They entered the city of Skariz under a sky the color of iron. Broko walked first, his pace steady, boots slapping against the wet stones. Somewhere far off, bells rang and echoed through the mist, blurring into one another until they sounded like a heartbeat too big for the city. The streets were narrow, pressed between houses that leaned forward as if whispering to each other. Pale stone eaten by centuries, roofs bent under their own weight. From the gutters hung long tongues of copper, shaped like open mouths. The water that dripped from them was black.
Gemma stayed close to Aros. Her hood cast a shadow over her eyes, her breath visible in the cold. The cobblestones shone with rain and soot, slick and uneven, reflecting the dim light of oil lamps caged behind iron frames. Above, balconies jutted out like ribs, their wood lacquered and peeling, and every few steps a shutter creaked without wind.
Aros noticed the walls pulsing faintly. A soft rhythm, like the breath of something sleeping. Everyone in Dromo knew why. The Priesthood had blessed the city long ago, pouring the Light into its bones. Some said it kept the streets from collapsing. Others said it listened. He could feel it beneath his boots, that faint hum, too regular to be nature. The sensation of standing on something alive and perfectly obedient.
The further they went, the heavier the air became. The smell of incense lingered everywhere: sweet, cloying, masking the stench of wet ash. From the archways hung incense burners, their chains rattling in the wind, releasing pale smoke that curled upward like restless souls.
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 with the rhythm of the bells. The poor painted theirs with soot and blood.
And everywhere, there were bodies.
The burned were left where they fell, still standing on wooden stakes, their skin blackened and hard as glass. Some wore the robes of priests. Others had nothing. All of them faced east, toward the Great Cathedral, as if even in death they were waiting for dawn.
At the center of a square, six corpses had been arranged in a circle around a pillar that read: Faith does not burn. Flesh does.
Gemma turned away quickly, her hands trembling under her cloak. Aros didn't. 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 returned uninvited: a calm smile, a crown of bronze, the shine of the Light on polished metal. Behind those eyes, the quiet certainty that godhood and power were the same thing. Aros looked away before the image could finish itself.
Broko's voice broke through the silence. "Keep walking. We don't stop here."
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 strange: faceless, their halos cracked, their hands raised not in blessing but in surrender. From an alley, Aros caught sight of a collapsed building being rebuilt by invisible hands: stones shifting into place one by one, mortar flowing like milk from a suspended bucket. No workers. No scaffolding. Only the low vibration of the Light beneath the street.
Gemma slowed to watch. "Does it always do that?"Aros nodded slightly. "When the city wants to please its masters."
"Or remind us who owns it," Broko added without turning.
They crossed 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's voice was low. "Careful. There are ears in every wall."
Broko looked back at them, amused. "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 was sharp, playful. "He means you scared easy. Broko's face does that to people."Broko grinned. "You would know."
Gemma glanced at Aros, and for a moment, the weight in the air lightened, just enough for her to smile.
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 crooked, its bells long cracked. Vines had climbed the walls, and pigeons nested where the stained glass once glowed.
Aros stopped. "No."
Broko turned, his expression unreadable. "What's wrong?"
"That's not a church," Aros said quietly. "That's a tomb."
Broko tilted his head. "Depends on what you worship."
Gemma looked up at the leaning spire. "Why bring us here?"
"Because this is where the good ones hide," Broko said.
Aros's voice was cold. "There are no good ones."
Broko smiled faintly. "Then you'll fit right in."
They entered.
Inside, the light was thin, filtered through the cracks in the dome. The pews had been cleared, replaced by wooden tables littered with maps, broken rifles, and melted candles. The air smelled of wax and rust.At the far end, where an altar once stood, a man addressed a small crowd. His tone was solemn, almost ceremonial.
"…for even the purest flame needs shadow to be seen," he was saying. "Remember that. The Light was not meant to blind, but to reveal."
When he noticed Broko and the newcomers, he paused and spread his arms with slow, deliberate grace.
"Ah," he said. "The wind brings us old legends after all."
Broko gestured toward Aros. "Found him wandering. Thought you'd want a look."
The man smiled, his voice rising as he addressed the gathered listeners."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."
The crowd murmured, some in awe, some in fear. Of course, everybody knew who he was.
Gemma turned to Aros, uncertain. He did not speak. He only stared ahead, his face unreadable. But in his chest, something old and violent stirred: the echo of a crown breaking, and of everything that had followed.Aros felt how his anger was suddenly reborned.