By midday the road began to widen, the track flattening into long bands of pale stone that shimmered under the heat. The smell of salt faded into dry earth and clay, and the air grew heavy with the scent of dust. From the crest of the next hill, Aros could already see the outline of Preta: high white walls crowned with black banners, their edges frayed by the wind. Beyond them, the city shimmered faintly in the light, half hidden by a haze that made it look more dream than stone.
They had been walking for hours without a word. The caravan stretched thin along the road, wagons creaking, the hooves of tired horses leaving shallow marks on the pale dirt. The laughter that had filled the mornings was gone; only the occasional cough or the dull clank of armor broke the silence. Since the encounter with Jori, something had changed among them, as if each person feared that speaking too loudly might summon what they had left behind.
Aros slowed his pace until he was beside Gemma. She walked with her hood pulled low, her small boots scuffing the ground, each step dragging a faint cloud of dust. The little circles of light she used to conjure so easily had been absent all morning, and Aros found himself missing them more than he expected.
"You've been very quiet," he said at last.
Gemma didn't look up. "So have you."
"I'm old. Silence is a luxury." His tone carried a faint warmth, a weary humor that tried to hide concern. After a pause, he added, "You all right, kid?"
She tried to smirk but didn't quite manage it. "Sure. Just fought a monster made of light, almost died, probably cursed. Best time of my life. You?"
"Better than yesterday," Aros said. Then, more serious, "You were brave back there."
"Brave and stupid," she corrected softly. "Mostly stupid."
"That's often the same thing."
For a moment she almost smiled, a small curve at the corner of her mouth, but it faded as quickly as it came. "Aros," she said, voice lower now. "Something's wrong."
He slowed his pace, letting the column pass ahead of them until the road felt almost empty. "Wrong how?"
"The voices," she said. "They're quieter. Distant. Before, I could feel them all the time, like a hum behind my thoughts. Now it's just… static. I can still make a little light, but it flickers. It's like something took half of me and left the rest hollow."
Aros didn't answer right away. The wind hissed across the dry grass, and the rhythmic creak of the wagons faded into the distance. "Could be exhaustion," he said at last. "You've been through hell, Gemma."
"I don't think so," she whispered. "I think it's him. Jori. When he touched me, when he tried to take the light, it felt like something was leaving me. Like he actually took it."
Aros's jaw tightened. "Then maybe that's a blessing."
She blinked, uncertain. "What?"
He met her eyes: steady, lined with fatigue but still sharp. "If what he did burned out that power, maybe you'll have a chance at being a normal girl again. To have a good, easy life."
Gemma's gaze dropped. Her voice went quiet, almost a murmur. "And if I don't want to be normal?"
He said nothing. The silence stretched between them, heavy as the air before rain. The caravan had started to descend toward the plain, and the gates of Preta loomed larger now, black against the light.
"You think I like it because it's power," Gemma said. "You don't understand. When the voices are gone, it's not silence. It's emptiness. It's like being forgotten by something that once saw you. Everything feels… meaningless."
Aros studied her face, the tremor behind her words. He wanted to tell her that meaning was a thing one built, not something granted by light or gods. But the words came simpler. "Then you fight to remember yourself," he said. "Not the voices. You."
Before she could answer, a call rose from the front. Talon's voice, sharp and commanding: "Aros! A word, please."
They both looked up. Talon stood beside the lead wagon, gesturing for him to approach. Aros sighed and moved ahead, dust rising around his boots.
Talon waited until Aros was close. His tone was measured, deliberate, as if each word were weighed. "When we reach the gates, Hirias Lomnet himself will receive us. I want you there when I speak to him."
Aros frowned. "Why me?"
"Because you're not a politician," Talon said. "You're a soldier. A symbol. You standing there beside me says more than any speech I could give. The Knights need to look like they still stand for something."
Aros crossed his arms. "I'm not comfortable leaning on nobles for mercy. We've done that before."
"I know." Talon's eyes hardened for a moment. "And I know what Alexander did. But we can't afford another disaster. If we're to rebuild, we have to trust someone."
Aros looked toward the distant city, its walls shimmering in the sun. "Trust is a strange word for men like us."
Talon almost smiled. "Then let's pretend for an hour."
He walked ahead to join the vanguard, leaving Aros beside Gemma again.
"Who's Hirias?" she asked.
"Old blood," Aros said. "Velovian noble. Thinks manners are armor."
"You trust him?"
"I don't trust anyone who wears silk in a war."
Gemma smirked faintly. "That's almost poetic."
"Don't tell Talon. He'd expect me to start writing hymns."
The road widened into a causeway lined with statues, weathered angels missing their faces, saints whose names no one remembered. The air smelled of iron and sunburned stone. The afternoon light painted everything gold and red, and as they drew closer, the gates of Preta rose before them: vast doors of carved basalt, each engraved with the radiant circle of the Valval Priesthood, now marred by soot and broken chains.
The guards on the walls shouted orders. The great hinges groaned, echoing down the causeway. As the gates began to open, the caravan slowed, as if holding its breath.
Preta loomed beyond, its streets alive with smoke and stillness.