They entered the city of Skariz under a sky the color of iron.Broko walked ahead, his pace unhurried, while the sound of distant bells rippled through the mist. The streets of Dromo were narrow, lined with houses that leaned over each other like old conspirators. Their facades were built from pale stone that had darkened under the weight of centuries, and from their roofs hung copper gutters shaped like open mouths. The rain that fell from them was black.
Gemma walked close to Aros, her hood drawn low. The cobblestones shone with rain and soot, slick and uneven, reflecting the faint glow of oil lamps that burned behind iron cages.From the upper floors, carved balconies protruded like ribs, their wood lacquered with varnish that had long lost its color. Here and there, the walls pulsed faintly, as if the buildings themselves were breathing. Everyone in Dromo knew why: the Priesthood had blessed the city long ago, imbuing its foundations with the Light.Some said it kept the streets from collapsing. Others said it listened.
Aros felt it too: that subtle vibration beneath his boots, the hum of a living city made obedient.
The further they went, the heavier the air became. The scent of incense was everywhere: sweet, cloying, mixed with the stench of smoke. Incense burners hung from the archways, releasing thin plumes that curled upward like restless spirits.Every door bore a symbol: the Eye of the Sun, a radiant iris carved into the stone and inlaid with copper. In the wealthier districts, the symbols glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the tolling of the bells. The poor used paint and blood.
And everywhere, there were bodies.
The burned were left where they fell, still upright on wooden stakes, their flesh blackened to glass. Some were dressed in ceremonial robes, others in rags. All of them faced east, toward the Great Cathedral, as if even in death they awaited the next dawn. At the center of a square, six corpses had been arranged in a circle around a pillar engraved with the words: Faith does not burn. Flesh does.
Gemma turned away, but Aros didn't.He had seen worse. He had made worse.If I had finished it then, he thought. If I had ended Jacobo when I had the chance…
The image came unbidden: a man's calm smile, a crown of bronze reflecting the Light, and behind his eyes the certainty that power and divinity were the same thing. Aros looked away before the memory could finish itself.
Broko's voice broke through the silence. "Keep walking. We don't stop here."
The streets bent inward as they climbed toward the upper tiers of the city. The houses grew taller, more elaborate, their windows framed with stained glass depicting saints and martyrs. But the figures were strange — faceless, their halos cracked, their hands raised not in blessing but in surrender.From an alley, Aros caught sight of a collapsed building being rebuilt by invisible hands: stones shifting into place one by one, mortar flowing like milk from a suspended bucket. No workers. No scaffolding. Only the low vibration of the Light beneath the street.
Gemma slowed to watch. "Does it always do that?"Aros nodded slightly. "When the city wants to please its masters."
"Or remind us who owns it," Broko added without turning.
They crossed an archway painted with a massive mural: a sun bleeding over an ocean of bowed figures. At the bottom, someone had carved into the plaster with a knife: The sun weeps for the blind.
Gemma's eyes lingered on the words. "They're not wrong," she murmured.Aros's voice was low. "Careful. There are ears in every wall."
Broko looked back at them, amused. "Relax. If I wanted to sell you out, you'd already be hanging from one of those lovely poles."
"Forgive me," Aros said, "if I don't find that reassuring."
Behind them, Diana laughed. Her voice was sharp, playful. "He means you scared easy. Broko's face does that to people."Broko grinned. "You would know."
Gemma glanced at Aros, and for a moment, the weight in the air lightened, just enough for her to smile.
The streets narrowed again, twisting between rows of small chapels and burnt storefronts until they reached an open square. At its center stood a ruined church, its steeple crooked, its bells long cracked. Vines had climbed the walls, and pigeons nested where the stained glass once glowed.
Aros stopped. "No."
Broko turned, his expression unreadable. "What's wrong?"
"That's not a church," Aros said quietly. "That's a tomb."
Broko tilted his head. "Depends on what you worship."
Gemma looked up at the leaning spire. "Why bring us here?"
"Because this is where the good ones hide," Broko said.
Aros's voice was cold. "There are no good ones."
Broko smiled faintly. "Then you'll fit right in."
They entered.
Inside, the light was thin, filtered through the cracks in the dome. The pews had been cleared, replaced by wooden tables littered with maps, broken rifles, and melted candles. The air smelled of wax and rust.At the far end, where an altar once stood, a man addressed a small crowd. His tone was solemn, almost ceremonial.
"…for even the purest flame needs shadow to be seen," he was saying. "Remember that. The Light was not meant to blind, but to reveal."
When he noticed Broko and the newcomers, he paused and spread his arms with slow, deliberate grace.
"Ah," he said. "The wind brings us old legends after all."
Broko gestured toward Aros. "Found him wandering. Thought you'd want a look."
The man smiled, his voice rising as he addressed the gathered listeners."Brothers and sisters, before you stands a name many believed dead. The man who shattered a throne, and with it, the illusion of divine blood. Aros Kevis, the Kingslayer."
The crowd murmured, some in awe, some in fear.
Gemma turned to Aros, uncertain.He did not speak. He only stared ahead, his face unreadable. But in his chest, something old and violent stirred: the echo of a crown breaking, and of everything that had followed.
Aros felt how his anger was suddenly reborned.