The storm had passed, leaving the air swollen and metallic, as if the city had been smelted overnight. Outside, the streets still dripped with rainwater, gutters overflowing in slow rivulets that carried bits of ash and salt toward the harbor. The sound of it filled everything, the dripping from rooftops, the soft trickle through the cracks of stone, the faint cries of gulls circling above the docks.
Inside the narrow house, a single lantern burned on the table. Its flame swayed every time the wind slipped through the window frame, sending long shadows over the walls. The smell of wet wood clung to everything.
Aros sat at the table, cleaning his knife with a rag so worn it looked like it might crumble between his fingers. Across the room, Diana leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. She watched him in silence, her eyes tracing the slow movement of his hands over the blade.
"You haven't said a word since they left," she said finally. "You really think she'll be fine?"
Aros didn't look up. "She's stronger than she looks."
"She's a child." Diana's tone wasn't sharp, just tired, the kind of fatigue that settles after too much blood. "A frightened one. You saw her face when that light burst out of her."
Aros ran his thumb along the dull side of the blade, feeling the edge bite lightly against his skin. "Fear doesn't mean weakness. It means she still knows what she's doing."
Diana pushed away from the wall and walked closer. The lantern caught in her hair, glinting red and gold. "Broko's scared of her, that's all," she said. "But I don't think he hates her. He just doesn't understand what she is. None of us do."
"She's a girl with a gift she doesn't understand," Aros said. "That's all."
Diana tilted her head, studying him. "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
He didn't answer.
The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile. The kind of quiet that grows when two people have said all they can without saying the one thing that matters. Outside, the rain slowed to a trickle. The lantern crackled softly.
Then came the knock. Heavy. Measured.
Broko straightened from his chair near the window, hand already moving toward his belt knife. Aros stood, slid his cleaned blade into its sheath, and opened the door.
A man stood in the doorway, tall, wrapped in a dark green coat of heavy wool. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his boots were far too clean for this part of Bondrea. When he saw Aros, he froze, then smiled like someone greeting a ghost.
"By the gods," he said with a laugh that was almost disbelief. "Aros Stterice. You're alive."
Aros blinked, the name tugging at a part of him he hadn't used in years. "Gustave?"
"The same." Gustave stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, shaking water from his coat. His voice filled the room, smooth and confident, the kind that turns lies into truths if spoken often enough. "You look older. Harder. The stories said you vanished after Valeo's death."
"Stories say a lot of things," Aros said, closing the door behind him.
Gustave's eyes flicked to Diana, and he gave a courteous half bow. "Forgive my intrusion, madam. Old friends forget their manners when ghosts walk back into their lives."
"Seems that way," Diana said.
Gustave smiled faintly, the kind of smile that expected to be returned. "If you'll excuse us, I'd like a word with my old friend."
He gestured toward the next room. Aros hesitated, then followed.
The adjoining space was small, cluttered with maps of the coast and old fishing nets that smelled faintly of salt and rope oil. Gustave stood in the middle of it, hands clasped behind his back, the lamplight catching on the rings that lined his fingers.
"I never thought I'd see you again," he said. "After you slit the king's throat, I assumed the Priesthood tore you to pieces."
"They tried," Aros said. "I left before they could."
"I always knew you'd survive," Gustave said with something close to admiration. "You had that look back then, a man who'd already died once and wasn't planning on doing it again."
Aros leaned against the table. "Why are you here, Gustave?"
"Because I still believe," he said simply. "As you once did. I came to tell you the fire you lit didn't die out. The rebellion lives, Aros. It's grown beyond the old lines. The Priesthood's losing ground, little by little. People are waking up."
Aros studied him without expression. "And when they wake, what happens? They'll need someone to lead them. Another name to kneel to. Another Valeo."
Gustave's smile sharpened. "That's already been thought of."
He turned toward the door and raised his voice slightly. "Come in, Alexander."
Footsteps approached. A young man entered, tall, broad-shouldered, his bearing too composed to belong to a soldier. His face was smooth, his eyes a clear, cold blue, and for a moment Aros forgot to breathe.
Valeo's face. The same jawline. The same eyes that had watched kingdoms burn.
"Impossible," Aros muttered.
Gustave's grin widened. "Aros Valean, meet Alexander of Dromo. The late King Valeo's brother. The rightful heir."
The young man bowed his head with quiet grace. "It's an honor to meet the man who freed my brother from his sins."
Aros's hand tightened on the edge of the table. "Freed?"
"Death is a kind of freedom," Alexander said, his tone measured, confident. "You struck down a tyrant, but the world still needs a heart. The Priesthood filled the void with their false Light, but faith can be broken. A crown, once reforged, endures."
Aros shook his head slowly. "You want another king. That's your answer."
"Not just a king," Gustave said, his voice low and fervent now. "A believer's king. One who can rule and revere, not separate the two. The world needs balance, Aros, between faith and reason, crown and altar. You once believed that too."
Aros looked from one to the other. The old friend and the young heir. Two men wearing conviction like armor. He felt something cold settle deep in his chest, familiar and heavy. He had killed one king to end a cycle of tyranny, and now they were asking him to help start it again.
"Tell me," he said after a long pause, "what makes you think your balance won't rot like the last one?"
Gustave's smile faltered for the first time. "Because this time, you'll be part of it."
Aros stared at him, then turned toward the door. "No. I've done my part."
He walked out before either of them could speak.
In the next room, Broko was sharpening his knife by the window. Diana looked up. "Who was that?"
Aros didn't answer. He reached for his cloak, his movements steady, unhurried, almost calm.
Outside, the storm had moved on, leaving behind a city that smelled of salt, smoke, and something else: change. The streets shimmered with puddles that reflected pieces of a sky still too heavy to clear.
He stepped into the open air, pulling the cloak over his shoulders. Somewhere beyond the harbor, the gulls screamed, and the sea rolled back toward Bondrea like a living thing that refused to sleep.