The first light of Arechi was pale and brittle, brushing the horizon with the color of ash. Midarion walked in silence, Reikika close at his side, their steps careful but unhurried. Above them, the sky stretched wide, cold and endless — a bruised canvas between night and day. After more than a week on the road, the Lawless Lands of Arechi were finally within reach.
The world opened into a scarred expanse. Hills split by old bombardments rose like jagged teeth. Valleys yawned black with forgotten fire, where fumes of unknown origin clung stubbornly to the air. Once, this had been the seat of a mighty kingdom — its towers scraping the heavens, its walls sheltering armies and scholars alike. Now, only bones remained.
The fall of an ancient and powerful kingdom had left the land untethered, open to every hunger. Here, warlords carved empires and lost them in a single season. Here, men tested artefacts that devoured the sky, leaving the soil poisoned and the rivers foul. Here, slaves were traded in daylight, and courtesans sold prayers with their skin — because no crown dared enforce a law that would be broken the next dawn.
Countless rulers had tried to tame Arechi. All had been swallowed whole.
It was not chaos in motion. It was worse. It was a land that had learned to breathe without order.
And yet, for Midarion, every breath here felt freer than the sterile air of HELION's cages.
He walked quietly, cloak pulled close against the wind. Reikika followed, her small frame tense, her eyes darting at every distant sound. Between them, Keelzarion — still small enough to fit beneath his cloak — stirred restlessly, dark scales glinting faintly through the folds of fabric. The dragon's warmth pulsed against his chest like a secret heartbeat, grounding him in a world that felt both alien and alive.
Behind them came Elhyra. Her steps were steady, her cloak frayed by dust and travel. She no longer looked like the robed guardian who had shattered their chains; she looked mortal now, weary and unadorned. But the stillness that surrounded her — calm, luminous, unyielding — betrayed the truth of what she was. Even here, in the land of the unholy, starlight followed her.
When they had neared Arechi's border, Elhyra had stopped them on a ridge wrapped in fog. A man awaited her there — a sorcerer in patchwork robes, face hidden behind silver veils. No words passed between them that the children could understand. Only the ritual.
He drew a circle of salt and ash upon the ground, whispering words that twisted the air into spirals. When he pressed two fingers to their foreheads, their world had folded inward. Sound bent. Color drained. Memory bled into silence.
They had felt something close inside them— a heavy door slamming shut. The screams, the needles, the stench of antiseptic — all the memories of HELION blurred, muffled, fading into the echo of a dream half-forgotten.
"Not erased," Elhyra had murmured as the sorcerer vanished back into the mist. "Only veiled. When your spirit grows strong enough, you will remember. Until then... live."
For the first time since their escape, Midarion and Reikika had exhaled without pain.
By midday, they reached Arechi's heart.
From the fog rose the Market of the lawless lands — a sprawl of tents and ramshackle stalls built atop the ruins of fallen palaces. Stone faces of long-dead monarchs watched over the chaos, their crowns buried under filth and noise.
The smell came first: smoke, blood, cheap ale, and the sweet rot of overripe fruit. Then the sound: metal on metal, bartering, laughter that cut too sharp to be joyful.
Chains clinked like wind chimes in the heat.
Slaves knelt in cages welded from the bones of old machines. Courtesans leaned from cracked marble doorways, voices lilting with false warmth. In shadowed alleys, weapon dealers whispered over tables of glowing steel — blades that burned like suns and fed on blood.
Arechi was not hell. It was what remained when hell forgot its purpose.
Reikika pressed close, her hand clutching Midarion's sleeve. "This place…" she whispered. "It feels worse than the labs."
Midarion's jaw tightened. His gaze lingered on a slaver striking a boy too weak to stand. "At least here," he murmured, "we choose our own chains."
They passed a weapons stall where blades still dripped from fresh kills. The merchant grinned, teeth gold and gums black. "Fine steel, Citadel-forged! You look like you can swing a blade, boy — want to earn one?"
Before Midarion could answer, Elhyra spoke. "We carry no need for steel. The Stars guide our path."
The merchant sneered, but did not argue. In Arechi, knowing when not to speak was survival itself.
As they moved on, a child tugged at Reikika's cloak — a bowl of cracked wood trembling in her small hands. Reikika froze. The sight struck something deep: a flash of herself behind glass walls, starving in silence. Midarion reached into his satchel and placed half their bread in the bowl.
The girl didn't thank him. She vanished into the crowd before the warmth could reach her fingers.
Mercy here was not kindness. It was a trade made without a promise of return.
Further ahead, the road bent into the Square of Forgotten Names — a wide ruin where old banners still hung in tatters, their symbols erased by soot. A man stood atop a crate, shouting verses to no one. His voice was hoarse, broken.
"Kings fell! Gods fled! But Arechi stands, unbowed! The land remembers!"
No one listened. A beggar laughed, and a guard kicked the man down. Still, he kept shouting through bloodied teeth. Unbowed. Unbowed.
Reikika turned away, her eyes burning. Midarion stared a moment longer. He didn't know why the words stung.
By nightfall, they reached a tavern on the city's edge. Its sign hung by one hinge, the wood carved with a single star — faded, nearly erased. Elhyra led them in, her hood low, her coin silent. The tavern keeper said nothing. He only poured stew into chipped bowls and bread onto a splintered table.
Reikika stared at the food, unmoving. Midarion broke the bread, pushed half toward her. "Eat," he said softly. "This time, no one decides for us."
She hesitated, then obeyed. The taste wasn't good — but it wasn't pain. And that was enough to make her eyes sting.
Elhyra watched them in silence. For a moment, the faintest curve of warmth ghosted her lips. "You endure well," she murmured. "But endurance is only the first form of strength."
That night, the children slept in beds that creaked with every breath. The sheets smelled of dust and sweat, but they were theirs. Outside, the wind whispered through broken towers, carrying faint echoes of laughter, screams, and something older — like the breath of the land itself.
At dawn, the city stirred. Smoke curled above rooftops. Bells tolled from unseen towers. Somewhere beyond the ruins, a horn sounded once, long and low — a signal none of them understood.
Elhyra stood at the window, watching the horizon. "We leave soon," she said. "Someone awaits beyond the outer ridge. One who can teach you to wield what sleeps within your souls."
Midarion rose, hand resting over the faint pulse of Keelzarion beneath his cloak. His eyes traced the city — its filth, its ruin, its fragile heartbeat.
Something in the fog shifted.
For an instant, he thought he saw a figure at the far end of the street — cloaked in black, unmoving. Then the crowd swallowed it, and the vision was gone.
He said nothing. But the air felt heavier, charged, as if Arechi itself had turned its gaze toward them.
They had escaped the cages of HELION. Now, they stood at the edge of another kind of trial — one written in blood and ash.
And as the wind rose, carrying dust and embers across the dawn, Midarion realized:
They had left behind ashes. But what lay ahead… was fire.