The church of Skariz was not a temple anymore, not really. It had been rebuilt from ruin and fire, its glass shattered, its pews mismatched and scorched. But for the Knights of Light, it was home, what was left of one. The stones still smelled faintly of smoke when the humidity rose, and sometimes, on quiet nights, the wind through the broken panes mimicked old liturgical chants. A ghost of what the place used to be.

  Dozens stood before the altar now: men and women hardened by years of hiding, of fighting shadows with shadows. Their armor was a collection of scavenged pieces, leather reinforced with scraps of metal, buckles repaired more times than counted, cloaks frayed from brush and fire. Talon faced them, his silhouette framed by what remained of the stained window. Outside, rain pressed against the roof like restless fingers, a steady drum that made the rafters tremble.

  He raised his voice, deep and clear, carrying through the hall.

  "The Valval Priesthood tells you the Light judges," he said. "That it burns the wicked and saves the pure. But the Light does not choose. It does not bless, or condemn. It simply is."

  His words hung in the air, vibrating in the damp stillness. A few soldiers shifted, leaning forward as if the truth might slip away if they didn’t hold on to every syllable.

  "They’ve stolen something holy and made it a weapon," Talon continued. "Every man they execute, every village they erase, they claim the Light willed it. But the Light is blind to sin and faith alike. It shines on all, or on none."

  A murmur spread. One woman began to nod. Then another. Some clenched their fists against their chests in their old salute. The noise swelled, hands clapping, boots striking the floor, voices shouting his name. The storm outside seemed to echo them, a roar against a roar.

  Talon didn’t smile. He let them shout, but his eyes stayed cold. Passion was good for morale; it did little for survival. He had learned that lesson too many times to forget it.

  When the applause faded, he stepped down from the altar, cloak brushing the cracked floor. The candlelight caught the scar running along his jaw, a pale line like a map of the battles he’d lost. The soldiers watched him as he left the hall, some with admiration, some with fear. Leadership in Dromo meant both.

  His office was small and carved from the old vestry, its ceiling reinforced with sheets of metal to keep the rain from dripping directly onto his maps. He sank into the chair behind his old oak desk. The wood groaned under his weight. The air smelled of paper, dust, and damp stone. A stack of letters lay untouched in the corner, warnings, requests, desperate pleas. He didn’t open them anymore. He couldn’t.

  Talon traced the map of Dromo with two fingers, following the jagged coastline until they stopped on the mark he’d circled in red: Bondrea. A cluster of old warehouses, rebel tunnels, safehouses now half-abandoned. Once, it had been their strongest foothold.

  Now, it was a risk.

  They couldn’t stay in Skariz much longer either. Too many whispers, too many faces showing up at night with stories of soldiers searching door to door. The Priesthood was moving inland, closer every day.

  He closed his eyes briefly. We’ll have to move before they see us coming.

  Then came the noise: footsteps in the nave, doors bursting open, voices shouting his name, panicked, overlapping.

  “Talon! You need to see this!”

  He was on his feet instantly, boots striking the stone as he pushed through the corridor. The scent of blood hit him before he reached the hall: sharp, metallic, impossible to ignore. The church erupted in chaos. Dozens were arriving, some limping, others carried by their comrades. Their armor was torn, their faces pale, their breaths uneven.

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  He recognized a few from the southern front. Others he had never seen before, strays who had joined along the way.

  “Klud!” Talon caught a man by the shoulder, holding him steady as the soldier nearly collapsed. “What happened? Where’s the rest of your unit?”

  Klud’s breath came in ragged bursts. His chest heaved beneath dented plates. “They… they found us,” he rasped. “We barely made it out. At least ten of us didn’t.”

  Talon’s jaw tightened. A distant flash of lightning illuminated the hall through the broken window, casting long, violent shadows across the wounded.

  “How did this happen?” he asked.

  Before Klud could answer, a voice rose from behind, smooth, sardonic, unmistakable.

  “Oh, come on, don’t start scolding him. He did what he could,” said Digiera, stepping out from the crowd.

  Her dark coat was soaked through, heavy with rain. Her lip was split. A smear of blood streaked her temple. She walked with a limp she was trying (badly) to hide. Yet even injured, she moved with the same irreverent swagger she always had.

  “If you’re looking for someone to blame,” she added, “you’re looking at her.”

  Talon’s eyes locked on hers. “I am looking at you,” he said quietly.

  Her smirk faltered just a little. “We were ambushed. Someone talked. Someone always does. But we got most of them out alive.”

  “Most,” Talon repeated, voice like stone. “You were in charge, Digiera. You were supposed to keep them out of sight, not lead a parade into Bondrea’s sewers.”

  Digiera shrugged, casual but not relaxed. Her fingers twitched at her side, an old tell of hers, a sign she was angrier than she let on. “Next time I’ll ask the Valval Priesthood for their schedule before I move, shall I?”

  Klud flinched. The air grew tense enough to cut.

  Talon didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to. “Enough,” he said finally. “We’ll discuss your tactics later. Tell me what I need to know.”

  Digiera hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering her voice.

  “They were ready for us, Talon. They knew we were coming. Someone on the inside warned them.”

  His face didn’t change, but something in him shifted, he became still, dangerous.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “And I know this looks bad.” Her eyes flicked upward. “But… there’s one thing you’ll want to hear.”

  Talon folded his arms but gave her the space to speak.

  “The girl that was with the old man you sent,” Digiera said. “She’s alive. And she’s not just alive. She used it.”

  Talon’s eyes narrowed. “Used what?”

  “The Light,” she said simply. “The real thing. I saw it with my own eyes. The Priesthood calls it divine. I call it terrifying.”

  For a moment, no one breathed. The only sound was the steady dripping of rain through the roof, a slow, rhythmic beat like a dying heart.

  “Gemma?… The one with Aros?”

  “Yes.”

  Talon stepped back. The faintest flicker crossed his face: hope, disbelief, fear, or some alloy of the three. Then he nodded slowly.

  “After everything we’ve lost,” he said softly, “finally, a reason to move forward.”

  He looked over the wounded again, their faces streaked with grime and faith and fear. Men too tired to stand but too stubborn to fall. Women gripping swords with trembling hands. Children old enough to fight but too young to understand what they had lost.

  “Get everyone patched up,” he said. “We wait for the rest to return. When they do, we decide our next move.”

  Digiera tilted her head. “No Bondrea?”

  Talon’s jaw tightened. “Bondrea’s compromised. Whatever happened there, the Priesthood knows. If we walk into that city now, we’re walking into a grave.”

  He looked past her, to the cracked stained glass where the rain drew silver veins across the colors.

  “We’ll find another place to stand,” he murmured. “One they don’t expect… We have to…”

  Digiera smirked faintly, though her eyes betrayed exhaustion. “You’ve always liked gambling with ghosts.”

  Talon ignored the comment. He turned toward his office again, shoulders heavy with command. The murmurs of the wounded filled the church behind him: tired voices clinging to shards of hope.

  The Light had returned, but not as the Priesthood knew it.

  And for the first time in years, Talon really smiled.

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