Axedal always began the same way.

  The streets of Edel-Füllhorn woke a few minutes earlier that day. Workshops opened their doors halfway. Windows were propped open to let the air in. The smell of fresh bread mingled with that of dry incense, burned in small metal bowls hanging from the fa?ades.

  It was the busiest day for bakeries and taverns. Not for pleasure or indulgence, but for the community’s offerings.

  Merit Garden Square woke even earlier, filling with merchants selling cerrado cherries, rosaries, icons, and incense. But that morning, none of them dared to shout for attention.

  It was not a day of rest.

  It was not a day of fun.

  It was a day of alignment.

  And Micah realized that while still lying down.

  The sound that woke him was not hurried footsteps or military orders, but the enormous bell of the cathedral beside them—one that forced the entire city to wake with exactly three tolls. No more, no less.

  He sat up in his bunk—half awake, half asleep—still confused as he looked around.

  The soldiers were getting dressed quickly, in a rush not to be late for something. Instead of their typical military uniforms, they wore entirely black clothes. Not just a single mandatory black garment—every aspect of their attire was dyed dark. No one began training, and no superiors were present.

  Dennisorfeu jumped down from the top bunk, yawning as he stretched lazily.

  — Good morning, Miquéias. — he said, rummaging through a nearby locker.

  — Morning… Uh, what’s going on?

  — Today’s Axedal. Day to go to Church and make offerings. — He threw on a faded jacket over his tunic, buttoning it quickly. — You’ve never been to a Church, right? Look, there’s no morning training today, so I’m heading to my neighborhood Church with my family and spending some time with them at home for lunch. If you want, you can come along.

  Micah thought for a few seconds. He had nothing else to do, and if he agreed, he might even get free food.

  — Yeah. I’ll go.

  — Great! Wear this.

  Sorfeu tossed something at him. When Micah caught it, he saw it was an old set of clothes.

  — It’s kind of a dumb rule, I know, but if you don’t wear your caste’s color they won’t even let you through the gate. — he explained while combing his hair with some questionable gel, looking at himself in a handheld mirror. — Just change quickly. If I’m late, my sister’s gonna be mad at me all day.

  Once ready, they headed straight for the rear exit, like all the other soldiers and servants of the Citadel. Unlike the nobles, who left through the main gate—but followed the same clothing rules, only in silver.

  The day was sunny and slightly stuffy, though the climate of the Cerrado Plain rarely changed.

  — And the other two? They’re not coming? — Micah asked on the way to the South Bridge.

  Sorfeu nearly tripped while staring at the figure of a woman walking ahead of them, then turned his attention back to Micah as if nothing had happened.

  — Oh, Thona and Asáimon? Well, Nathaniel’s not much for Church, and cue-ball’s spending the day helping at the Cathedral.

  — Hm… — Micah nodded subtly.

  A few seconds of silence passed before the bard asked:

  — Miquéias, tell me something. What’s the world you came from like?

  — What…? — He frowned. — Man, what kind of question is that? What do you want me to say?

  — I don’t know. I’ve never had the chance to talk to someone from another world before. — He looked up, scratching his chin. — The sky, for example. Is the sky there the same as here?

  The redhead looked up too, slowing his pace.

  — During the day, I think so. It’s mostly the same. Except we have a moon, not that colossal ring. — he pointed toward the belt.

  — So the Saklas of your world didn’t die?!

  — What?

  — Saklas. The Archon. — he said as if it were common knowledge. — He used to be whole once. Or that’s what my mother said. And what her mother said… and her mother’s mother… Well, you get it.

  — No, I don’t… “Archon”? What do you mean “died”?

  — No one knows exactly why, but about a hundred years ago Saklas shattered. — Sorfeu grabbed the canteen at his belt and took a swig of the liquid—probably alcoholic—before continuing. — He was the Archon closest to Pulmérica, and they say he governed reincarnation. I’ve even heard people say that before he died, the Soulless weren’t a problem.

