They rose as the sun breached the ridgeline, gilding the peaks in rust and gold. Shadows stretched long over the cracked earth, the nightâs chill still clinging to the stone, brittle and fading. The air was thin, sharp against their throats, the wind carrying the last whispers of cold before surrendering to the day.
The heat was coming. Pressing at the horizon. Waiting. Soon, the mountains would bake, the rock burning to the touch, the wind turning dry as old parchment. They had only a sliver of time before the morningâs reprieve was gone.
Azariah rolled his shoulders, shaking off the stiffness that came from too much thinking. He sat by the fire too long last night. He listened, really listened, to the rhythm of Twylaâs voice, warmth curling into his ribs like something he had no right to hold.But he had. And now? Now he was paying for it.
His fingers flexed, restless, brushing absently against the grip of his flintlock before curling into a fist. He was too aware of everything. The hush of conversation as the others stirred. The shifting light as dawn crept sluggishly over the cliffs, setting the world in bruised gold and deep violet. The soft exhale of the wind through the rocks.And Twyla.
She stretched in the fireâs dying glow, arms arching lazily over her head, the fabric of her top shifting just enough to bare a sliver of skin before her loose trousers settled again. A fleeting moment. A small thing. And yet, it left something curling, unwanted, in his chest.She twisted the ribbon at her wrist, humming under her breath like she hadnât upended his entire fucking sense of reality last night.Azariah exhaled sharply and looked away.
Arlo was already ahead, always ahead. His boots pressed into sunbaked earth, scattering dust and loose gravel, his broad frame carving an unwavering path through the dry morning air. Beneath his sand-scored coat, the edges of his cuirass pressed against his ribsâa familiar presence, as constant as the shield strapped to his back.
Behind them, Ottoviano dismantled the shelter with the ease of someone folding a letter. He traced the sigils carved into the entrance, fingers moving with deliberate grace, and the structure obeyed. The ghostly membrane quivered, its form loosening, the aether-bound latticework unraveling like dust caught in a desert wind. The walls thinned, their substance pulling inward, dissolving as if the heat itself was swallowing them whole.
By the time Arlo reached the roadâs fractured edge, only barren ground remained, undisturbed save for the faint impression left in the dust. The wind whispered across the stones, the world reclaiming the space.
Azariah adjusted his rifle strap a little too roughly, shaking off the stiffness in his hands. He needed to move. Needed something to drag himself out of this headspace before he did something stupid.âAz?â The voice came too easily. Too familiar. "You good?"Twyla.
He kept his gaze elsewhere. He kept his distance. Instead, he forced a smirk, lazy, dismissive, sharp enough to cut between them."Always, sweetheart."
She arched a brow at the nickname but let it pass. Just studied him for a moment, head tilted like she was reading himâreally reading him. And for one awful second, he thought she might press. Might say something that made this whole mess worse.But then she just rolled her eyes and stretched again."Sure," she muttered. "If you say so."
And then she was gone, moving toward Ottoviano, already falling into easy conversation, humming some new tune as she flicked that damn ribbon again. As if everything had stayed the same.Like last night had been just a moment to her.
Azariah watched her go.Then, with a sharp inhale, he turned and walked the other way.He left it alone. For now. Maybe never.
The jagged peaks shrank behind them, cracked stone bleeding into open flats and sparse roads. Settlements clung like lichen to dead rock, growing denser, until Ebonhelm loomed, scorched by the sun, waiting to devour.
The road funneled them forward, narrowing toward the gates, jaws carved into ancient stone, waiting to swallow them whole. The journey had worn on them, days of travel, nights spent in the cold, the weight of too many miles pressing into their bones. The air changed first. The crisp mountain wind was smothered beneath a dense, clinging dampness, thick with soot, coal, and the sweat of too many bodies. The distant hum of civilization grew louder, replacing the quiet rustle of trees with the layered voices of merchants, beggars, and travelers. The acrid scent of burning mana replaced mountain air, thick and electric, coating the back of their throats like oil.
The gates loomed, massive, ironbound, reinforced with layered stone and old magic. Soldiers and watchmen stood at their posts, their gazes sweeping over the steady stream of travelers. Some were turned away without ceremony. Others passed through with well-placed bribes. Merchants bickered over taxes, wanderers slipped past enforcers, and in the slow-moving tide of bodies, Arlo and his team kept moving. They ignored the guards. They walked through the gates, and Ebonhelm snapped shut around them like a steel trap.
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The city was a marvel. A lie given form, a gilded illusion stretched over bones.A monument to wealth, to progress, to the quiet, insidious belief that gold could varnish rot and call it power. Ebonhelm stretched wide and golden, its towers gilded not just in coin but in something far more dangerous, comfort.
