At first, Gemma thought the noise was rain. Then she realized it was the sound of steel.

  From the ridge above Sbelto, the city looked almost peaceful. The river ran like glass through its center, the towers white and clean, the banners of the Priesthood bright against the pale sky. Yet even from that distance, the quiet had an edge to it, like a blade waiting to turn. Beneath the calm, the world was sharpening.

  Aros gave the signal.

  They moved.

  The descent through the brush felt endless. Roots tore at their boots, branches clawed at their cloaks, the damp air full of the smell of earth and iron. The mist turned to ash-gray smoke as they neared the outskirts. Every step down brought another tremor from the city below, a distant hymn, a distant scream, the two blurring together until they were one sound. By the time Gemma reached the first stone outbuilding, her breath was already burning in her chest.

  Talon’s team split left toward the Choir’s procession. Aros’s team veered right, hugging the line of the aqueduct. The sound of the crowd rose from the plaza ahead: chants, bells, the metallic rhythm of faith made into weapon.

  “Keep close,” Candriela said, her voice clipped, her hand already on the hilt of her blade. “No glory. No speeches.”

  Gemma nodded, clutching her bow. Her palms were slick with sweat despite the cold. The smell of incense drifted faintly even here, sharp and oily.

  The first arrow she drew trembled so much she almost dropped it.

  They reached the culvert. The tunnel swallowed them whole. Water ran at their ankles, black and cold, reflecting the flicker of their torches. The stone walls dripped with age, streaked with green and rust. Aros knelt by the old valve, his hands steady as if the city were not about to burn above them.

  “One quarter turn,” he murmured. “Then a breath.”

  Gemma held the light while Candriela helped force the rusted wheel. The metal groaned, then gave. The water’s hum deepened: an ancient sound, alive and angry.

  When the wheel clicked into place, a shudder rippled through the pipes. The light in the tunnel dimmed, and the air changed. Even without seeing it, they felt it: something vast and sacred had just been corrupted.

  Above them, Sbelto screamed.

  The first explosion of noise was a bell that cracked mid-strike. Then came the roar of the crowd, confusion first, then terror. The scent of burning incense flooded the air, mixed now with the copper tang of blood.

  “Move!” Aros ordered.

  They climbed the narrow stairs and emerged into a side street near the plaza. The sunlight was already thick with smoke, a bruised yellow that stung the eyes. People were running in every direction, priests shouting prayers that no one was listening to. The fountain in the square had turned black, its holy water churning like tar.

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  Gemma froze.

  Hundreds of figures filled the plaza, Custodians in white armor, citizens, beggars, pilgrims, all colliding in a chaos of fear. From somewhere beyond the rooftops came the clash of steel, the echo of Talon’s team striking the Choir procession.

  A soldier noticed them. He shouted. Others turned.

  Arrows hissed.

  Aros’s voice cut through it. “Positions!”

  Gemma ducked behind a column, nocked an arrow, and drew. Her hands shook so violently she couldn’t keep the string steady. The first shot went wild. The second struck a shield and snapped.

  The third found a throat.

  The man fell without a sound. The moment froze her, a child’s shock inside a soldier’s body. Candriela grabbed her shoulder and pulled her down before another volley hit the wall above them, splintering stone into dust.

  “Don’t think,” Candriela said harshly. “Just breathe.”

  Gemma did. She breathed, drew, and fired again. The motion became mechanical, pull, release, pull, release. Each arrow flew straighter than the last. The noise of the city became something distant, drowned by the thud of her heartbeat.

  From the plaza, the Choir’s hymn twisted into screams. Talon’s group had reached the cart, the censer smoke now rising in oily columns. The air itself shimmered with the Light, an unnatural glow that flickered and broke like glass.

  Then the glow began to die.

  The water sputtered from the fountain, choked by the diverted siphon. Priests stumbled as the flow blackened further, the air thick with the stench of iron. The Light was faltering, its holy purity turning dark in front of its believers.

  It was working.

  Gemma saw Aros slash down a Custodian with cold precision. Morin fought beside him, dragging an injured man into cover. The square had become a storm of bodies: the Knights in their hidden armor, Rethal’s soldiers flooding from the alleys, the Priesthood trying to form ranks that dissolved before they began.

  Then the panic took hold.

  The citizens, those who had come to worship, started running. Women fell and were trampled. Children screamed. The Priests shouted for order, but their words were lost beneath the collapse of faith itself.

  Aros caught Gemma’s eye. “Census stairs!” he shouted over the noise.

  But before she could move, something hit her shoulder, a blunt shock that spun her sideways. The world went white, then red. She landed hard, her bow skittering across the stones.

  Someone loomed over her: a Custodian, armor scorched, face twisted in fury. He raised his blade.

  Gemma reached for the ground, found the bow, and drove an arrow up through his throat before he could bring the sword down.

  He fell on top of her, heavy, hot, and still bleeding. She pushed him off with shaking hands. Her ears rang. Her vision blurred.

  When she looked up, she saw the square burning.

  The banners of the Light were aflame, their white silk curling into smoke. The statues of saints wept soot. And in the distance, near the southern gate, Rethal’s men were closing in, steel flashing, the sound of horns echoing through the lower streets.

  Sbelto was collapsing inward.

  Gemma staggered to her feet, bow in hand, gasping as Candriela reached her. “Can you move?” the woman asked.

  Gemma nodded, though she could barely feel her legs.

  “Then move,” Candriela said, pulling her toward the stairs.

  They ran through a street of overturned carts and burning stalls. Every corner was a battle: Talon’s team cutting through the last of the Choir’s guards, Broko laughing like a madman as he lit the incense barrels with a torch, the fumes igniting into ghostly blue fire.

  The air was alive with arrows and ash.

  And still, through it all, the fountain roared, water spilling black and thick into the square, the holy symbol of the Priesthood turned into its own condemnation.

  Gemma didn't look back.

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