  Micah looked at the sky again. He suspected the Moon—but how could someone dead have sent him here? It made no sense. Almost nothing in this world did.

  — Okay, but what’s an “Archon”?

  Dennisorfeu glanced sideways at him. He felt like he was talking to a kindergarten child.

  — They’re the council of gods who govern the world. Axis is an Archon, for example—he governs order. I’ve never had to explain this to anyone before, so I’m not great with details. Ask Asáimon later, he’ll explain it better than I can.

  — Right…

  Many passersby looked at Micah strangely, some even with open hostility. So he hid his red hair beneath his cloak before someone decided to punch him.

  The South Bridge was already open when they arrived.

  The flow was constant: entire families crossing, groups of workers, acolytes carrying baskets covered with simple cloth. There was no rush, but there was no dispersion either. People walked as if fulfilling something necessary—not optional.

  Two guards stood at the start of the bridge, spears resting on the ground, helmets tucked under their arms.

  One of them was chatting distractedly with an elderly woman when he looked up.

  And froze.

  Micah noticed the stare before any words.

  It wasn’t immediate anger. Nor fear. It was confusion—raw, instinctive, almost childlike.

  The guard took a step forward.

  — …No.

  The word slipped out before he realized.

  Dennisorfeu walked two more steps before noticing Micah had stopped. He turned.

  — Hm?

  The guard approached, completely ignoring the bard.

  — That’s not possible. — he said louder now, his hand slowly reaching for the spear’s shaft. — I saw you.

  Micah swallowed.

  — Saw me…?

  — I was on duty that night. — His voice trembled—not from weakness, but from something unresolved. — At the Halberst mansion. After the collapse.

  — You… — the guard narrowed his eyes, staring at the face beneath the hood. — You were the red-haired boy. The one who freed that beast… YOU KILLED MY SISTER!

  He raised the spear, pointing it at Micah’s neck.

  The redhead stepped back instinctively, stumbling and falling onto the bridge.

  — W-wait! I… I didn’t do that! I swear!

  Dennisorfeu stepped forward, opening his mouth.

  — Friend, there must be some mistake—

  — SHUT UP! — the guard cut him off without even looking at him.

  His attention returned fully to Micah.

  Pedestrians stopped at the gate, gathering around the scene.

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  — I saw you burn. — he said.

  The noise of the bridge seemed to dim around them.

  — And now you’ve come back from hell to haunt me, HAVEN’T YOU?! — he shouted, hands trembling, eyes watering.

  — Lower that. Now. — Dennisorfeu ordered, stepping closer.

  The guard ignored him.

  Micah felt his stomach sink.

  — I… I don’t know—

  The guard laughed, shaking his head.

  It wasn’t loud. It was short. Broken.

  — My sister didn’t open her eyes that day.

  The silence that followed was too heavy for Axedal.

  — She worked in that house. — he continued. — Cook. Had nothing to do with politics, with Awakened, with any of that. She just… was there.

  He took a breath, as if each word needed permission to leave.

  — When the ceiling collapsed, she got trapped in the pantry. — he swallowed hard. — There was no fire. No blood. Just dust. Just… no air.

  Micah felt the world narrow.

  — I’m sorry. — he said immediately. — Truly.

  — Sorry? SORRY?!

  — Enough.

  Dennisorfeu grabbed the spear’s shaft firmly, staring at the guard with the same professional coldness Micah had seen at the Frontier.

  — You saw it yourself. That man turned to ashes. I’m sorry about your sister, but this soldier has nothing to do with it.

  The guard met his eyes, then looked at the crowd, conflicted. Sorfeu released the spear, and the guard finally lowered it.

  — Forgive me, Lieutenant. I… didn’t think straight.

  The bard sighed. His expression softened, though it remained firm.

  — You disobeyed a direct order and threatened an innocent comrade. I should dismiss you for that. You know that, don’t you?

  — Yes, sir… — he murmured, eyes lowered.

