The first thing Qaritas noticed about Lamentis—
was that the planet appeared to be trying to cook their ship.
Not destroy it.
Not attack it.
Cook it.
The distinction seemed important.
"…Ylaris."
"What?"
"Is the sky supposed to be orange?"
"Yes."
"That orange?"
"Yes."
"With the enormous glowing cracks?"
"Those are atmospheric reflections."
"And the lightning?"
"Thermal discharges."
Qaritas considered that.
"…Is there anything on this planet that doesn't sound like a complicated way to die?"
"Several things."
"Wonderful. Name one."
"Me."
Qaritas slowly turned his head.
Ylaris stood beside the navigation console, his reddish-orange hair catching the light of the descending sun. He had the expression of a man who considered himself an entirely reasonable answer to every question.
Qaritas stared at him.
"…I preferred the lightning."
Kysena laughed.
Xheavend didn't.
That was the second thing Qaritas noticed.
She stood near the observation window, her arms folded beneath her silver-gray cloak, watching the world rise toward them.
The vessel had entered Vharos's atmosphere several minutes earlier.
Below, the Ember Dominion unfolded in impossible layers of black, gold, crimson, and green.
Volcanic mountain ranges stretched across the horizon, their summits glowing beneath clouds of drifting ash. Rivers of molten stone cut through valleys like illuminated veins. Vast black cliffs rose from plains where strange golden grasses bent beneath the wind.
And between those landscapes—
civilization.
Actual civilization.
Not scattered fortresses occupied by creatures too stubborn to die.
Not abandoned temples.
Not another collection of ruins containing something ancient and deeply unpleasant.
Cities.
Farms.
Roads.
Villages.
Qaritas leaned closer to the window.
"…Oh."
Kysena approached.
"Something wrong?"
"No."
He watched an enormous train emerge from a tunnel carved through the side of a mountain.
Its black-and-copper carriages followed a raised track across a valley, steam rising from vents along its roof.
Beyond it, hundreds of cultivated terraces curved around a dormant volcano. Irrigation channels carried shimmering water through fields of dark-leaved vegetables and trees bearing luminous orange fruit.
Enormous six-legged animals moved between the fields.
Each possessed a broad, heavily muscled body, a gentle sloping head, and a row of chimney-like structures along its back.
Warm vapor drifted from those chimneys as the creatures pulled agricultural equipment through the soil.
Qaritas pointed.
"…What are those?"
"Rhuzakai," Kysena answered.
"Are they dangerous?"
"Generally gentle."
"Generally?"
"They're enormous animals, Q. You should still avoid standing beneath their feet."
"Sound advice."
One of the creatures stopped beside a farmhouse.
A small figure climbed down from its harness.
A child.
The child patted its enormous neck.
The Rhuzakai lowered its head.
Qaritas watched the exchange.
For a moment, he forgot about the burning mountains.
Forgot about the impossible sky.
Forgot that somewhere beneath this planet's surface, two Ascendants remained imprisoned.
The child laughed.
Even through the vessel's distant visual projection, Qaritas could see it.
A perfectly ordinary moment.
A child.
An animal.
A farm.
He smiled faintly.
"…They have a life here."
Kysena looked at him.
"Of course they do."
"I know."
But he hadn't expected—
this.
The projection Gawi had shown them depicted four kingdoms suffering coordinated attacks.
Destroyed settlements.
Missing people.
Entire cities swallowed by impossible storms.
Qaritas had imagined a world already collapsing.
Instead—
he saw a world still living.
Which, he realized, made the danger considerably worse.
Then the child looked toward the distant road.
Her smile disappeared.
A black carriage was passing between the fields.
The Rhuzakai lowered its head.
Not affectionately this time.
Its enormous body became still, and the warm vapor rising from its back thinned.
The farmer caught the child's hand.
They waited until the carriage had disappeared beyond the ridge.
Only then did the Rhuzakai begin moving again.
Qaritas frowned.
"…What was that?"
Kysena followed his gaze.
"What was what?"
He looked toward the empty road.
"I don't know."
"Approaching the Emberveil Plains," the pilot announced.
The vessel banked.
Qaritas caught the edge of the console.
Ylaris didn't move.
Naturally.
"You're doing that deliberately," Qaritas muttered.
"Doing what?"
"Standing there looking irritatingly balanced."
"Try improving your balance."
"I spent ten years doing that."
"Apparently not enough."
Qaritas opened his mouth.
Kysena spoke first.
"Both of you."
They stopped.
She didn't raise her voice.
Didn't need to.
Somehow, her gentleness made the warning worse.
"Thank you," she said.
Qaritas looked at Ylaris.
Ylaris looked at Qaritas.
Neither apologized.
But neither continued.
A remarkable achievement.
The vessel descended beneath a broad layer of amber clouds.
And Vharos became clearer.
The Emberveil Plains weren't truly flat.
They rose and fell in enormous waves of fertile volcanic earth, broken by low ridges of black glass and clusters of trees with ember-colored leaves.
Farther west, the land climbed toward the Vharakai Caldera Chain.
Mountains stood there like the broken crowns of ancient giants.
Some released thin columns of smoke.
Others shone with molten rivers running down their slopes.
And beyond them—
a city.
Qaritas stopped breathing for a moment.
It had been built inside an enormous dormant caldera.
Seven terraces climbed the inner walls of the volcanic basin, each supporting entire districts of towers, bridges, gardens, and streets.
Lava traveled through carefully enclosed canals, illuminating buildings of black stone and polished copper.
High above the lower districts, a palace rose beneath the crimson sky.
Its towers resembled the points of a crown.
"Vaelkaris," Kysena said softly.
"The capital?" Qaritas asked.
"Yes. The City of a Thousand Furnaces."
He stared.
"…They built a city inside a volcano."
"An inactive one."
"That's what every volcano says before becoming active."
Ylaris sighed.
"Volcanoes don't speak."
Qaritas glanced at him.
"You haven't met enough planets."
Xheavend finally smiled.
A little.
But Qaritas noticed.
And for some reason—
that mattered more than the city.
They did not land in Vaelkaris.
Ylaris insisted that arriving directly in the capital would attract too much attention.
Qaritas pointed out that their vessel was a heavily armed military transport carrying four Ascendants.
Ylaris replied that this was precisely why they shouldn't land in the capital.
An irritatingly reasonable argument.
Qaritas disliked those most.
Instead, they approached a smaller landing station on the northern side of the Emberveil Plains, near one of the great transportation routes leading toward the border.
The station sat beside an enormous rail junction.
Copper towers rose above rows of cargo platforms.
Steam drifted from pipes beneath the streets.
Merchant vessels occupied the landing fields.
Beyond the station, roads branched toward distant settlements.
And everywhere—
people.
Not simply Pyrathi.
That was what surprised Qaritas.
He had expected a kingdom of fire to contain fire beings.
A reasonable assumption.
Apparently an incorrect one.
