Black-Iron Rest used to be a shit-hole. Now, it was a fortress.
Kael adjusted the cowl of his cloak, keeping his head down as they passed under the new iron portcullis. Two years ago, this town had been a collection of tents and mud-brick hovels for scavengers. Now, twenty-foot walls of grey stone loomed over them. Spire banners hung from every parapet, snapping in the ash-wind.
"Checkpoints," Elric muttered, limping beside him. "Three of them. They aren't looking for smugglers, Kael. They're looking for enemies."
"Keep walking," Kael said. His voice was rough, unused to whispering.
The guards at the gate were bored. They waved the two "beggars" through without a second look. Kael's obsidian arm was wrapped in heavy bandages, looking like a leper's wound. His sword—the iron one—was hidden under his rags.
The town square was crowded. But it wasn't a market day. People were gathered around a massive stone plinth in the center.
Kael stopped.
On top of the plinth was a statue. It was carved from white marble—expensive, imported stone that had no business being in the Ashlands. It depicted two figures.
One was the First Sword, tall and noble, pointing a剣 toward the sky.
The other was Kael.
Or rather, a version of Kael that the Spire deemed acceptable. The statue-Kael was kneeling at the First Sword's feet, looking up in adoration, his sword offered in service. The inscription at the base read:
HERE FELL THE LOYAL SONS. THEY ASCENDED TO THE LIGHT SO WE MAY LIVE.
Kael felt a laugh clawing at his throat. It was a dark, sharp thing.
"Loyal," Kael whispered. "They made me a pet."
"They made you a martyr," Elric corrected softly. "It's cleaner. Dead heroes don't ask questions."
They moved away from the statue, slipping into the shadows of an alley. The air smelled of roasting meat and stale beer. They found a tavern—*The Gilded Cog*—tucked away near the forge district.
Inside, the mood was heavy. Men drank with their heads down.
Kael and Elric took a table in the back corner. Elric counted out their last few coins—rusted coppers they had scavenged from the crash site.
"Two ales," Elric told the serving girl. "And bread. Whatever isn't moldy."
The girl looked at them with tired eyes. "Three coppers. Inflation, grandpa. The Ascension Tax."
Elric paid. When she left, he leaned in.
"Did you hear the table next to us?" Elric whispered.
Kael listened. Two miners were talking low, hunched over their tankards.
"...took old Miller last night," one said. "Inquisitors dragged him out of his bed. Said he was hoarding 'Void-tech'."
"He found a glowing rock," the other spat. "Since when is a rock heresy?"
"Since the Ascended declared the Ashlands 'Holy Ground'," the first man grunted. "Don't speak of it.
The Inquisitors satisfy the silence."
Kael gripped his tankard. The glass creaked.
"Inquisitors," Kael murmured. "A new branch?"
"A cleansing fire," Elric guessed. "The Spire is terrified, Kael. They know the barrier is weak. So they're tightening their grip. Anyone who gets close to the truth... anyone who finds something from the Void..."
"Is removed," Kael finished.
The door to the tavern slammed open.
The room went deadly silent.
Three figures walked in. They wore long coats of black leather, reinforced with silver plating. Their faces were covered by featureless silver masks.
Inquisitors.
The leader scanned the room. His mask reflected the flickering torchlight.
"We are looking for strangers," the Inquisitor announced. His voice was modulated, metallic. "Two travelers. Rags. One walks with a limp."
Elric froze.
Kael didn't. He slowly moved his hand under the table, gripping the hilt of his iron sword.
"This establishment is under audit," the Inquisitor said, stepping forward. "Everyone verify identification."
Kael looked at Elric.
"Ghost time is over," Kael whispered.