  — You’re grieving, so I’ll let this pass. But don’t think I’ll tolerate this kind of behavior again, soldier. — Sorfeu declared, placing a hand on the guard’s shoulder before helping Micah to his feet.

  After the crowd dispersed, the guard extended his hand.

  — I’m sorry, sir…

  — Micah. Just call me Micah. — he said with a subtle smile.

  — Olaf.

  When they were several meters ahead, Dennisorfeu spoke quietly:

  — …Sorry about that.

  Micah shook his head.

  — No. He had the right to ask.

  On the other side of the bridge, the smaller bells began to ring. Twenty minutes left.

  Behind them, Olaf remained still, staring at the river below as Axedal continued—indifferent, aligned, cruelly functional.

  — Miquéias, I need you to understand something. — Sorfeu said in a low, serious tone. — You’re not the same man from that night. That Migrator died. The kingdom’s internal reputation isn’t the best already—if they find out we recruited a Migrator, especially one associated with so many deaths, you could be lynched again. Or worse. Understand?

  — Yeah… Thanks for the help back there, by the way.

  The bard smiled, ruffling his hair.

  — It was nothing, Miquéias.

  — Can you stop calling me that?!

  Sorfeu cleared his throat, suppressing a laugh.

  — When pigs fly.

  As Sorfeu led Micah along the sidewalks, he noticed old, faded posters on the walls of darker alleys. Some read “Charbonpierre wants YOU for the future Republic,” others “Join the Republicans. Join your children’s future,” and others still “Divided, we are prey of the Crown. Together, the end of tyranny.”

  Finally, they stopped before a simple stone Church—almost the complete opposite of the Cathedral’s extravagant architecture. Several families were already entering through the old wooden gate, but a group of six stood at the entrance, as if waiting for someone.

  In the group: a young woman with a small nose and tired eyes wearing a long dress; a little girl holding her hand; two teenage twins whispering and laughing to themselves; and a pre-teen girl with glasses staring at the sky, daydreaming.

  And when they approached, Micah was surprised to see the sixth person was Gunther.

  The first to notice Sorfeu was the little girl. Her eyes lit up and she ran toward him.

  — Brother! — she exclaimed.

  She nearly knocked Dennisorfeu over with the force of her hug.

  — Hey, hey! — he laughed, catching her before they both fell. — Easy, Gretta.

  She buried her face in his black tunic, as if needing to make sure he was real.

  — You took too long. — she muttered, pouting.

  — I know. — he replied, stroking her hair. — The road was… complicated.

  The young woman approached next. The exhaustion in her eyes wasn’t from a bad night’s sleep, but from years of accumulated responsibility. She smiled—a small but genuine smile—before pulling Dennisorfeu into a restrained embrace.

  — Still alive. — she said. — Recurring miracle.

  — I do what I can. — the bard replied.

  The twins approached next, examining him up and down.

  — He’s thinner. — one commented.

  — He’s uglier. — corrected the other.

  — And you two are still unbearable. — Dennisorfeu shot back, smiling.

  The girl with glasses finally descended from her cloud-world and looked directly at Micah.

  She didn’t smile.

  In fact, no one besides Gretta smiled at him.

  The silence lasted only a second—but it was enough.

  The older woman noticed.

  — Ah… — she said, looking from Micah to Dennisorfeu. — I suppose this is the friend you mentioned in your letter.

  — Micah. — Sorfeu said, gently pulling him forward. — He came… from far away.

  Her eyes paused on the hood.

  Then on the chin.

  Then, inevitably, on a strand of red hair escaping from beneath the dark fabric.

  Her smile didn’t disappear.

  But it hardened.

  — I see. — she finally said. — I’m Marta.

  — Pleasure. — Micah said, inclining his head slightly.

  The twins exchanged a quick glance.

  — He talks funny. — one muttered.

  — And he’s a redhead. — added the other, making no effort to be discreet.

  Dennisorfeu shot them a sharp look.