A broad-shouldered Terravyn worker stood beside a cargo lift, his arms formed from dark stone threaded with living moss. Tiny yellow flowers grew near one shoulder.
A Vaelori woman passed him carrying a basket of folded clothing, her translucent blue-green body moving with gentle currents beneath its surface.
Two Aetheri children raced around a fountain, their bodies formed from pale, compressed mist that held the shapes of laughing boys.
And beside the entrance to a bakery—
a Pyrathi man was arguing with a Terravyn woman over the price of bread.
Qaritas watched them.
The Pyrathi possessed charcoal-dark skin crossed by fine orange fissures. Flame rose from his head in the shape of carefully swept-back hair.
The Terravyn woman had a face of smooth gray stone, with green moss growing around her temples.
"Three Sparks," the man insisted.
"Four," she replied.
"It was three yesterday!"
"Yesterday you didn't ask for the honey glaze."
"It's a little glaze!"
"It's my glaze."
"You're robbing me."
"Then stop buying six every morning."
A pause.
"…Five," the man said.
"Four."
"Five, and I stop complaining."
"Four, and you complain somewhere else."
He handed her four coins.
Qaritas stared.
"…I like this planet."
Kysena smiled.
"Because of the architecture?"
"No."
"The landscapes?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Because apparently even elemental beings argue about pastries."
"Some things are universal," she said.
Xheavend stood beside them.
Still quiet.
Her eyes moved from face to face.
A Pyrathi mother holding the hand of a young Vaelori girl.
An elderly Aetheri man reading beside a fountain.
Two Terravyn laborers laughing as they unloaded a wagon.
A little boy chasing a floating paper toy.
Ordinary people.
Living ordinary lives.
Qaritas wondered what she was thinking.
He didn't ask.
Not yet.
The pilot lowered the boarding ramp.
Heat rolled into the vessel.
Not unbearable.
Not even particularly unpleasant.
Just—
everywhere.
The air smelled of warm stone, minerals, distant smoke, and something sweet being baked.
Qaritas stepped toward the ramp.
Then stopped.
Because Xheavend had caught his sleeve.
"Q."
He turned.
She looked at the others.
Then toward the open doorway.
"Before we go down…"
Her voice trailed off.
Kysena immediately understood that something was wrong.
"Would you like a moment?"
Xheavend nodded.
Ylaris glanced between them.
For once, he didn't make a comment.
He simply turned toward the pilot.
"We'll secure the landing arrangements."
Kysena followed him.
The chamber grew quiet.
Qaritas looked at Xheavend.
"…What is it?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she reached beneath her cloak.
And withdrew a small, carefully sealed container.
Dark red.
Almost black.
The material inside caught the light in strange ways, as though tiny fragments of glass had been suspended within liquid.
Qaritas recognized it.
"The Bloodglass Marrow."
Xheavend nodded.
"Gawi said I should take another dose before entering a populated area."
"Because of Yzer?"
"Because he might still be able to follow me."
She turned the container in her hand.
"She said it would make the connection harder to trace."
"Not break it."
"No."
Her fingers tightened.
"Never break it completely."
Qaritas watched her.
He remembered the chamber.
Yzer's tea.
The way Xheavend had stopped moving when she saw him.
Not because she had forgotten how to fight.
Because her body remembered something her courage couldn't simply erase.
"Do you want me to—"
"No."
She looked up.
"I can do it."
Qaritas nodded.
"All right."
Xheavend opened the container.
A faint metallic scent escaped.
She tilted it carefully.
One drop fell onto her tongue.
Then another.
She swallowed.
Immediately—
her face tightened.
Qaritas stepped forward.
"Xheavend?"
She held up one hand.
"Wait."
He stopped.
The veins along her throat briefly darkened.
Something beneath her skin glimmered.
A thin, blood-red light traveled from her neck toward her collarbone.
Then disappeared.
Xheavend exhaled.
Slowly.
"…That tastes horrible."
Qaritas blinked.
"That's your assessment?"
"Yes."
"Not 'I can feel my blood changing'?"
"That too."
"Not 'perhaps this ancient substance is doing something concerning to my organs'?"
"Q."
"What?"
"It tastes like someone melted a battlefield."
He stared.
"…That is disturbingly specific."
She resealed the container.
Qaritas frowned.
Something had changed.
Xheavend was standing directly in front of him.
He could see her.
Hear her breathing.
Feel the warmth of her presence.
And yet—
the familiar certainty of Xheavend had become strangely difficult to hold.
Not gone.
Obscured.
Like recognizing a voice through several walls.
"…That's unsettling."
She looked at him.
"What is?"
"You."
"That's not particularly new."
"No. I mean I know you're standing there, but something about you feels farther away."
Xheavend's smile faded.
"Good."
Qaritas studied her.
"You don't sound happy."
"I'm not."
She looked at the little container.
"But if you can barely recognize me, perhaps he won't either."
For several moments, neither spoke.
Then Xheavend said—
"I don't know whether it's enough."
Qaritas looked at her.
"The marrow?"
"Yes."
She rubbed her thumb against the sealed lid.
"What if he can still feel me?"
Qaritas had no answer.
She knew that.
Perhaps that was why she continued.
"What if he already knows I'm here?"
A pause.
"What if he's waiting?"
Qaritas stepped closer.
"Then he won't find you alone."
Xheavend looked at him.
He held her gaze.
"Whatever happens down there, we deal with it together."
For a moment, she seemed about to say something.
Instead—
she laughed.
Quietly.
"You're going to hate my next idea."
Qaritas frowned.
"…Why?"
"Because you're very easily startled."
"I'm not."
"Q."
"I have survived cosmic horrors."
"And screamed when Goro appeared behind you."
"That was a tactical response."
"Of course."
She set the container away.
Then began unfastening her cloak.
Qaritas raised an eyebrow.
"…What are you doing?"
"Changing."
"Your clothes?"
"No."
He paused.
"Oh."
Xheavend smiled.
A little too innocently.
"Exactly."
Qaritas had seen her transform before.
During battle.
He understood the principle.
He knew her body could shift between female and male forms.
Knowing something, however—
was not the same as becoming accustomed to it.
And Xheavend appeared to find his discomfort endlessly entertaining.
She stood upright.
Rolled her shoulders.
Then—
changed.
It wasn't an illusion.
That was the unsettling part.
Her body actually transformed.
Her height increased.
Her shoulders broadened.
The lines of her jaw shifted, becoming sharper and more angular.
Her throat changed.
Her hands lengthened.
Muscle redistributed beneath her skin.
The transformation moved through her with practiced ease, as natural to her as drawing a breath.
Within moments—
the woman Qaritas had been speaking to was gone.
In her place stood a man.
Tall.
Handsome.
Broad-shouldered.
With a presence that was somehow familiar and completely different at once.
And the face—
Qaritas stared.
"…Oh, that's unfortunate."
Xheavend looked at him.
"What?"
