The road cutting through Dromo's middle wasn't much of a road. More like a scar of stone and mud, uneven enough to make every step sound heavier than it should. The rain had polished the rocks until they gleamed like broken glass, catching what little light the sky had to offer.
By noon the fog was thinning, pulling back slow, reluctant, as if it didn't trust the day. What it left behind was that smell, wet earth and salt, maybe something faintly metallic that clung to the tongue. Somewhere far off, horses clopped against stone, distant and tired. Dromo wasn't dead, just quiet. The kind of beauty that hides because it's tired of being looked at.
Gemma walked ahead, her boots sinking with a soft squelch each time. Every so often she lifted her hand and drew invisible shapes in the air, tracing lines only she could see. Sometimes her lips moved, forming words she didn't say. Aros watched her from behind, wondering if he should stop her or let her finish. Every time she got like that, the world seemed to tilt a little. Branches shifting. Birds changing course. The low hum in the air deepening until it was almost a sound you could feel in your ribs. It wasn't imagination. Not anymore.
"You're doing it again," he said, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
Gemma didn't turn. "You told me to listen."
"I said understand, not chase ghosts."
"They're not ghosts." Her voice faded with the wind, as if it preferred not to argue.
They walked on. The path curved between hills where houses leaned on each other like secrets too old to stand alone. Smoke rose from chimneys; sheets flapped in the wind, pale against a dull sky that couldn't decide if it wanted to rain again. People watched them pass. No one spoke. That was Dromo: eyes always open, mouths shut tight. The silence wasn't fear. It was routine. The kind that gets built over generations until no one remembers how it started.
Aros adjusted the strap across his shoulder. The leather had cracked from years of weather and sweat. "If anyone talks to you," he muttered, "don't answer."
"I never do," she said. "That's the problem."
That got a small smile out of him. Thin thing. Fragile. She tried to hold it, but it slipped. He looked at her, a child still, and felt something close to pity. Not for what she'd been through, but for what was coming. Kids deserved time to grow into their scars, not wear them like armor.
The hills gave way to farmland. The soil was dark, almost black, the kind that promised more than it ever gave. Crops grew low and twisted. Roots didn't trust this dirt much either. Far away, windmills turned slow, creaking like bones that had just woken up. The sound carried strangely in the wind, as if the island itself was breathing.
"Was it like this before?" Gemma asked.
"Before?"
"When you were young."
He let out a dry laugh. "I wasn't young here. Came when faith already had a price tag."
"So it's always been like this."
He almost said no. Then thought better of it. Some truths were better left buried, even from kids. Especially from kids.
"Always, huh? I'm not that old, kid."
Gemma didn't answer. She kicked a stone instead and watched it skip along the mud before vanishing into the grass. Her face was hard to read when she was quiet. It wasn't sadness exactly. More like listening to something that only she could hear.
They stopped at a narrow stream cutting the road in two. The water shimmered under the wind, thin and silver like a vein. Gemma crouched, dipped her fingers. A faint glow followed, the same one that used to scare him back in Calad. He'd gotten used to it now, or at least he told himself that. Aros crouched beside her. "Careful."
"I'm not using it," she said. "It's using me."
"That's not comforting."
She gave him a look, half amused. "You really hate things you can't explain, don't you?"
"I just like to survive them."
Her smile softened then, almost warm. For a second she looked like what she was supposed to be, a kid, thin and small and far from home. Then the wind shifted and she froze.
Aros waited. "We could stop, you know."
"Stop?"
"Go south. Live near the coast. The Priesthood doesn't reach that far. You don't owe them anything."
She shook her head. "That's not true."
"You're still a child," he said quietly. "You deserve something that isn't made of running."
She hesitated. "And you?"
Aros's mouth twitched into something like a smile. "I'm not a child."
Gemma dipped her hand back in the stream. "If we run, the voices follow. I can't pretend they're not there."
He sighed. "Then let's make them regret whispering."
That got a laugh out of her, brief, bright, gone too fast. For a moment the air felt lighter. The kind of silence that comes after laughter and hurts a little because you know it won't last. Then the wind changed again.
Gemma tilted her head. The air thickened. Aros felt it too, a pulse in the earth, distant but growing, like thunder rolling beneath the soil.
"What is it?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Not them. Others."
They stood. The fog was crawling back, low and deliberate, swallowing the edges of the field. Aros scanned the slope. "Keep walking. Slowly."
The gravel crunched under their boots, louder than it should. Gemma's hand brushed his sleeve, light but trembling. Not fear, exactly. Just instinct. The kind of movement that comes from somewhere deeper than thought.
Then came the whistle. Short. Sharp. Human.
Figures emerged from the mist, five, maybe six. Cloaked. Armed. Short blades, muskets patched with copper and rust. Not soldiers, but not amateurs either. The kind that knew what blood looked like and didn't flinch at it.
Aros lifted his hands slightly. "If you're looking for trouble, you just found it."
The man in front laughed. "No one looks for trouble here, old man. It finds us."
He lowered his hood. Broad face, sunburnt, beard uneven, smile too confident. The eyes behind it weren't smiling. Aros felt Gemma tense beside him. He could almost hear her heart in the quiet.
The man spread his arms, almost polite. "Forgive the welcome. Pilgrims don't usually come this deep."
"Then maybe let them pass when they do," Aros said.
"Maybe." The man's grin didn't fade. "Or maybe not. Depends who they are."
He stepped closer, boots sinking in the mud. The others stayed where they were, silent shadows behind him. "Tell me something," he said. "The girl. Yours? Or should I start worrying about you?"
Aros didn't answer. Silence worked well enough. He'd learned long ago that silence was a language of its own. The trick was knowing when to stop speaking it.
The man studied him for a long time, then smiled like he'd solved a puzzle. "Thought so," he said quietly. "Then we're not enemies. Not today."
He extended a hand. "Name's Broko. You must be Aros Kevis."
Aros frowned. "You've got the wrong man, pal."
Broko chuckled. "Sure, wrong man. We still need to talk."
Behind him, the fog thickened again, swallowing the trees one by one. The sound of the wind changed, like it was pushing from the wrong direction. Gemma looked at Aros. He said nothing, but his hand hovered near the knife at his belt. Her fingers curled near her bow, though she hadn't drawn it.
Broko's grin widened. "Come on. World's ending in a dozen ways, and you two just stepped into one."
He turned and walked into the fog. The others followed, boots crunching soft against the wet dirt. For a moment, Aros thought about letting them vanish. Then he looked at Gemma, her small frame outlined against the pale air, and knew he wouldn't.
"Stay close," he said.
She nodded, and together they stepped forward into the mist.