But beneath the surface, the cracks were already showing.
The streets widened, the cobbles smoother, the air cleaner. Magic hummed beneath their feet, pulsing through the iron veins of the city. In the Merchantâs Row, sigils flickered to life as the morning trade began. Wards flared, signs illuminated, rune-etched gears began to churn, a symphony of industry and arcane power. The wealthy glided through the city on enchanted trams, soundless, effortless. The poor clung to the edges, legs dangling, hands white-knuckled against polished metal. One smooth, weightless motion. One desperate, gasping attempt to keep up. One world floating above the other, weightless only because it had something beneath it to crush.
Further up the ridge, the University of Magic loomed behind delicate latticework and enchanted spires. Here, magic was studied, dissected, repurposed, transformed into something safe, something palatable. Its outer walls shimmered with defensive wards, pulsing faintly as people crossed the threshold. For most, the University was a myth, a locked gate long closed to them.
And beyond it all, towering above the city, stood the Ebon Keep.A fortress, not a palace. Carved from ancient stone that had withstood centuries of war and time, its design a testament to permanence rather than intimidation. Its narrow, watchful windows cast a steady gaze over the city, not with menace, but with the weight of knowing that power can be absolute even in absence.
The Kingâs Guard were a myth. No patrols. No banners. Their name went unspoken.Yet the city knew their work.
In the dead of night, when the streets emptied and the air grew still, there were places where the silence sank like a blade to the throat. Where doors locked at dusk stood open by morning, and households vanished. Bloodless, without struggle, only an absence, surgical, precise, as though the city itself had swallowed them whole.
If the Kingâs Guard walked, it was to unmake. They existed to uphold a silence that never broke. Few ever saw them. Only the missing spoke of them, and never twice. And whatever came for you in the night, man or something stitched together from death, was felt rather than seen.
Some claimed they were men, yet soldiers make sound and assassins leave traces. Some whispered of things stitched together in darkness, of warriors who had died once and been remade for a second life that was not their own. But even rumors were dangerous. And so, the people of Ebonhelm learned to avoid the shadows.
They lived. They worked. They suffered. They learned to let the missing remain missing.They endured.
Arlo, solid as stone, gathered them under the shadow of a dockside alleyway, voice low, clipped, deliberate."We move apart. Together, weâre a mark. Separate, weâre ghosts."
His gaze swept over them, assigning their paths like pieces on a board."Ottoviano. Apothecaries, healers. If he was treated, someone remembers. If he was turned away, they had a reason.""Twyla, watch the fighters. If Kristos ran, someone chased him. If heâs hiding, someone is keeping him.""Xiomara, the guard. If he was arrested, youâll see the shifts in their patrols before anyone else.""I have an old contact. Heâll know how the cityâs power has shifted."
Arloâs eyes lingered on Azariah a second too long, his posture tightening just slightly, whether from doubt or strategy, unclear. The next words caught in his throat, then came measured, like a step taken over uncertain ground."Azariah."
"Oh, please," Azariah cut in, rolling his shoulders. "The dens? Drunks? Arlo, if you wanted useless noise, you could just stand in the street and yell."
Arlo exhaled, sharp and slow. "Az."
"Letâs be smarter than that, yeah?" Azariah grinned, tilting his head toward Ottoviano. âWhy send me when our dear Otto is already handling it?â
Ottovianoâs glare was slow, deliberate, a silent cataloging of grievances behind the thin lenses of his round brass-framed glasses.
"One day, Wolfe," he murmured, his voice glacial, "Iâll walk you through the difference between astuteness and the simple, dumb luck of a man too reckless to die."Azariah clutched his chest in mock injury. âI speak to you with nothing but admiration, dear Otto.â
Ottoviano turned his attention to Arlo, pointedly ignoring Azariahâs theatrics."Regardless," he continued smoothly, "I have sources of my own, ones infinitely more reliable than the loose tongues Wolfe collects. I suggest you allow me to employ them before wasting your time with common riff-raff."
Arloâs jaw tightened. He disliked being pulled off course.Azariahâs grip on his shoulder loosened, but his grip lingered."Just humor me."
Arlo studied him for a long moment. Azariah always had a way of redirecting himânever forcing, just nudging. Arlo hated it. It worked anyway.
Behind them, Twyla and Xiomara exchanged a glance. Twyla adjusted her blouse and vanished into the crowd. Xiomara simply left, her departure as sharp as a severed thread. Her imposing frame cut through the crowded streets, Twyla a whisper of motion beside her. They left without a word. Lodgings first. Practical, handling the details while the others disappeared into their own ghosts.Arlo let them go without a question.
Ebonhelm was sleepless. It kept score. It endured.Wrapped in the illusion of progress.Weighed down by its own inevitability.