Morning came slow and gray over the ruined shrine. Mist coiled low across the fields beyond, curling through the broken pillars and the open roof where the oak sapling reached toward the dim light. Dew clung to its leaves like tiny glass beads.
Leonotis sat before it in silence, hands resting on his knees. He hadn't slept much. Some part of him had expected to see the woman of his dreams again.
He pressed his palm to the cool earth, feeling the faint hum of life beneath his skin. The same rhythm that answered when he fought.
"Oko," he murmured under his breath. "Is it you?"
His gaze lifted toward the broken statue. Oko the Orisha of harvest and ruin. Of endings that give birth to beginnings.
It would make sense, wouldn't it? His connection to growth, to renewal, to destruction bound up in one. The way the plants seemed to move when his will did.
And yet… he wasn't sure. Maybe it was foolish to guess. To claim a divine patron without proof could offend the Orisha themselves.
"How do you even find out?" he muttered, the words almost lost to the wind. There was no priest to ask, no temple left standing that would welcome someone like him.
A sigh escaped him. "Later," he said finally. "First things first."
He rose to his feet. The earth's hum faded beneath his boots, replaced by the quiet rhythm of morning.
Behind him, Low snored gently, sprawled on her cloak. Jacqueline was already awake, humming under her breath while mending the strap of her satchel. Near the doorway, Zombiel crouched in the dust, drawing strange runes—symbols of travel, of passage, of seeking.
When Leonotis moved, the others looked up.
"You're leaving already?" Jacqueline asked.
"Not leaving," he said. "Scouting." He nodded to Zombiel. "The palace will be alive today. Workers, guards, vendors—everyone getting ready for the tournament. If we move carefully, we can blend in and find what we need."
Low rubbed her eyes. "You sure that's wise? The city's crawling with patrols."
"Which makes it the perfect time," Leonotis replied. "No one notices another laborer when a hundred others are hauling crates beside him."
Zombiel nodded once and stood.
Jacqueline frowned. "And what exactly will you do when you get there?"
"Observe," Leonotis said simply. "Count guards. Watch who comes and goes. Find where the dungeon vents lead. Maybe catch a word or two from the workers closest to the walls."
Low stood and stretched. "You'll need a cover, then. The outer ward's full of builders for the tournament. Go as workers—carry something heavy, look confused." A faint smirk tugged her lips. "You can manage that."
Leonotis nearly smiled back. "We'll take the southern route by the marble aqueduct. Fewer guards." He fastened his cloak, its edges still caked with dried earth from the road. "If the King's eyes are on the Sunstone, then today's light belongs to us."
He turned toward the shrine one last time. The ruined face of Oko stared from across the cracked floor, half in shadow. For an instant, the light along her stone cheek seemed to shimmer—as though catching the breath of dawn.
He inclined his head in silent promise.
"We'll be back before nightfall."
The two boys left the shrine, the morning mist curling around their legs as they followed the old trail toward the capital. Behind them, the others watched until they vanished into the gray distance.
Ahead, the city rose like a gilded mountain, banners fluttering, horns echoing from its towers. The King's palace stood at its heart, gleaming with sunlight and lies — and today, its gates were wide open to the world.
"Alright, Zombiel," Leonotis whispered, his voice full of a leader's conviction. "We'll stick to the deepest shadows. The patrol comes by here, so we move right after they pass. Keep your eyes open for handholds or loose stonework."
Zombiel simply nodded, eyes already scanning their surroundings. Leonotis led the way, moving with what he hoped was impressive stealth, darting from the shadow of a water barrel to the corner of a leaning building. He had to think like Gethii now, because Gethii's life depended on it.
By midday, they had slipped into the city's outer rings, joining the tide of workers preparing for the Sunstone Tournament. The streets hummed with motion—vendors hammering stalls together, guards shouting orders, priests daubing sacred oils onto doorframes for blessing.
Leonotis and Zombiel moved among them, quiet and unnoticed. They carried crates when asked, nodded at the right times, and listened when no one thought to lower their voices.
That's how they learned of the shifts.
The hours slipped by unnoticed. The sun dipped lower, bleeding gold across the palace rooftops. By the time the bells tolled for the evening prayer, they had mapped half the outer palace— and the city's lights were coming alive.
