It had been a week since the night she saw Jori.

  A week since the fog had swallowed his figure and left her standing beneath the pale gates of Preta, her name echoing in the dark.

  The world had gone quiet again, at least on the surface.The market was rebuilding. The banners that once celebrated victory now fluttered half-torn in the wind. Farmers were returning to their fields, their faith mended by necessity. To them, the Knights of Light were no longer fugitives but saviors.

  To Gemma, everything still felt like aftermath.

  She woke each morning to a sense of unfinished sound, like a note held too long, trembling in her skull. The voices hadn't returned, not like before, but something else had begun to stir: images.

  The first came three nights after Jori's appearance.A woman's voice crying out, followed by flashes of light too quick to understand.She'd wake up drenched in sweat, fragments of words slipping away before she could remember them.

  But that morning, the vision stayed longer.

  She saw a woman kneeling on stone, hair tangled, arms bound, her lips cracked and bleeding. The air around her shimmered, vibrating with the same hum Gemma once carried in her chest. People circled her, speaking a language Gemma didn't know, though she felt the cruelty in every syllable.

  Esyra, they called her.

  Gemma watched helplessly as the woman screamed, her body arching as a column of light burst from her chest. Then the vision shattered, leaving only the echo of that name burning behind her eyes.

  She sat up gasping. Dawn was creeping through the curtains, washing the wooden walls of her room with a colorless glow.

  Esyra.

  The name felt familiar in the same way pain feels familiar, like something once known and long avoided.

  She pressed her palms together, whispering the name again, as if it might answer. But the silence that followed was heavy, absolute.

  Outside, the camp was alive with motion. The rebellion had found its rhythm again. Orders shouted, weapons cleaned, maps unfolded and refolded with the same urgency as prayers.

  At the center of it stood Aros.

  His posture was iron now: shoulders straight, voice firm. The hesitant, weary man who once doubted every step had sharpened into something harder. He commanded without cruelty, but there was no space left in him for gentleness.

  Watching him from a distance, Gemma felt something strange, pride and loss in equal measure.

  He was becoming what everyone needed him to be. And that meant there was less and less room for her.

  She kept herself busy. It was easier than thinking.

  Broko had started teaching her archery, mostly to stop her from wandering off alone.He said it would help her "channel focus," though Gemma suspected it was his way of making sure she didn't vanish into the woods chasing ghosts again.

  The training ground was a stretch of dirt between two leaning barns, the smell of hay thick in the air. Targets, painted circles on worn boards, stood crooked, battered from years of use.

  Broko stood beside her, bow slung lazily across his shoulder. "You're holding it wrong," he said.

  "I'm holding it how you told me."

  "Yeah, and you're doing it wrong anyway." He grinned, showing a chipped tooth. "Relax the wrist. It's not a hammer; it's an extension of your breath."

  She rolled her eyes but adjusted her grip. "I don't even like archery."

  "That's because you're bad at it."

  She loosed the arrow, it veered slightly left, embedding near the edge of the target. Broko clapped once. "See? Mediocre improvement. That's progress."

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  Despite herself, Gemma smiled. "You're terrible at encouragement."

  "I'm a realist." He drew his own bow in one smooth motion, released, and hit the bullseye dead center. "And you're thinking too much. The bow listens to fear. You want it to follow you, not pity you."

  Gemma exhaled slowly, trying again. The arrow landed closer this time, off-center, but steady.

  Broko nodded. "Better. Maybe you won't die immediately next time."

  She laughed under her breath, then lowered the bow. "Broko… can I ask you something?"

  "You just did."

  "I'm serious."

  "Yeah, all right. Shoot."

  "Do you think Aros… hates me?"

  That earned her a look of pure disbelief. "Hates you? He practically worships the ground you walk on."

  "He barely looks at me anymore."

  "That's not hate, kid. That's exhaustion. The man's been running on half a soul since Bondrea." Broko leaned on his bow. "And if you want my opinion, which you don't: you're the only thing keeping him human."

  Gemma looked away. "He doesn't act like it."

  Broko shrugged. "Heroes never do. But you want the truth?"

  She nodded.

  "If you had your Light back, he'd still care the same. If you never get it again, same deal. The powers don't make you worth something. He sees that, even if you don't."

  His words landed like stones in still water, rippling through her. She wanted to believe him. She really did.

  But when she closed her eyes, she still saw Esyra: kneeling, screaming, light tearing through her chest.

