And for the first time since leaving Ignis, Midarion understood:
The Sanctuary of the Tides did not expect him to be exceptional.
It expected him to endure.
And it already knew the cost.