Qaritas pointed.
"Your face."
"What about it?"
"You look like your father."
Xheavend blinked.
Then grinned.
Her voice was deeper now.
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I chose to accept it."
Qaritas closed his eyes.
"…Wonderful. There's two of you."
Xheavend laughed.
The sound was lower.
Richer.
And Qaritas opened his eyes again.
Because even the laughter had changed.
He knew it was Xheavend.
Of course he knew.
But something in his mind kept trying to reconcile the familiar personality with the unfamiliar body.
It wasn't succeeding.
Xheavend noticed.
Naturally.
"Q?"
"What?"
"You're staring."
"I'm adjusting."
"To what?"
"The fact that my friend is suddenly a man who looks disturbingly like Zcain."
She considered that.
"Father is handsome."
"That is not the point."
"I inherited good features."
"Also not the point."
"And you look uncomfortable."
"Because you keep enjoying this!"
Xheavend burst out laughing.
Qaritas rubbed his forehead.
Then something occurred to him.
"…Wait."
She tilted her head.
"What?"
"Yzer."
The laughter faded.
Xheavend nodded.
"He knows me as a woman."
Qaritas studied her new form.
"True , he still doesn't know?"
"Not unless someone told him."
"Could he recognize your presence?"
"Possibly."
She touched the place where she'd swallowed the marrow.
"That's why Gawi gave me this."
Qaritas looked toward the open ramp.
Then back at her.
"So the plan is to disguise yourself as a man and hope the Bloodglass Marrow hides the rest."
"Essentially."
"That's a terrible plan."
"Do you have a better one?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"…Not immediately."
"Then it's our plan."
She reached for her cloak.
Qaritas watched her pull it over her altered shoulders.
The fabric sat differently now.
Even the way she moved had changed.
Not simply because her body was larger.
Her posture was different.
Her steps carried another distribution of weight.
Her movements seemed more deliberate.
And yet—
the expression she gave him was unmistakably Xheavend.
The same mischievous confidence.
The same stubbornness.
The same person.
Qaritas exhaled.
"…I'll get used to it."
"You'd better."
"Why?"
"Because I'm staying like this for a while."
He stared.
"How long?"
"Until I decide otherwise."
"…That is not a useful measurement."
She grinned.
Then—
the grin faded.
"Q."
He looked at her.
Her expression had become serious.
"I don't want to keep running."
Qaritas said nothing.
"I know Yzer might find me."
A pause.
"I know this disguise might fail."
Her hands closed into fists.
"But I'm tired of making every decision because of what he might do."
Qaritas watched her.
Xheavend lowered her gaze.
"I want to get stronger."
"You already are."
"Not enough."
"Xheavend—"
"Not enough to kill him."
Silence.
The engines hummed beneath their feet.
Outside, the landing station continued its ordinary business.
Xheavend looked up.
"When this is over, I want to train."
Qaritas frowned.
"With Goro?"
"With anyone who can teach me something."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It will be."
She met his eyes.
"I want to be ready when I see Yzer again."
Qaritas thought of the Warden.
The lavender skin.
The tea.
The smile.
The way cruelty could become so casual in the hands of someone who no longer recognized another person's suffering as important.
Then he looked at Xheavend.
"…All right."
She blinked.
"All right?"
"I'll help."
"Q—"
"I said I'll help."
A pause.
"But I'm going to complain."
Her smile returned.
"I'd be worried if you didn't."
Qaritas nodded.
Then looked at her again.
"…You really do look like Zcain."
Xheavend sighed.
"Q."
"It's unsettling."
"Q."
"Your father already terrifies me enough without—"
"Q."
"What?"
She smiled sweetly.
"Would you like me to practice my father's voice?"
He went pale.
"Absolutely not."
The landing station had four public entrances.
Qaritas knew this because Ylaris had insisted they inspect all four.
He also knew that one entrance led toward the merchant district, another toward the rail platforms, a third toward the residential terraces, and the fourth—
was blocked.
Not closed.
Blocked.
Entirely.
A black-glass barrier stretched across the broad northern roadway, rising from one side of the avenue to the other.
Its surface reflected the city in dark, distorted shapes.
Metal pylons stood at regular intervals.
Soldiers guarded the approach.
And behind the barrier—
an enormous line of stranded vehicles had gathered.
Cargo wagons.
Rootcarriages.
Steamstriders.
Merchant transports.
Even an Emberrail locomotive sat motionless on a raised track, its copper engine releasing frustrated clouds of vapor.
Qaritas stopped.
"…Well."
Ylaris studied the barrier.
"That's new."
Kysena frowned.
"How new?"
"According to Gawi's reports, this route was operating three days ago."
Qaritas looked at the line of merchants.
"Something happened."
"Clearly," Ylaris said.
"Thank you. Very helpful."
Xheavend approached the nearest checkpoint.
Qaritas followed.
He was still trying not to look surprised every time she spoke.
A difficult task.
Her deeper voice kept catching him off guard.
One of the soldiers stepped forward.
A Pyrathi man in black-and-copper armor.
The insignia on his breastplate identified him as a member of the Ashguard.
"Halt."
Xheavend stopped.
The soldier looked over the group.
"Travel permits."
Ylaris produced their documents.
The soldier examined them.
Then looked toward the barrier.
"Northbound passage is suspended."
"Why?" Ylaris asked.
"Emergency security measures."
"What emergency?"
The soldier's expression tightened.
"An incident near Ashenwatch."
Qaritas stepped closer.
"What kind of incident?"
The soldier looked at him.
"Settlement destruction."
"By what?"
"Unknown."
"Survivors?"
The soldier hesitated.
"Not confirmed."
Qaritas glanced toward the barrier.
"Then why close the trade route?"
"Orders."
"From whom?"
"Regional authority."
"Which regional authority?"
The soldier stared.
Qaritas stared back.
Behind him, Ylaris sighed.
"You're enjoying this."
"Not particularly."
"You've asked five questions."
"Because he's answered none of them."
The soldier's jaw tightened.
"Sir, if you intend to travel north, you'll need to use the approved diversion."
He pointed toward a secondary road.
A narrower route branched eastward between two ridges.
Several merchant wagons were already turning toward it.
Qaritas followed the road with his eyes.
It disappeared into a valley.
"Where does that go?"
"Through the private transport estates."
"Private?"
"Yes."
"Owned by whom?"
The soldier hesitated.
Then—
"Several regional landholders."
Ylaris stepped forward.
"Names."
The soldier's gaze moved toward him.
Something about Ylaris's expression apparently discouraged further evasiveness.
"Among them, Baron Solvayne."
Qaritas noticed the hesitation.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Something closer to discomfort.
He looked toward the merchants.
Then back at the barrier.
A black-glass wall.
A closed international route.
A forced diversion through privately controlled land.
And a settlement destroyed by something nobody could explain.
Qaritas felt the first quiet stir of unease.
Gawi's words returned.