They continued their advance, Leonotis trying to focus on the patrol schedule he'd observed from a distance. He counted the seconds in his head, waiting for the precise moment to move. But as he prepared to dash across an open alley, Zombiel's hand on his arm stopped him.
Zombiel pointed not at the wall, but down, at the base of the building they were hiding behind. There, almost completely obscured by a pile of discarded cooking pots, was a heavy iron grate set into the ground. It was old, the metal rusted, but one of the hinges looked loose.
"Drainage," Zombiel stated flatly.
Leonotis frowned. "It probably just leads to the gutters."
Zombiel shook his head. He pointed again, this time towards the main wall. "Leads under."
"How do you know so much about..."
Before Leonotis could finish arguing, the rhythmic tramp of armored feet sounded from down the street. The City Watch patrol. They were earlier than he'd calculated. He flattened himself into the shadows, his heart pounding. As the guards passed, their captain paused, looking directly at the spot where Leonotis had been about to run. One of the other guards, however, let out a great yawn, his attention clearly wandering. The captain barked at him to stay alert, and the patrol moved on.
As their footsteps faded, Zombiel looked at Leonotis. He pointed toward the yawning guard. "Every time," he whispered. "He is tired. The captain is angry. They are distracted. That is the moment to move. Not the clock."
Leonotis stared, a slow realization dawning on him. He had been trying to lead like Gethii, with plans and timing. But Zombiel wasn't a soldier to be commanded. He was like a creature of shadow and silence, seeing the world in a way Leonotis couldn't. He saw the patterns not of the patrols, but of the people within them. He had been the better scout all along, without saying a word.
"Alright," Leonotis conceded, a small smile touching his lips. "You lead the way."
Zombiel nodded once, a flicker of pride in his eyes, and melted into the next shadow, his new leader following close behind.
Following Zombiel's lead, they slipped through the final alley, emerging into the deep shadow at the very base of the palace wall. The air here was still and heavy. The sounds of the city felt distant.
It wasn't just stone. Leonotis felt it immediately, a low, dissonant thrumming in the air that vibrated through the soles of his boots. It was a magical frequency, but unlike the clean, vibrant energy of his own green ase or the sharp, flowing power he'd sensed from Jacqueline, this was sickly. It felt like a low-grade fever, a corrupt, parasitic energy that made his teeth ache.
"Do you feel that?" Leonotis whispered, placing a hand on the cold stone. The hum intensified under his touch, a vile current flowing through him.
Zombiel nodded, his eyes fixed on the wall. He reached out a pale finger but stopped just short of touching the stone, as if sensing the wrongness of it.
"Patrol," he hissed suddenly.
Leonotis's head snapped up. From around the corner of the massive wall, not fifty paces away, came the rhythmic tramp of armored feet. It was another Watch patrol, moving with a grim purpose that suggested they were guarding something far more important than a simple street. They were trapped. The alley behind them was too far away to retreat to, and the wall before them was a sheer, smooth cliff. There was no cover, no alcove, no doorway to melt into.
Leonotis flattened himself against the stone, his heart hammering against his ribs. He held his breath, willing himself to become part of the shadow, a futile wish. The guards drew closer, their lantern casting a bobbing, golden circle of light that would swallow them in seconds.
Just as the light was about to touch them, Zombiel acted. He didn't prepare to fight. He didn't make a sound. With an unnerving calmness, he reached out and placed his pale hand flat against the iron casing of a nearby street lantern, one of the many that lined the palace perimeter.
He didn't unleash his spectral flame. He did the opposite.
The lantern, which had been burning with a steady, magical blue light, flickered violently. The flame seemed to shrink, pulling inward as if being inhaled. The light didn't just go out; Zombiel seemed to drain it, pulling the very essence of its illumination into his palm. The effect was instantaneous and deeply unnatural. A ten-foot radius around them was plunged into a pocket of darkness, a void of shadow so complete it seemed to swallow sound as well as light.
The lead guard stopped, holding his own lantern high. "What in the blazes?" he muttered, peering into the sudden, inky blackness where the street lantern had been shining moments before. "Did that just… go out?"