  — Not today.

  They fell silent.

  Gunther was the last to move.

  He approached in silence, assessing Micah the way he would weigh a faulty weapon. Then he extended his hand.

  — I remember you, but I don’t think I ever introduced myself, right? I’m Gunther.

  Micah shook it.

  — Micah. Didn’t know you two were brothers.

  — Now you do. And you’re not kaleorine, right? — he said, more as a statement than a question.

  — No.

  Gunther nodded once.

  — Good.

  Nothing more was said.

  Before any further tension could form, the smaller bell rang again.

  Marta took a deep breath.

  — Let’s go. Alignment is about to begin.

  The interior of the Church was simple.

  No gold. No grand stained glass. Just pale stone, dark wooden benches, and at the center, the Altar of the Silver Serpent.

  She was not represented as a monster or distant divinity, but as an incomplete circle: the serpentine body forming almost a ring, biting its own tail without ever fully closing. The empty space at the center remained untouched.

  Micah felt a chill.

  Families approached the altar in organized silence, depositing their offerings: corn breads wrapped in cloth, beer bottles, small baskets of cerrado cherries.

  Most of the beers were beautiful and neatly packaged — bought at alehouses — some more rustic, fermented at home by orthodox believers. The breads followed the same pattern.

  Marta handed a loaf to Gretta.

  — Carefully.

  The girl walked to the altar with near-ceremonial seriousness and placed the bread among the other offerings.

  Micah hesitated.

  — I… didn’t bring anything.

  Dennisorfeu pulled something from his jacket pocket: a small cloth pouch.

  — You did. — he said, handing it over. — Late harvest, but sincere.

  Inside were cherries. Slightly overripe, but still good.

  Micah swallowed and approached the altar. As he set the pouch down, his fingers touched the cold stone.

  For an instant too brief to become certainty, he felt something align inside his chest—not peace, not comfort, but… order. Like pieces being forced into place.

  He stepped back quickly, sitting beside Sorfeu’s family.

  The service began without sermon.

  Without shouting.

  Without promises.

  An acolyte spoke only one sentence:

  — Let each recognize their place in the gear, and not flee the weight that belongs to them.

  Everyone bowed their heads and said in unison:

  “Ordos.”

  A man in silver garments took his place before the altar.

  — Before we begin the service, I announce, by decree of the Cathedral and with the blessing of the Crown — he declared in an almost robotic voice — that the matrimonial commitment between Wanderson Von Luther and Rebbeka Grünermais is now public. The ceremony will take place next Asheridal.

  A murmur crossed the Church.

  — Wow… I had no idea their relationship was that serious… — the bard whispered beside Micah.

  The priest cleared his throat.

  All other voices ceased.

  — The world is not fair. The world is correct or incorrect. Today, we measure how far we have strayed.

  He opened the black book under his arm and placed it on a white marble pulpit. He put on his glasses, running a wrinkled finger beneath the yellowed pages like a teacher choosing which misbehaving student to make an example of.

  His finger stopped.

  Without lifting his head, he said loudly:

  — Romeu Viehcourt, stand.

  People looked at one another. Absolute silence.

  Romeu Viehcourt rose slowly.

  He was too ordinary a man for the weight that fell upon him. He wore well-kept dark clothes, hands calloused from transport or cargo work. His eyes scanned the Church as if searching for an exit that did not exist.

  The priest raised his gaze for the first time.

  — Profession.

  — Dockworker, east pier. — Romeu replied, voice firmer than someone not nervous should be.

  — Marital status?

  — Married.

  — Children?

  — Two.

  The silver-clad man nodded once, as if confirming registry data.

  — During the last cycle, you withheld part of the weight entrusted to you. — he said without accusation in his tone. — Three shipments declared complete arrived incomplete. The surplus was not redistributed. It was stolen.

  A nearly inaudible murmur spread through the Church.

  Romeu clenched his jaw.

  — I intended to return it.