Observe.
He did.
The crowd near the checkpoint was growing.
A Terravyn merchant stood beside a wagon piled with barrels of preserved fruit.
His broad stone hands were clenched.
"Three days," he growled.
"Three days I've been waiting."
An Ashguard officer shook his head.
"The restriction remains in effect."
"My produce won't remain in effect!"
Several nearby merchants laughed.
Not because the situation was funny.
Because they were tired.
Qaritas approached.
"Excuse me."
The merchant turned.
His moss-covered brows lowered.
"What?"
"How long has the road been closed?"
"Depends which road."
Qaritas frowned.
"…There's more than one?"
The merchant gave a bitter laugh.
"North road closed three days ago. Eastern freight passage closed yesterday. Western mineral route restricted since the beginning of the week."
Ylaris's expression sharpened.
"All because of Ashenwatch?"
"That's what they say."
"And what do you say?" Qaritas asked.
The merchant looked around.
Lowered his voice.
"I say something's wrong."
Qaritas waited.
The merchant glanced toward the black barrier.
"First the patrols changed."
"Changed how?"
"Different men. Different uniforms. Same insignias."
Ylaris stepped closer.
"Who authorized that?"
"Nobody tells merchants anything."
The Terravyn rubbed his face.
"Then the trains started arriving late."
"How late?"
"Hours. Sometimes a full day."
"And the passengers?"
The merchant's expression changed.
Qaritas noticed immediately.
"…What happened to the passengers?"
The man hesitated.
Then—
"Some weren't there."
Silence.
Kysena's face grew serious.
"Missing?"
"That's what the station masters said."
The merchant looked toward the waiting trains.
"People boarded. Tickets were counted. Cargo was recorded."
A pause.
"Then the train arrived with fewer passengers."
Qaritas felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.
"Did anyone investigate?"
"Of course."
"And?"
The merchant's voice lowered further.
"They said the passengers must have disembarked at an earlier station."
"Did they?"
"Those stations said nobody got off."
Ylaris looked toward the barrier.
Kysena looked toward the crowd.
Xheavend—
said nothing.
But Qaritas noticed her hands.
They had gone very still.
The merchant continued.
"And now they're sending everyone through private roads."
He shook his head.
"Roads that weren't meant to carry this much traffic."
Qaritas glanced toward the narrow eastern passage.
"Has anyone gone missing there?"
The merchant looked at him.
For a moment—
he seemed to consider pretending he hadn't heard.
Then—
"Yes."
They spent the next hour investigating.
Not fighting.
Not threatening anyone.
Not even arguing particularly much.
Which Qaritas considered an achievement worthy of several points in their ridiculous competition.
Unfortunately, Kysena informed him that behaving like a functional adult did not qualify.
He disagreed.
Strongly.
They separated into pairs.
Ylaris inspected the barrier and questioned the Ashguard officers.
Kysena visited the station infirmary, where several stranded travelers had been treated for heat exhaustion and dehydration.
Qaritas remained with Xheavend.
Which would have been entirely normal—
if she hadn't kept speaking in that unfamiliar voice.
"Q."
He turned too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Again?"
"Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Talking."
Xheavend stared.
Then laughed.
"You want me to stop talking?"
"Temporarily."
"Because my voice is different?"
"Because I keep expecting someone else."
"Who?"
He looked at her face.
"…Your father."
She grinned.
"Would you like me to—"
"No."
"I didn't finish."
"I know what you were going to say."
"Perhaps I was going to offer you a pastry."
Qaritas paused.
"…Were you?"
"No."
"Terrible person."
She laughed again.
And despite everything—
Qaritas smiled.
Then a sound interrupted them.
A sharp cry.
Not fear.
Frustration.
"YOU'RE NOT LISTENING!"
They turned.
A boy stood near the entrance to the freight office.
Sixteen, perhaps.
Thin.
Dark-haired.
His clothing was dusty, and the cuffs of his sleeves had been repaired more than once.
He held a folded paper in one hand.
An official stood behind a counter.
The man looked exhausted.
"Young man, I've explained this."
"No, you haven't!"
"Your brother's name isn't on the arrival list."
"Because he didn't arrive!"
"Then you'll need to file a missing-person report."
"I DID!"
The boy slammed the paper onto the counter.
"Four days ago!"
The official flinched.
Several people turned to look.
The boy's voice cracked.
"I've filed three!"
Qaritas stopped walking.
Xheavend stopped beside him.
The official lowered his voice.
"Please. You're upsetting the other travelers."
The boy stared at him.
For a moment—
he seemed too stunned to speak.
Then—
"My brother is missing."
Silence.
"He's been missing for six days."
The boy's hands shook.
"And you're worried I'm upsetting people?"
Qaritas felt his expression change.
He approached.
"Excuse me."
The boy turned sharply.
His eyes were red.
Not simply from crying.
From exhaustion.
From too many nights without proper sleep.
"What?"
Qaritas glanced at the paper.
"Your brother?"
The boy pulled it protectively toward his chest.
"Yes."
"What's his name?"
The boy hesitated.
Then—
"Rhevan."
"How old?"
"Twenty-five."
"And you?"
"Sixteen."
Qaritas nodded.
"I'm Q."
The boy looked him over.
Then toward Xheavend.
"And?"
Qaritas blinked.
"…And what?"
"Why should I tell you anything?"
A fair question.
A very fair question.
Qaritas considered it.
"Because I might be able to help."
The boy's face tightened.
"That's what everyone says."
Qaritas didn't argue.
He looked at the report.
Then at the official.
"May I?"
The official frowned.
"Sir, this is a private matter."
"Then I won't ask you to tell me anything the boy doesn't want shared."
Qaritas turned back.
"Would you mind showing me?"
The boy stared.
For several seconds, Qaritas thought he would refuse.
Then—
he unfolded the paper.
It was a transport record.
A freight passenger authorization.
One adult.
One route.
One destination.
Rhevan had boarded a northbound supply carriage six days earlier.
He was supposed to return the following morning.
He never had.
Qaritas studied the record.
"What was he transporting?"
"Replacement parts."
"For what?"
"Rail engines."
The boy swallowed.
"He repairs them."
Qaritas nodded.
"Was he traveling alone?"
"With a convoy."
"Did the convoy return?"
"Yes."
"And your brother?"
The boy looked down.
"No."
"Did anyone see him leave?"
"They said he got off at a private depot."
"Which depot?"
The boy pointed toward the northern road.
"Solvayne."
Qaritas went still.
Only briefly.
Then he looked at Xheavend.
She was already watching him.
The boy noticed.
"What?"
Qaritas looked back.
"Nothing yet."
"Do you know something?"
"Not enough."
The boy's expression crumpled.
"Please."
The word was barely audible.
Qaritas said nothing.
The boy took a step forward.
"Please, I just need to know where he is."
His fingers tightened around the paper.
"He's not someone who disappears."
A pause.
