Alteria didn't lead this time.
She walked beside him. Step for step.
Ellisgrove wasn't sacred stone or obsidian polish.
No echoing halls, no gold-stitched banners.
It was all uneven bricks.
Crooked rooftops, smoke-thick air, and alleyways that knew secrets better than names.
Here, signs weren't carved.
They were painted, chipped, rewritten in three languages no one bowed to.
Raze didn't know where to look.
People moved with too much presence.
Too much now. Bargaining. Shouting.
Laughing like the gods weren't watching.
His eyes followed motion instinctively.
Muscle memory from a life he didn't own anymore.
A boy brushed past him, light on his feet.
Raze caught the glance: to his hip, then to Alteria's cloak. Gone in the crowd a second later.
"He was checking your belt,"
Alteria said, eyes ahead.
"I don't have anything," Raze muttered.
"Exactly," she replied. "Low risk. High chance you don't scream."
They didn't speak after that. Just walked.
Not toward something. Not away from anything.
Just forward. And Raze stayed beside her.
Not led, not following. Just moving.
The streets curved tighter the deeper they went.
Cobblestone faded into dirt.
Stone walls gave way to wood.
Shops grew smaller. Quieter.
"Where are we going?" he asked, voice low, more out of rhythm than curiosity.
Alteria didn't look back. "My herbalist."
She sighed.
"She's unhinged," she added. "But precise. Helped the Pope recover from something fatal, supposedly."
"The Pope?"
"Don't overthink it." Her hand flicked out, signaling left. "Stay close."
The turn came quiet.
No sign, no marker.
Just a crooked doorway tucked behind hanging sheets and drying herbs.
The wood above it was warped, paint peeled off in layers like skin after a fever.
Raze wouldn't have noticed it.
Alteria stopped. Knocked once, then pushed.
The door didn't creak. It sighed.
Warm air met them. Not heat—thick scent.
Smoked lavender. Burnt rosemary.
Damp citrus peel left to curl in sunlight.
Inside, it felt like stepping into a throat.
Narrow. Breathing.
A voice came before the woman did.
"Boots off. Voices low. No lies."
Raze froze.
Alteria was already unfastening her laces.
He followed. The floor was warm.
Smoothed wood, worn thin.
Something pulsed beneath it.
A figure emerged from behind a beaded curtain, slow and sure.
Short. Sturdy.
Her shape filled the doorway with presence alone. Hips wide, shoulders relaxed.
Her layered dress clung in folds.
Dyed in smoke tones and browns.
Silver hair, unbound.
Eyes clouded like ash suspended in glass.
She didn't look at them. She faced them.
Alteria bowed slightly. "Aun'va."
"You brought noise,"
Aun'va said. Not an accusation. Not praise. Just fact.
"He needs something quiet," Alteria answered.
Aun'va turned her head toward Raze.
Her nose flared slightly.
Her lips curled.
Not a smile, not a smirk. Something older.
"He breathes like someone who hasn't decided whether he wants to be here."
Raze's jaw tightened.
"I didn't come for a reading."
"No," she said, voice like soft gravel. "You came because your fire's leaking. And you're starting to think it's your fault."
Alteria shifted. Not nervously. Just enough.
"I told you she was sharp," she said.
"I'm not sharp," Aun'va replied. "I'm honest. Magic's old. Ugly. But honest."
She turned away.
"Come in. Both of you. And close the door behind you. You're letting too much future in."
They followed.
The room was a maze of jars.
Cloth bundles, and half-burnt candles.
Everything breathed in cycles—slow, deliberate.
Raze didn't ask where to stand. He just did.
Aun'va moved with no hesitation.
Her fingers found a kettle.
Her feet found the fire. No stumbles. No pauses.
She poured. Two cups. One for him. One for herself. Alteria wasn't offered one.
"Drink," she said, handing Raze the chipped porcelain. "Don't question the taste."
He took it. Sniffed once. Then sipped.
Bitter. Then sweet. Then something else.
She listened to the way he swallowed.
"Not broken," she murmured. "Just untuned."
Alteria exhaled, slow. "Will it help?"
"It'll tell."
A pause.
"Whether he wants help or not is another story."
She sat. Not across from him. Beside him.
Her hand resting near his knee. Not touching.
"I'm not here to fix you," she said to Raze. "You're not broken. You're burning yourself up inside, but that's not the same thing."
He didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
Her head tilted. "And you," she said to Alteria, "brought him here not because he's ready—but because you're not."
Alteria didn't flinch.
"I brought him here because he deserves clarity."
Aun'va chuckled once.
"You don't hand people clarity. You let them burn through until they find what's left."
She stood again.
Moved to a shelf. Plucked a small charm.
Thread-bound, bone-white.
Barely larger than a thumbnail.
Held it out to Raze.
"You'll wear this for three days," she said. "Don't ask what it does. Don't take it off. And don't try to make it glow. That's not its job."
He took it.
It was warm.
She turned her back. That was the end of the conversation.
"She talks like this to everyone," Raze muttered under his breath.
Alteria's lips quirked. "Only to the ones worth listening to."
Aun'va didn't turn around.
But her voice followed them out—
"Come back when the fire starts speaking. I'll teach you how to listen."