  — Intention is not function. — the priest replied dryly. — Did you withhold it out of fear?

  — No. — he answered too quickly. — Out of precaution.

  — Precaution is distrust in the kingdom. And distrust in the kingdom is distrust in Axis.

  Silence.

  — The collective does not fail. People fail. Do you acknowledge your failure?

  Romeu hesitated, then nodded.

  — I acknowledge it.

  Two acolytes approached—not to touch him, only to mark presence, like additional weights on an invisible scale.

  — Your failure does not require public punishment. — the priest continued. — It requires correction.

  He turned to the altar and lifted one of the beer bottles offered earlier, pouring some onto the Silver Serpent’s stone.

  — You will return the surplus today. You will work with redistribution for three Axedals.

  “And you will acknowledge, before your family unit, that you failed to sustain the rhythm entrusted to you.”

  Romeu swallowed.

  — …Ordos.

  — Ordos.

  Romeu sat.

  No one commented.

  No one consoled.

  No one judged.

  Micah felt a strange discomfort crawl up his spine.

  It wasn’t fear.

  It was the sensation that no one there was invisible.

  The priest turned the page, noting something.

  — Minor alignment concluded.

  He removed his glasses.

  — Now, the collective alignment.

  The acolytes began gathering the offerings from the altar, placing them into larger baskets. The sound of bread being stacked, of bottles clinking, was the only noise in the hall.

  — Axis does not ask for devotion. — the priest said. — He asks for trust.

  He extended his right hand, palm open.

  — Repeat.

  Everyone stood.

  Micah hesitated half a second, then stood too.

  — We are pieces. — said the priest.

  — We are pieces. — replied the Church.

  — We carry weight.

  — We carry weight.

  — And when we fail, we do not break.

  — We do not break.

  — We adjust.

  — We adjust.

  The priest lowered his hand.

  — The alignment is done.

  The smaller bells rang once. And the book closed.

  The service was over.

  No one left lighter.

  But everyone left… in the right place.

  Dennisorfeu lightly tapped his shoulder.

  — See? — he murmured. — It’s not about being good.

  Micah swallowed.

  — It’s about fitting.

  — Exactly. In this big world, we only have each other. All Axis wants is that we trust in him… and in ourselves…

  …

  Lunch was loud.

  Pots steamed, the smell of stew filled the modest house. Marta moved through the kitchen with automatic efficiency, assigning tasks, pulling Gretta away from the stove, ordering the twins to wash their hands three times.

  Micah sat somewhat awkwardly until a plate was pushed toward him.

  — Eat. — Marta said. — As they say, an empty sack can’t stand upright.

  He nodded, unsure how to respond.

  The situation was strange. It had been years since he’d eaten with anyone. Micah had forgotten what it was like to have a family. The atmosphere was chaotic, even irritating—but… good, somehow.

  He had always been an only child, and he had just met these people, yet he felt comfort being there. The loneliness that had plagued him for so long was numbed for an instant—just a moment, but enough for him to laugh along with them.

  While they ate, Dennisorfeu finally asked, too casually:

  — And father…?

  Silence fell heavily over the table.

  Marta continued stirring the pot.

  — Sleeping.

  — Again?

  — Always.

  Dennisorfeu didn’t insist.

  After lunch, the noise lessened, replaced by the sound of dishes being washed, with Micah and Sorfeu working together. Micah washed; Sorfeu dried and stored.

  Gunther had already returned to his post at the North Bridge. Marta was taking a nap upstairs before returning to work at the bakery. Slowly, routine resumed.

  The water was too hot, but Micah didn’t close the tap.

  The plate slipped once. Then again.

  He took a deep breath, as if that would fix it. It didn’t.

  “So that’s it.”

  “That was all.”

  “I just had to stay.”

  A tear slid down his cheek and fell into the foam below. Then another. For a few seconds they didn’t stop.

  He didn’t know why he was crying.

  Or at least, he pretended not to know.