"He wouldn't leave me."
Qaritas felt something tighten in his chest.
"How do you know?"
The boy looked at him.
As though the question were absurd.
"Because he raised me."
Silence.
"Our parents died when I was little."
The boy swallowed.
"Rhevan was fifteen."
Qaritas stared.
"He was fifteen, and he still took care of me."
His voice began to shake.
"He worked in the rail yards. Cleaned engines. Carried tools. Did anything anyone would pay him for."
The boy rubbed his face with his sleeve.
"He learned how to fix things because broken machines were the only things people would pay him enough to fix."
A faint, miserable laugh escaped him.
"He used to bring home damaged toys from the market."
Qaritas listened.
"Things people threw away."
The boy looked at the report.
"He'd repair them at night."
A pause.
"Then tell me he'd bought them."
His mouth trembled.
"He thought I didn't know."
The boy reached into his coat.
He withdrew a little mechanical bird.
One wing was copper.
The other was made from a different metal entirely.
Its tiny feet were crooked.
"He made this when I was seven."
Qaritas leaned closer.
"Does it fly?"
"No."
Tavek turned a little key beneath its belly.
The bird shuddered.
Its wings opened.
And it made a sound remarkably similar to a dying kettle.
Qaritas stared.
"…That's horrifying."
The Boy laughed.
A real laugh.
The first Qaritas had heard from him.
"Rhevan said it was supposed to sing."
"Did you believe him?"
"Of course."
The boy ran his thumb over the mismatched wings.
"I was seven."
His smile faded.
"He promised he'd fix it properly someday."
Qaritas felt his throat tighten.
The boy looked up.
"He's all I have."
No one spoke.
Around them, the freight station continued operating.
Engines hissed.
Merchants argued.
Coins changed hands.
A bell rang somewhere above the platforms.
The world continued.
Indifferent to the fact that one boy's entire world had gone missing.
Qaritas crouched slightly.
"What's your name?"
"Tavek."
"All right, Tavek."
The boy watched him.
Qaritas held out his hand.
"Show me everything you have."
Tavek hesitated.
Then handed him the papers.
Qaritas took them carefully.
Not like evidence.
Like something important.
Because to Tavek—
they were.
They found a quieter place beneath the awning of a small food stall.
The vendor, an elderly Pyrathi woman with soft blue flames instead of orange, took one look at Tavek's face and brought him something warm to eat.
He protested.
She ignored him.
Qaritas approved immediately.
The food was a small golden pastry filled with spiced eggs and vegetables.
"Cirelli," the woman explained.
Qaritas looked at it.
"That's the pastry?"
"The eggs," she corrected. "The pastry is my own recipe."
"Ah."
She set another plate before him.
"Eat."
Qaritas blinked.
"…I didn't order anything."
"You look hungry."
"That's very kind, but—"
"Eat."
He looked at Xheavend.
Xheavend looked delighted.
"She reminds me of Mother."
Qaritas picked up the pastry.
"…I see the resemblance."
The woman returned to her stove.
Tavek sat between them.
He hadn't touched his food.
Qaritas waited.
Then—
"Tell me about the last time you saw Rhevan."
Tavek stared at the pastry.
"At home."
"What happened?"
"He was late."
"Late for the convoy?"
Tavek nodded.
"He'd been repairing the heating pipes."
"At your house?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Tavek looked offended.
"Because they were broken."
Qaritas smiled faintly.
"Fair."
Tavek continued.
"He told me not to wait up for him."
A pause.
"I told him I wasn't a child."
"What did he say?"
Tavek looked down.
His mouth trembled.
"He said I was right."
Qaritas waited.
"Then he told me to eat breakfast anyway."
A tear fell onto the boy's sleeve.
"He always says that."
Tavek wiped it away angrily.
"He says I get stupid when I'm hungry."
Qaritas glanced at the untouched pastry.
"Does he?"
Tavek nodded.
"Then perhaps you should eat."
The boy looked at him.
Qaritas shrugged.
"Wouldn't want him to come home and discover you've been ignoring his advice."
For several seconds—
nothing happened.
Then Tavek picked up the pastry.
Took a small bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
And began crying.
Quietly.
Without making a scene.
As though he'd been holding everything inside for so long that a single familiar act had finally broken something.
Qaritas didn't tell him to stop.
Didn't say it would be all right.
Didn't promise what he couldn't guarantee.
He simply sat beside him.
Xheavend moved closer.
And for a little while—
they let the boy cry.
Later, when Tavek had eaten and the papers lay spread across the table, Qaritas noticed something.
A mark.
Small.
Stamped beside the depot authorization.
He leaned closer.
"…What's this?"
Tavek looked.
"A shipping seal."
"Whose?"
"Solvayne Transport."
Qaritas examined it.
A stylized crown above a branching road.
Below it—
a serial number.
He looked at the other documents.
The same seal appeared three times.
Once on Rhevan's original travel permit.
Once on the convoy manifest.
And once on a document issued two days after Rhevan had disappeared.
Qaritas frowned.
"…Why was this issued afterward?"
Tavek leaned forward.
"What?"
"This document."
He pointed.
"It confirms that your brother completed his assigned delivery."
Tavek stared.
Then shook his head.
"No."
Qaritas looked at him.
"He didn't."
"According to this, he did."
"But he didn't come home."
"I know."
The boy's breathing quickened.
Qaritas turned the paper around.
"Look at the signature."
Tavek leaned closer.
Then froze.
"…That's not his."
Qaritas felt the unease deepen.
"You're certain?"
Tavek nodded.
"Rhevan writes his name with the letters joined together."
He pointed.
"This isn't how he writes."
Xheavend studied the signature.
"Someone signed for him."
Qaritas nodded.
"Or forged the record."
Tavek looked between them.
"Why?"
Neither answered immediately.
Because there were several possible explanations.
And Qaritas disliked all of them.
They left Tavek at the food stall with the elderly vendor, who agreed to let him remain there while they investigated.
The boy resisted.
Of course he did.
He wanted to come.
Wanted to search.
Wanted to do something.
Anything.
But Qaritas knelt beside him and said—
"If we find something dangerous, I need to know you're somewhere safe."
Tavek looked furious.
"I'm not helpless."
"I know."
"Then let me come."
Qaritas hesitated.
He remembered Yandaro.
Thirteen years old.
Standing on a crate.
Demanding that engineers build something capable of protecting thousands.
He looked at Tavek.
Sixteen.
Exhausted.
Terrified.
Refusing to stop searching for the only family he had left.
Children, Qaritas was beginning to understand, were considerably more determined than most adults.
And considerably harder to argue with.
"All right," he said.
Tavek blinked.
"…What?"
"You can help."
The boy straightened.
"Really?"
"Yes."
Xheavend glanced at him.
"Q—"
"But not by coming into a dangerous place."
Tavek's expression fell.
Qaritas continued.
"You're going to stay here and write down everything you remember about your brother's convoy."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"Why?"