  Was she like Gemma? Another child of the Light? Another soul that had burned too bright and too briefly?

  That evening, the wind shifted. The campfire smoke curled toward the road, carrying the scent of rain and horse sweat.

  Gemma wandered past the fields, needing distance. The hum inside her had returned, not voices this time, but resonance, faint and circular, like a heartbeat in the soil.

  She paused by the fence, running her fingers along the wood. The sun had dipped low, staining the clouds red. Somewhere nearby, she heard hooves.

  A rider approached, a young man, barely older than eighteen, dressed in travel-stained finery. His cloak was deep green, the kind only worn by the highborn. The horse beneath him gleamed, its mane braided in the Dromo style.

  Gemma stepped aside, instinctively wary. Few nobles came to Preta without reason.

  The rider slowed, pulling on the reins. "Apologies," he said, his accent sharp and educated. "I didn't mean to startle you."

  She studied him. The resemblance struck her immediately_ strong jawline, proud posture, that unmistakable confidence.

  "You're from Dromo," she said flatly.

  A hint of surprise crossed his face. "That obvious?"

  Gemma nodded. "The horse gave you away."

  He smiled at that, a smile too polite to be sincere. "Then allow me to introduce myself properly. Phillip of Dromo, son of House Dromo, messenger and ward to Lord Alexander."

  The name hung in the air like a spark. Alexander.

  Gemma's pulse quickened despite herself. "You're his brother," she said.

  "Half-brother, technically. Same father, different ambition." Phillip dismounted, brushing dust from his cloak. "I was told to find the Knights of Light. To deliver a message."

  She pointed toward the main camp. "You'll find them that way. The big tent with too many guards."

  He nodded but didn't move. Instead, his eyes lingered on her, studying, curious.Then he smiled again, this time with genuine warmth.

  "White hair," he said. "Blue eyes. You must be the girl I've heard about. The one who channels the Light."

  Gemma's throat tightened. "Not anymore."

  Phillip tilted his head. "Ah. My brother mentioned you in his letters, called you 'the Light's paradox.' He said you were dangerous and extraordinary in equal measure."

  She frowned. "That sounds like him."

  "It does." Phillip adjusted the strap of his satchel, eyes glinting with mischief. "But between you and me, he's rarely wrong about people."

  "Then he doesn't know me very well."

  "Maybe not. Or maybe he sees what you refuse to."

  Gemma looked away, the weight of his words sinking into her like a stone. There was something in Phillip's tone, a mix of diplomacy and genuine kindness, that disarmed her. He was unlike Alexander, yet somehow carried his same confidence, softer and more human.

  "What message did you bring?" she asked finally.

  Phillip reached into his satchel and pulled out a sealed letter, the wax marked with the sigil of Dromo's rising sun. "For Lord Talon," he said. "But I was also instructed to observe. To see if the Knights are still… united."

  "Are they?" Gemma asked, curious despite herself.

  He smiled faintly. "That depends on who you ask. My brother believes in your cause, but he fears what happens when causes become kingdoms."

  Gemma couldn't help but huff a laugh. "That sounds exactly like him."

  "Then perhaps he's right to worry." Phillip mounted his horse again, gripping the reins. "If you'll be kind enough to guide me, I'd rather not get lost. These rebel camps all look the same."

  She gestured toward the path. "Follow me, then."

  They walked side by side in silence for a while. The camp was alive with the smell of smoke and boiled grain, the distant sound of hammer against metal. Phillip seemed at ease in it all, the kind of person who could stand among chaos and still look composed.

  Finally, he said quietly, "You miss it, don't you? The Light."

  Gemma stiffened. "What makes you think that?"

  "The way you walk," he said simply. "Like someone listening for an echo that never comes."

  She didn't respond. The air between them felt heavy, full of ghosts neither of them could name.

  When they reached the camp's edge, Phillip dismounted once more. "Thank you, Lady Gemma."

  "I'm not a lady."

  He smiled. "Then thank you anyway."

  She watched him disappear into the command tent, his cloak vanishing behind the flaps of canvas.

  Alone again, Gemma turned toward the dark fields. The sky had deepened to indigo, the first stars trembling above.

  She whispered the name that had haunted her dreams.

  Esyra.

  Somewhere distant, a flicker of light shimmered across the horizon, small, almost invisible, but alive.

  And for the first time in days, Gemma didn't know whether to feel hope or fear.

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