The road to Preta cut through fields of golden barley, their edges lined with irrigation channels glinting under the midday light. The city itself was modest but alive: terraces of stone houses, smoke rising from bakeries, oxen dragging wooden plows through wet soil. The air smelled of bread and metal. It was not a city of priests, but of hands.
At the head of the escort rode Linard Dister, chief of exploration for the province. He was a broad man in his forties, his cloak trimmed with the blue sigil of Preta's council, a spade crossed with a sun. His tone was calm, almost conversational, but his words cut clean.
"So," Linard said, glancing back at Talon and Aros, "the rumors are true, then. The Knights of Life move again."
Talon hesitated. "Rumors travel faster than we do."
"In cities that still dare to listen," Linard replied. "Preta isn't loyal to the Priesthood anymore. We feed them, we build for them, but their Light doesn't reach this far. If there's truly talk of a rebellion, I'd rather hear it from the mouths of those who'll lead it."
Aros rode silently beside them, eyes scanning the rooftops and the walls. He didn't like the openness of it, the way the townsfolk paused to watch their passing, not with fear, but with a quiet, assessing curiosity. Every face felt like a question he didn't know how to answer.
Talon finally spoke. "Rebellion isn't the word we use."
Linard raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you call it?"
"A correction," Talon said. "A world out of balance must be set right."
Linard's mouth curved slightly. "And who decides what right looks like?"
Talon didn't answer. He didn't have to. The people already knew. Murmurs followed them through the streets, whispers of harvests stolen by tithe-collectors, of soldiers requisitioning grain "for the Light." The word rebellion didn't need to be spoken. It was already there, breathing between walls.
They reached the hill where the monastery stood, pale stone, vines curling up its flanks, the bell tower cracked from an old quake. Two monks waited at the gates, their robes dusty, eyes wary. Linard dismounted first.
"This was once a house of study," he said. "Now it stores grain and silence. You'll find both useful."
Talon nodded, though his gaze lingered on the monks. "We'll only stay a few days."
"Stay as long as you need," Linard replied. "But understand: Preta doesn't need saviors. It needs time to remember what it can live without."
He turned and left them with the escort, heading back toward the fields.The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain.
Aros watched him go, then looked toward the horizon, where the fields blurred into gray. "He's not afraid of us," he said quietly.
Talon adjusted his cloak. "No. And that's what worries me."
Aros's eyes drifted to Gemma, walking beside one of the carts, her hood drawn low. She looked small against the endless sky. "We should keep her close," he murmured.
Talon glanced at him. "We will. But if Linard's right, she may be the only reason these people still believe in anything at all."
They entered the monastery courtyard. The gates shut behind them with a hollow thud, not unwelcoming, but heavy, like something sealing itself for what was coming.
The courtyard of the monastery had been cleared.Benches from the refectory were dragged into a half-circle, facing the old altar that once held relics of the Light. Now only dust clung to it. Torches flickered along the stone walls, their light trembling on armor and faces alike.
Talon stood at the base of the altar, speaking in a low voice with a group of monks. His gestures were small but deliberate, the kind that made people listen without realizing they were listening. Aros watched from a distance, arms crossed, Gemma seated beside him on the edge of the steps.
She hadn't spoken all day.
When Talon noticed them, he waved them over. "Aros," he said, "I want to hold a gathering before dusk. The people of Preta are already waiting outside the gates. They've heard who arrived."
Aros frowned. "You mean they've heard who they think arrived."
Talon smiled faintly. "That's precisely why we should speak. A voice in silence becomes rumor. We can't afford rumors anymore."
He turned to Gemma. "You'll stand with me when I speak."
Aros stepped forward immediately. "No. She won't."
Talon blinked, surprised by the bluntness. "You think hiding her helps anyone? These people need to see that the Light still answers its children."
"She can't," Aros said.
Talon's tone softened, though it didn't lose its edge. "Can't, or won't?"
"Since Juri," Aros replied quietly. "She hasn't been able to summon anything. Not even the smallest trace."
Talon was silent for a long moment. Then he looked at Gemma: pale, still, her gaze lost somewhere between the torches and the shadows. His expression shifted, not quite pity, not quite disappointment.
"I see," he murmured. "Then we've lost more than a power. We've lost a symbol."
Aros's eyes narrowed. "That's what you're mourning? A symbol?"
Talon exhaled. "Don't twist it. You know what I mean. Hope needs a face, Aros. Without it, people don't follow, they scatter."
"They follow lies just as easily," Aros said.
"Lies can build walls," Talon replied. "Truth rarely does."
The silence that followed was long and dry. Outside, the bells of Preta began to ring for the evening meal.
Finally, Aros asked, "How many, Talon? Truly. How many stand with us?"
Talon didn't hesitate. "Here, seventy-five. Across the provinces, perhaps five hundred who claim the cause. A handful who can fight, fewer who can lead. But they're enough to start something."
"Enough to die," Aros said.
Talon met his gaze, steady. "Enough to make Dromo remember that obedience isn't peace."
He took a breath, looked toward the empty pulpit, and added: "If Gemma can't speak, then you must. You've seen what we've seen. You were there when the Light burned Juri. They'll believe you."
Aros shook his head. "I'm no speaker."
"You don't need to speak," Talon said. "You just need to stand there. The rest will speak for you."
Aros hesitated. His eyes went again to Gemma, her small hands clasped, her eyes dim but watchful. The child who had once channeled the Light now looked hollowed by it.
He closed his fist slowly, then nodded. "Fine. I'll do it."
Talon's expression softened, just enough to look human again. "Good. Then tonight, they'll remember the name Aros Kevis."
Aros didn't answer. He turned away, toward the cracked bell tower, its silhouette sharp against the setting sun.
"Names don't matter," he said at last. "Only who still believes when they stop meaning anything."