Candriela had been riding for three days without rest. The roads south of Preta twisted between pale fields and burned farmhouses, and each mile pushed the same thought through her mind like a nail: Virea can’t be with them. Not anymore. Not after what she had seen in the Sanctum.

  The land grew quieter the farther she went. Even the crows seemed to avoid the ruined stretches of farmland, their charred fences still leaning like broken ribs in the soil. Her cloak, once the color of fresh ash, was now heavy with dust, mud, and rain. Her horse’s sides were slick with sweat, its breathing ragged, but it pushed on every time she whispered the name of her sister under her breath.

  Every so often she glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see one of Talon’s riders chasing her down, calling her back to the Knights’ camp. They’d argue. They’d drag her back. They’d tell her she was acting on impulse again, that she was letting her past swallow her judgment. But no one came. She had slipped away at dawn and left nothing but her name carved on a tree stump, her one small apology. A useless gesture. She knew that. But guilt demanded a place to sit.

  Gemma would understand, she told herself. Gemma was strong. Or at least she wanted to believe that. The girl had endured far worse than a few nights in the wilderness. Still, the silence gnawed at her. Nights were the worst: the fire crackled too loud, and the darkness seemed to whisper with Gemma’s voice, her strange, bright calm, the quiet certainty behind every word she spoke.

  Candriela tried not to think of the last night they’d shared. The way Gemma had fallen asleep upright, leaning on her shoulder like a child exhausted from pretending she wasn’t afraid.

  Now, on the fourth morning, rain clung to the sky like a bruised veil, and through the fog she finally saw the walls of Bondrea rising on the horizon.

  The city was smaller than she’d imagined from the stories: a place that once held power, now sagging under its own history. Its towers leaned slightly, slanted with age, as if bowing to forces no one named aloud. The gates were ringed with guards wearing dark red armor polished to a dull shine. The banners of Dromo, long and regal, still fluttered from the battlements, though their edges were frayed and stripped by wind. The air smelled of wet stone, iron, and the slow decay of nobility.

  She slowed her horse at the foot of the gate. The beast snorted, grateful.

  A pair of soldiers stepped forward, spears crossed.

  “State your name,” one said, voice clipped and assuming.

  “Candriela,” she replied, her voice clear despite the exhaustion grinding at her bones. “I seek Lord Alexander of Dromo.”

  The younger guard frowned. His armor was too large for him, and his eyes darted nervously. “No audience without sanction. Orders from the Sanctum.”

  At that word "Sanctum" something flared in her chest. Pain or rage, she wasn’t sure.

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  Candriela’s jaw tightened. “Then fetch your orders. I will wait.”

  The older guard gave her a long, measured look, as if evaluating whether she was trouble or merely tired. “We can’t just...”

  “I don’t have time for this,” she snapped, sharper than intended. Her patience had been worn thin by miles and regret. “Tell him a sister of the Light requests entry. If he refuses, I’ll make my way through you.”

  The younger guard scoffed. “You’ll do what?”

  Candriela didn’t give him time to finish. She swung from the saddle in one smooth, practiced motion. Her boots hit the mud, splashing up cold brown water, and in the same heartbeat her blade was out, silver catching the dawn.

  The first guard barely had time to widen his eyes. She twisted his spear aside with a tight, efficient movement and slammed the pommel of her blade into his throat. He fell back coughing, gagging on air.

  The second lunged with a startled shout. She moved faster than he expected, turning his thrust aside, stepping into his guard, and kicking him square in the chest. He hit the mud hard.

  Shouts erupted from the gatehouse.

  Candriela exhaled once, steadying herself, then met the oncoming soldiers head-on.

  The world narrowed to rhythm and muscle: the clang of metal, the crunch of boots, the sting of sweat in her eyes. She fought like a woman trying to cut her way through memory itself, through years of regret and everything she’d left undone. A spear tore a line across her shoulder; a sword glanced off her gauntlet and nicked her cheek. She barely felt it.

  They were trained soldiers, but predictable. They relied on formation. She relied on instinct: fast, ruthless, uncoiling like a storm. She cut down one, then another. Blood mixed with the mud. Someone cried out for reinforcements.

  Then a blow caught her ribs. Pain exploded through her torso. Another sword hilt smashed against her jaw, and the world flashed white.

  Her knees buckled. Breath slipped out of her like water from cupped hands. She tried to rise again, once, twice, but the ground tilted beneath her and hands grabbed her arms, forcing her down. A spear point pressed between her shoulder blades.

  “Enough!”

  The voice sliced through the noise like a blade.

  Everything froze.

  Candriela lifted her head, blinking through her blurred vision.

  Alexander of Dromo stood at the gate, cloak drawn tight against the rain. Behind him, Bondrea’s walls loomed like a cathedral of stone. His expression was unreadable, carved from patience and disappointment.

  “Release her,” he said.

  The guards hesitated, confused. “My lord...”

  “I said release her.”

  Reluctantly, they pulled back. Candriela wiped blood from her mouth, spat onto the mud, and met Alexander’s gaze.

  “You ride into my city, attack my men, and demand my attention.” His voice was steady, each word placed with care. “Either you’re mad, or what you have to say is worth bleeding for.”

  She straightened as best she could, every muscle shaking, her face streaked with mud and defiance. “Then listen,” she said. “We need to talk. About my sister. And about what you think you know of the Light.”

  A subtle furrow creased his brow. “Your sister?”

  “Virea,” she said. “You know the name.”

  Rain gathered on Alexander’s hair, dripping down the line of his jaw as he studied her. She couldn’t tell whether he was remembering something, or deciding whether her presence was dangerous.

  “I know it,” he said at last. “But you had better come inside before the guards finish what you started.”

  Despite her exhaustion, a crooked smile tugged at her lips, teeth faintly pink with blood. “You're wise to do so... I think I made it clear that no one will stop me.”

  Alexander almost, almost, smiled back. “So you did.”

  He turned and signaled for the gate to open. As the doors groaned and the cold wind rushed into Bondrea, Candriela followed, her steps uneven, but her purpose sharpened to a single point.

  Somewhere behind those walls, Virea’s name still echoed like a promise she refused to let die.