"Because small details matter."
Tavek looked at him.
"Like what?"
"The names of the drivers. The color of the wagons. Which engine was pulling the convoy. Whether Rhevan mentioned any unusual passengers."
Tavek considered that.
Then—
"He said the rear carriage was heavier than it should've been."
Qaritas went still.
"…What?"
Tavek frowned.
"The night before he left."
He rubbed his forehead.
"He said the weight numbers didn't make sense."
Xheavend leaned closer.
"What numbers?"
"The freight weights."
Tavek looked between them.
"He said they were carrying too much weight for the cargo listed."
Silence.
Qaritas thought of the missing passengers.
The altered records.
The closed roads.
The private depots.
"Did he tell anyone?"
Tavek nodded.
"His supervisor."
"And?"
"He said it wasn't his problem."
Qaritas slowly exhaled.
"…Of course."
Tavek's eyes widened.
"Does that mean something?"
Qaritas looked at him.
"It might."
"Then you'll find him?"
Qaritas held his gaze.
"We're going to find out what happened to him."
It wasn't the promise Tavek wanted.
But it was one Qaritas intended to keep.
The afternoon brought heat.
Not simply from the sun.
From the city itself.
Warmth rose through the streets from geothermal pipes beneath the paving stones.
Public fountains released cool mist.
Aetheri vendors sold delicate wind-spun decorations that turned above their stalls.
Terravyn artisans displayed jewelry grown from polished mineral branches.
Vaelori glassworkers shaped translucent vessels while their bodies rippled with reflected light.
And Pyrathi smiths hammered glowing metal beneath open awnings.
Qaritas found himself staring at everything.
"…I could spend a month here."
Xheavend glanced at him.
"We have a mission."
"I know."
"Four gods to find."
"I know."
"Two prisoners to rescue."
"I know."
"And possibly an entire network of disappearances to investigate."
He sighed.
"You're ruining my sightseeing."
She grinned.
Her male face made the expression even more unsettling.
Qaritas looked away.
"Stop that."
"Smiling?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because your father's smile is the last thing I need to be reminded of."
Xheavend laughed.
Then stopped.
A group of children had gathered around a street performer.
An elderly Aetheri woman was creating little creatures from swirling currents of air.
A tiny dragon danced above her palm.
The children cheered.
One of them—
a Pyrathi girl with small yellow flames for hair—
reached up to touch it.
The air-dragon curled around her finger.
She squealed with delight.
Xheavend watched.
For several moments, she said nothing.
Then—
"Q."
"Hm?"
"Do you think Yzer ever sees things like this?"
Qaritas turned.
She was watching the children.
"The children?"
"The happiness."
A pause.
"Do you think he ever looks at something harmless and feels anything?"
Qaritas considered the question.
He remembered Yzer drinking tea.
The porcelain cup.
The cakes.
The absolute indifference with which he'd discussed suffering.
"I don't know."
Xheavend's expression hardened.
"Sometimes I wonder whether he was ever different."
Qaritas looked at her.
"And?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know whether that would make it better or worse."
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't know either.
They found Ylaris near the northern checkpoint.
He was arguing with a senior Ashguard officer.
Naturally.
Qaritas approached just in time to hear—
"I am not asking whether you personally approve of my request."
The officer's face had darkened.
"And I'm telling you those records are restricted."
"By whose authority?"
"Regional command."
"Then contact regional command."
"That could take hours."
"I have hours."
Qaritas leaned toward Xheavend.
"…He's terrifying when he's reasonable."
Xheavend nodded.
"Imagine how bad he is when he's angry."
"I'd rather not."
Ylaris turned.
"I heard that."
"Good hearing," Qaritas replied.
Ylaris ignored him.
"I've confirmed the barrier isn't merely blocking passage."
Qaritas's smile faded.
"What is it doing?"
"Redirecting traffic."
"We know that."
"Not all traffic."
Qaritas frowned.
Ylaris pointed toward the freight platforms.
"Certain shipments are being permitted through."
"Which ones?"
"Private consignments."
"Solvayne?"
"Among others."
Qaritas looked toward the black-glass barrier.
"So ordinary merchants are stopped, but private transports can pass."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"That's what I intend to find out."
Kysena arrived moments later.
Her expression was unusually grim.
Qaritas noticed immediately.
"…What happened?"
She looked at the three of them.
"The infirmary has treated eleven people who arrived from the northern routes."
Ylaris frowned.
"Injured?"
"Some."
"From the attack?"
"They don't know."
Qaritas felt his stomach tighten.
Kysena continued.
"Three were suffering from severe dehydration."
"Vaelori?" Xheavend asked.
"Two Vaelori. One Aetheri with respiratory damage."
Qaritas looked at her.
"What happened to them?"
"They were found wandering near a transport road."
"Do they remember anything?"
Kysena hesitated.
"Very little."
Ylaris stepped closer.
"Memory alteration?"
"Possibly."
She lowered her voice.
"But there was something else."
Qaritas waited.
Kysena looked toward the crowded street.
"One of the Vaelori women had marks around her wrists."
Silence.
"Restraint marks."
Qaritas felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.
"Could they have been caused by an accident?"
"Perhaps."
Kysena's expression tightened.
"But the pattern suggests prolonged confinement."
No one spoke.
Then Xheavend asked—
"Did she say who did it?"
Kysena shook her head.
"She wouldn't speak."
"Couldn't?"
"Wouldn't."
A pause.
"She became frightened when I asked about the transport depot."
Qaritas looked toward the northern road.
The black barrier.
The soldiers.
The waiting wagons.
The private diversion.
And the name—
Solvayne.
Again.
They were still discussing their next move when the crowd began to part.
Not suddenly.
Not in panic.
With the quiet, practiced deference people showed someone accustomed to being obeyed.
A carriage approached from the eastern avenue.
Long.
Black.
Its polished body was decorated with copper inlays and small pieces of ember-colored glass.
Four enormous animals pulled it.
Not Rhuzakai.
These were leaner, their dark bodies covered in smooth mineral plates.
Steam escaped from narrow vents along their shoulders.
The carriage stopped near the checkpoint.
A servant climbed down.
Opened the door.
And a man emerged.
He appeared to be in his late fifties.
Tall.
Broad.
Dressed in a beautifully tailored coat of dark Cinderthread, embroidered with gold.
A Sunheart Amber clasp fastened his cloak.
His hair was silver at the temples.
His face was handsome in the dignified manner of someone who had spent a lifetime being told he was important.
He surveyed the crowd.
Then smiled.
Warmly.
"Good afternoon."
Several merchants bowed their heads.
Others approached him immediately.
"My lord!"
"Baron!"
"Have you heard anything about the northern route?"
"Will the restrictions be lifted?"
The man raised both hands.
"Please."
His voice was calm.
Cultured.
Patient.
"One at a time."
The crowd quieted.
He looked genuinely troubled.