His partner shivered, rubbing his arms. "By the Orisha, an unholy chill just came over me," he complained, his voice unnerved. "Felt like a rompo just gnawed on one of my bones. This stretch of wall always gives me the creeps. That necromancer's lab is on the other side of it."
"Nonsense," the first guard grumbled, though he too seemed eager to move on. "It's just a faulty light conduit. Make a note for the aseweavers to fix it."
They passed by, their own lantern light cutting a swath through the normal twilight but failing to penetrate the absolute void where the two boys stood hidden, their forms completely consumed by the stolen shadows. Leonotis held his breath until the sound of their footsteps faded into the distance.
Slowly, Zombiel removed his hand from the street lantern. With a soft *whoosh*, the blue flame reignited, shaky at first, then burning as steadily as before. The unnatural darkness vanished, leaving only the normal gloom and two very shaken boys in its wake. Leonotis stared at Zombiel, his mind reeling. The silent, strange boy was full of terrifying, life-saving surprises.
The echo of the guards' footsteps faded, leaving only the thumping of Leonotis's own heart in the sudden silence. The unnatural chill from Zombiel's shadow-magic lingered in the air, a testament to how close they had come to being discovered. He looked at Zombiel, who simply blinked his eyes as if draining the light from the world was a perfectly normal thing to do.
Leonotis turned his attention back to the wall. The sickly, magical hum was still there, a constant, low-frequency thrum that felt like a toothache in the soul. Now that the immediate danger had passed, his curiosity, mingled with a deep sense of wrongness, took over. He had to know what it was.
"Stay close," he whispered, though Zombiel was already standing silent as a statue beside him.
Leonotis took a deep breath, pressed his palm flat against the cold, smooth granite of the palace wall, and closed his eyes. He shut out the sounds of the city and reached out with his own power. He sent a delicate tendril of his green ase into the stone, expecting to feel the familiar, crackling energy of arcane wards, or perhaps the sharp, orderly pulse of elemental magic—the work of the King's aseweavers.
Instead, his senses were flooded with something else entirely.
It was a feeling he recognized with a jolt of absolute, soul-deep horror. It was the same twisted, corrupted life force he had felt radiating from the suffering Dryad in the Institute's glass orb. It was the energy of a living thing, but stretched taut and thin, screaming in a silent, unending agony as its essence was siphoned away. It was the feeling of life being used as fuel.
His mind reeled. This wasn't a ward woven by wizards. The ase pulsing from within palace walls, wasn't arcane or elemental. It was some form of biomancy.
Leonotis snatched his hand back from the wall as if he'd been burned, a choked gasp escaping his lips. He stumbled backward, his eyes flying open, wide with horror. The contact left a residue—a phantom heartbeat thrumming in his veins. Even after he pulled away, he could feel it echoing.
As Leonotis struggled to process what he had felt. Zombiel slowly raised a pale hand. He pointed a single, trembling finger at the massive granite wall. His eyes, for a brief moment, blazed with the fiery spirit of the salamander within, seeing not just the stone, but the tormented energy trapped on the other side of it.
He looked at Leonotis, his expression grim, and whispered a single, chilling word that confirmed everything.
"Trapped."
A wave of nausea washed over Leonotis, so potent it made him stumble. He leaned against the rough clay wall of the opposite alley, his breathing ragged. The hum from the palace wall was no longer just a curiosity; it was a chorus of silent screams, and now that he had heard it, he couldn't un-hear it. The stone seemed to pulse with a stolen, agonized heartbeat.
Zombiel looked at him, the fire in his own eyes dimming back to their usual hue, his face settling back into its usual childish look. But he had seen it too. He understood.
"We have to go," Leonotis croaked, pushing himself off the wall. The thought of staying so close to that monstrous energy was unbearable. "Now."
They retreated, melting back into the labyrinthine alleys of the northern district. They slipped back through the same shadowed alleys, retracing every step until the mist of the lower streets swallowed them again.
The mission felt entirely different now. Before, it had been personal—a desperate, focused quest to rescue his guardians. Now, it had become something far larger, far more monstrous. The casual sounds of the city—a mother calling her children home, the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the murmur of conversation from a crowded tavern—all seemed obscene, a layer of blissful ignorance over a foundation of unimaginable suffering.
Whatever was in that palace was parasitic. It was drinking the very life from the world.