The dawn over Preta broke thin and cold, painting the camp in bands of pale silver that looked more like the memory of light than light itself. Aros moved through it like a ghost stumbling through a half-formed world, every step an act of defiance against the wound burning beneath his ribs. His tunic clung wet against his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was sweat or blood, and the uncertainty only made him more aware of the slow, nauseating throb radiating outward from the injury.

  He kept one hand pressed to his side, steadying himself as he crossed the narrow paths between tents. Each movement felt like pushing against the edge of consciousness. The forest around them sat unnaturally still, too still, as if the trees were listening. The usual morning hum of insects and birds was absent, replaced instead by the distant clatter of hammers rebuilding the barricades that had been shattered days before. The smell of iron, smoke and damp earth hung heavy over everything, sinking into clothes, into breath, into bone.

  Broko spotted him first, halfway to the cathedral, his silhouette cutting across the pale morning haze.

  “Aros,” he called, his steps quickening as he moved to intercept him. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. Sandra said…”

  “I need to speak to Talon.”

  Broko frowned deeply, planting himself in Aros’s path like a wall. “You can barely stand.”

  “I’ll stand long enough.”

  There was no anger in Aros’s voice, only the exhaustion of a man who had run out of patience with pain, with helplessness, with waiting. Broko exhaled sharply and stepped aside. “Then at least don’t die in the hall. I’m not cleaning that up again.”

  Aros almost smiled, just barely, but didn’t. His boots dragged faintly through the mud as he continued forward. Ahead, the cathedral rose like a wounded beast, patched with timber where cannon fire had cracked its frame. The once-ornate doors, carved with symbols of the Light, were smeared with soot and ash, their holy imagery warped into something almost mournful.

  Inside, voices murmured: low, measured, too polite to belong to soldiers. Aros slowed as he neared the nave, his breathing shallow.

  Talon was there, standing near the broken altar, speaking with a man in dark gray robes trimmed with crimson. Even before the man turned, before Aros saw the faintly amused curve of his mouth, he knew the name that belonged to that voice. Smooth. Unhurried. Venom wrapped in courtesy.

  “Lexordo.”

  Both men turned.

  The priest smiled faintly, although his eyes held no warmth at all. “Ah, the wounded ghost himself. It’s been years, hasn’t it? Since your rather unwise attempt to storm the Sanctum and murder Jacobo. You nearly made it to the third gate before collapsing.”

  Aros’s hand tightened on his belt until his knuckles turned pale. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  Talon raised a hand, calm but firm. “Lexordo was just leaving.”

  “I think not,” Aros said. His voice shook only from weakness, not fear. “You know what this man has done. The children he tortured in Dromo. The experiments he ran for the Priesthood.”

  Lexordo’s smile deepened, patient and poisonous. “You make it sound barbaric. We were seeking revelation, not pain. The Light demands sacrifice, doesn’t it?”

  Talon’s tone hardened, cutting clean through the air. “Enough.” He turned to the priest. “Give us a moment.”

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Lexordo dipped his head in a small, mocking bow, then stepped back toward the exit. His boots whispered over the cracked marble, the sound too soft for a man with his history. “Try not to bleed on the floor, Aros. It stains.”

  When the doors closed behind him, the silence that followed was almost suffocating, heavy as a physical force pressing on the walls.

  Aros exhaled through his teeth, his vision swimming in and out of clarity. “You’ve lost your mind.”

  Talon crossed his arms, studying him without anger, but with the deep weariness of a leader forced to make impossible choices. “You think I don’t know what he is? I know exactly who Lexordo was, and what he can give us now. His men fought at Sbelto. Without them, we’d have been crushed before reaching the plaza.”

  “At what cost?” Aros snapped, his voice cracking. “You’re replacing faith with filth. Every step closer to victory makes us more like them.”

  “Maybe that’s the only way we win,” Talon replied quietly, each word weighed. “The Light was their weapon. We need our own.”

  Aros’s breath hitched. His side throbbed sharply, as if the wound itself were answering. “And Gemma? Where is she in all this?”

  Talon’s expression flickered, just enough to show it still hurt him. “She left, Aros.”

  “What?”

  “In the night, ten days ago. No one saw her go.”

  Aros took an involuntary step forward. Pain jolted through him so sharply he nearly doubled over. “And you let her?”

  “You think I could stop her?” Talon said, his voice rising for the first time. “She’s not a prisoner. And she’s not a child anymore.”

  Aros shook his head slowly, as if trying to dislodge the words. “She was a child. She trusted us.”

  Talon rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. “Listen. We’ve heard rumors: whispers of Light manifestations in the Thinerfell hills. Flares of power bright enough to be seen from the river. I’ll send a scout team to investigate.”

  “I’ll go,” Aros said immediately.

  “No.”

  “I’ll go,” he repeated, harsher, the words scraping out of his throat.

  Talon stepped closer, lowering his tone. “You can barely stand, Aros. You’d slow them down. I’m sending Digiera’s second squad: Legs and Seren Dal will lead it. They’ll bring her back if she’s there.”

  “She won’t trust them.”

  “She won’t have to. If it’s her, they’ll see the Light themselves.”

  Aros opened his mouth to speak, but pain cut him off mid-breath. His knees buckled slightly. He grabbed a pew for balance, grip trembling. A wave of heat surged up his throat. Before he could stop it, he vomited: red streaks splattering across the cold stone.

  Talon moved instantly, grabbing his shoulders. “Easy. Sit down.”

  Aros tried to wave him off, but his strength was fading too fast. The edges of the world pulsed black, shrinking and expanding with every heartbeat.

  “Gods, Aros,” Talon murmured, his voice low and strained. “You shouldn’t even be walking.”

  Aros coughed, tasting iron and bile. “If I stay lying down, I’ll go mad. I can’t just wait while she’s out there.”

  “You can and you will,” Talon said, his tone regaining its authority. “You’ve done enough bleeding for this war. Let others do it now.”

  He knelt slightly, eye level with him. “You have my word: if she’s out there, we’ll find her. But if you collapse again, I’ll have Sandra tie you to your bed.”

  Aros wanted to argue, to push back, to spit out something defiant. But his stomach twisted violently, cutting him off. He could only nod, jaw clenched, trying not to show how fragile he had become.

  Talon stood, straightening his coat with a practiced motion. “Rest a few weeks, Aros. You’ve earned that much. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Aros didn’t answer. His gaze drifted toward the door where Lexordo had stood moments ago. The priest’s smile remained in his memory, calm, patient and poisonous.

  When Talon left the cathedral, Aros sat alone for a long while, staring at the broken altar. The Light from the stained glass had long since faded, leaving only a dull gray wash across the marble, a ghost of color.

  He pressed a hand to his wound. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a pulse of pain that reminded him he was still alive.

  Alive, but useless.

  He thought of Gemma, her hair like frost, her voice trembling as she promised she’d try harder next time. He remembered the way she’d looked at him after the battle: eyes wide, frightened, but not of him. Of herself. Of what she carried.

  Somewhere out there, she was walking into something worse than war.

  And he couldn’t even stand.

  Aros bowed his head, whispering through clenched teeth, “Please, Gemma… don’t let him take you.”

  The words faded into the cold, echoing dark, swallowed by the broken cathedral and whatever gods, if any, still listened.