"I understand your frustration."
A pause.
"Believe me, I share it."
Qaritas watched him.
The man continued.
"The situation near Ashenwatch has been devastating."
Several people lowered their heads.
"I've personally authorized emergency supplies for the affected settlements."
A murmur moved through the crowd.
"And until the main road can safely reopen, my estates will continue providing alternative passage for essential transport."
A merchant called—
"At what cost?"
The baron smiled sadly.
"Only enough to maintain the roads and protect the travelers."
Qaritas glanced at Ylaris.
Ylaris's expression remained unreadable.
The baron continued speaking.
He was good at it.
Very good.
He knew when to pause.
When to soften his voice.
When to express concern.
He remembered merchants' names.
Asked after their families.
Promised to speak with regional command.
And when an elderly Terravyn woman complained that her medicines were spoiling in the heat—
he immediately instructed a servant to arrange refrigerated storage.
The woman nearly cried with gratitude.
But the matter, apparently, was not quite settled.
A servant approached the baron.
Quietly.
Almost apologetically.
" Baron Solvayne?"
Baron Solvayne turned.
"Yes, Edric?"
The servant was a thin Pyrathi man whose charcoal-colored skin was threaded with faint amber fissures. His flames had been combed neatly backward, though their nervous flickering betrayed his discomfort.
He leaned closer.
"Forgive me, my lord, but there appears to be a complication."
The baron's expression remained pleasant.
"What sort of complication?"
"The refrigerated compartments."
"Yes?"
"They're occupied."
A pause.
Solvayne glanced toward the elderly Terravyn woman, who was still thanking the attendant assigned to help her.
"All of them?"
"I'm afraid so, my lord."
"By what?"
Edric hesitated.
"The provisions from Namaris."
The baron blinked.
Then—
"Ah."
He seemed to remember something.
"The shipment for tomorrow's banquet?"
"Yes, my lord."
"How unfortunate."
The servant lowered his head.
"I could inquire whether the station possesses additional cold-storage facilities, but given the number of stranded merchants—"
"No."
The answer was gentle.
Not dismissive.
Simply decisive.
Edric looked up.
"My lord?"
"Have the provisions removed."
The servant stared.
For a moment—
he appeared uncertain whether he had heard correctly.
"…Removed?"
"Yes."
"But, my lord, those provisions were imported specifically for your guests."
"I remember."
"The preserved Namarian delicacies alone cost nearly four hundred Crowns."
"Did they?"
Solvayne sounded mildly surprised.
Edric looked increasingly distressed.
"Yes, my lord."
"Well."
The baron considered that.
Then smiled.
"How extravagant of me."
Qaritas, who had been standing several paces away, nearly laughed.
He managed to disguise it as a cough.
Barely.
The servant did not seem amused.
"My lord, the shipment cannot remain outside the refrigerated compartments for long. Several items will spoil before evening."
"Then have the kitchens prepare what they can."
"And the rest?"
"Distribute it."
Edric blinked.
"…Distribute it?"
"To the stranded travelers."
Silence.
The servant's flames flickered.
"All of it?"
"Whatever cannot be preserved."
"But those are delicacies, my lord."
Solvayne looked genuinely puzzled.
"Are they poisonous?"
Edric stared.
"…No, my lord."
"Then I imagine the travelers will enjoy them."
Qaritas lowered his head.
Oh.
He liked that answer.
He really shouldn't have liked that answer.
But he did.
Edric opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then tried again.
"My lord, forgive me, but your guests are expecting a formal banquet tomorrow evening."
"Then tomorrow evening, my guests shall discover the extraordinary experience of eating something ordinary."
The servant looked horrified.
Solvayne chuckled.
"Edric."
"Yes, my lord?"
"How many merchants have been stranded here?"
"Several hundred, my lord."
"And how many of them have been able to afford proper meals while waiting?"
The servant hesitated.
"…I don't know."
"Neither do I."
The baron's smile softened.
"But I suspect the answer is fewer than we would like."
He glanced toward the elderly Terravyn woman.
Her stone hands trembled as she carefully rearranged the small medicine containers in her basket.
"That woman's medicines are intended for the sick, are they not?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And my imported supper is intended for people who are already well-fed."
Edric said nothing.
Solvayne inclined his head.
"Then I believe the decision is rather simple."
For several seconds—
the servant merely stood there.
Then he bowed.
"Of course, my lord."
"And Edric?"
The man stopped.
"Yes?"
"Please don't tell the kitchens to throw anything away merely because it isn't suitable for tomorrow's banquet."
"Of course."
"See that the station's families receive some as well."
The baron paused.
Then added—
"And make certain the children receive something sweet."
Edric's expression softened.
Just slightly.
"Yes, my lord."
He departed.
Solvayne watched him go.
Then sighed.
Not dramatically.
Not as though he expected anyone to notice.
Qaritas watched him.
For a long moment.
Then he looked toward the black-glass barrier.
The closed roads.
The stranded wagons.
The frightened travelers.
And the private diversion winding toward the baron's estates.
Something was wrong here.
He knew that.
The altered manifests were real.
The disappearances were real.
Tavek's brother was still missing.
And the name Solvayne appeared far too frequently for comfort.
But—
Qaritas looked toward the elderly Terravyn woman again.
Her medicines would be preserved.
Children who needed them might recover.
Stranded travelers would receive a meal they otherwise could not afford.
Those things were real too.
He rubbed his forehead.
"…This is getting complicated."
Kysena approached.
"What is?"
Qaritas nodded toward the baron.
"Him."
She followed his gaze.
"Because he's generous?"
"Because I can't tell whether he's generous."
Kysena looked at him.
Qaritas sighed.
"I know. That sounds ridiculous."
"Not necessarily."
He glanced at her.
She watched Solvayne for another moment.
Then said—
"Kind actions can be sincere, Qaritas."
"I know."
"And they can also be performed for reasons we don't understand."
He frowned.
"That's not particularly comforting."
"It wasn't intended to be."
Wonderful.
Apparently even Kysena had decided to become mysterious.
Qaritas looked toward Xheavend.
She was still watching the baron.
"…What do you think?"
Xheavend took her time answering.
Then—
"I think the woman needed help."
Qaritas waited.
"And he helped her."
"That's all?"
"For now."
She glanced at him.
"Someone can do a good thing without being a good person."
A pause.
"And someone can look frightening without being cruel."
Qaritas considered that.
Then smiled faintly.
"Speaking from experience?"
Xheavend grinned.
With Zcain's face.
"Naturally."
Qaritas sighed.
"…I walked into that one."
She laughed.
And for a little while—
the checkpoint seemed almost ordinary again.
Merchants argued.
Children complained about the heat.
Steam rose from the waiting locomotives.
Somewhere nearby, the elderly pastry vendor was scolding a customer for attempting to haggle over honey glaze.
Qaritas heard her declare—
"Four Sparks! And if you complain again, it'll be five!"
He smiled.
There it was.
Something genuine.
Something familiar.
A little kindness.
A little laughter.
An ordinary world trying desperately to remain ordinary.
And standing in the middle of it—
a baron who had just given away an expensive banquet so that a stranger's medicines wouldn't spoil.
Qaritas wanted to believe him.
That—
more than anything—
was what troubled him.
Qaritas watched.
Generous.
Helpful.
Respected.
Something about the man reminded him of Gawi's warning.
Not because he seemed dangerous.
Because he didn't.
The baron turned.
His gaze moved across the crowd.
Then settled on the four of them.
He paused.
Only briefly.
But Qaritas noticed.
The man approached.
"Forgive me."
His smile remained pleasant.
"I don't believe we've met."
Ylaris stepped forward.
"We're travelers."
"Then welcome to Vharos."
The man inclined his head.
"Baron Vaedric Solvayne."
Qaritas studied him.
The baron's gaze passed over Ylaris.
Kysena.
Xheavend.
Then Qaritas.
Something flickered behind his eyes.
Recognition?
Interest?
Qaritas couldn't tell.
The baron smiled.
"And you are?"
"Q."
A pause.
"These are my companions."
He gestured toward the others.
"Ylaris. Kysena. And—"
He turned toward Xheavend.
Stopped.
Because for one ridiculous moment—
his mind supplied the wrong word.
She.
Then corrected itself.
He.
Then remembered that neither was particularly useful when introducing someone who could change between both.
Xheavend noticed.
Of course.
She smiled.
"X."
Her deep voice carried easily through the crowd.
Qaritas stared at the ground.
Wonderful.
The baron inclined his head.
"A pleasure."
Then—
"Are you attempting to travel north?"
Ylaris nodded.
"Yes."
The baron's expression became sympathetic.
"Then I'm afraid you've arrived at a difficult time."
"So we've heard," Qaritas said.
"Terrible business."
The baron shook his head.
"Entire families displaced. Trade interrupted. People frightened to leave their homes."
He looked genuinely saddened.
"Vharos has suffered greatly."
Kysena studied him.
"Have you personally visited Ashenwatch?"
The baron hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Several days ago."
"What did you see?"
His smile faded.
"Destruction."
A pause.
"More than I care to describe in the middle of a public street."
Qaritas watched his face.
There was no obvious lie.
No flicker of panic.
No strange tension.
Nothing.
And that—
made him uneasy.
The baron looked between them.
"You appear to be capable travelers."
Ylaris raised an eyebrow.
"Capable?"
The baron smiled.
"Experienced, then."
"Better."
Qaritas nearly sighed.
The baron continued.
"May I offer you some hospitality?"
Kysena tilted her head.
"Hospitality?"
"My estate lies along the northern diversion."
He gestured toward the road.
"You'll find comfortable rooms, proper meals, and access to more detailed regional reports than the station can provide."
Qaritas looked toward the barrier.
Then back at him.
"Why would you offer that to strangers?"
The baron didn't seem offended.
Instead—
he smiled.
"Because someone once offered my family shelter when we needed it."
A pause.
"I've tried not to forget the kindness."
Silence.
It was a good answer.
A very good answer.
Qaritas disliked how much he wanted to believe it.
The baron glanced toward the crowd.
"Besides, you aren't the only travelers I've assisted."
He gestured toward the merchants.
"These roads are my responsibility. The people who use them are my responsibility."
Xheavend watched him.
Her expression remained still.
Then—
"Do people disappear on your roads, Baron?"
The question landed like a stone.
The baron's smile faltered.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Qaritas noticed.
Several nearby merchants stopped speaking.
The baron looked at Xheavend.
"Unfortunately."
Silence.
"Yes."
Qaritas felt his chest tighten.
The man continued.
"We've lost several travelers in recent weeks."
"How?" Xheavend asked.
"We don't know."
"Have you found them?"
"Not all."
"Any?"
The baron's expression grew pained.
"Some."
"Alive?"
A pause.
"Not always."
Qaritas glanced at Xheavend.
Her male face was unreadable.
The baron lowered his gaze.
"I understand your concern."
Then he looked up.
"And if you're willing to help us discover what's happening, I would be deeply grateful."
Qaritas stared.
There it was again.
An open door.
An offer.
A reason to trust.
He remembered the woman in his dream.
Some doors open because someone wishes to help.
Others open because something has been waiting on the other side.
Qaritas looked at the baron.
Then toward the road.
Then back.
"…We'd like to see your records."
The baron smiled.
"Of course."
They did not leave immediately.
Ylaris insisted on checking the carriage.
Kysena requested medical supplies from the station.
Xheavend returned to Tavek.
And Qaritas—
found himself standing beside the elderly pastry vendor again.
The woman looked up.
"Back already?"
"Apparently."
"More food?"
He considered refusing.
Then remembered how good the pastry had been.
"…Yes."
She smiled.
"Good."
He purchased several.
Three Sparks each.
He was fairly certain she gave him an extra one.
When he tried to point it out, she waved him away.
Qaritas decided not to argue with a woman who could apparently intimidate him more effectively than Ylaris.
He found Tavek sitting at the same table.
The boy had written two full pages.
Names.
Dates.
Carriage numbers.
Details about the convoy.
He looked up immediately.
"Did you find anything?"
Qaritas sat beside him.
"Some things."
"About Rhevan?"
"Possibly."
Tavek's eyes widened.
"Where?"
"At the Solvayne estate."
The boy went pale.
"…You're going there?"
"Yes."
Tavek stood so quickly his chair scraped across the stone.
"I'm coming."
Qaritas raised one hand.
"Tavek—"
"No."
The boy's voice shook.
"No, you said I could help."
"And you have."
"Then let me come."
Qaritas looked at him.
Tavek's fists were clenched.
His eyes were wet.
But there was something else there.
Determination.
The same stubborn refusal Qaritas had seen in Yandaro.
The same terrible courage that seemed to grow in people who had already lost too much.
"Please," Tavek whispered.
Qaritas was silent.
Then Xheavend approached.
She looked at the boy.
Then at Qaritas.
"Let him come."
Qaritas turned.
"…What?"
"We can protect him."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
Qaritas looked at Tavek.
The boy stood rigidly beside the table.
Waiting.
Terrified that the answer would be no.
Qaritas exhaled.
"…If anything goes wrong, you listen to us."
Tavek blinked.
"What?"
"You stay close."
A pause.
"You don't wander off."
Another.
"And if Kysena tells you to run, you run."
Tavek stared.
Then nodded rapidly.
"Yes."
"Even if you think you've seen your brother."
The boy hesitated.
Qaritas's expression became serious.
"Tavek."
A pause.
"Promise me."
The boy swallowed.
Then—
"I promise."
Qaritas nodded.
"All right."
Tavek's shoulders sagged.
Not with relief exactly.
With the terrible exhaustion of someone who had finally been allowed to keep hoping.