It strikes me all at once. It’s the symbolic Crimson Tether.
I glance back at Kaelzar, my voice barely above a whisper. “Are those…” I hesitate, gesturing subtly toward the scarves. “For me?”
He follows my gaze. “Seems like it,” he says casually, though there’s a faint edge of amusement in his tone. “No wonder your magic’s been pouring in.”
A strange feeling twists in my chest, a mixture of wonder and unease. They wear it so easily, these colors of allegiance. The shopkeepers, the laborers, even the children—woven into their clothes, tied to their wrists, fluttering from carts and doorways like quiet declarations.
They are standing with me.
The warmth of belonging swells inside me. But the cold realization creeps in immediately after. They aren’t just supporting me.
They’re praying to Calista, the Witch Goddess.
The weight of it is heavy. I need their prayers to win, to survive the Trial.
But what happens when all that faith, all that strength, goes to Calista? What happens when she is strong enough to rival other Gods? What horrors will an evil goddess unleash with such power behind her?
Kaelzar’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “I suggest,” he says pointedly, his tone almost indifferent, as if he’s offering me a choice rather than forcing a decision, “you revive her temple soon. Temples focus prayers. Makes it easier for gods to… digest them.”
Digest.
The word slithers down my spine like something cold-blooded.
My stomach churns. Temples don’t just gather prayers, they channel them. Direct them. Condense them into something more usable.
Calista is buried. Forgotten. And I am the one clawing her back into existence.
Before I can dwell on it further, a blur of motion catches my eye. A boy darts out, no older than seven, his face glowing with excitement as he sprints toward us. Kaelzar pulls our horse to a stop.
“Our ray of light!” the boy shouts, his voice small but piercing, cutting through the murmuring street. “To the future!”
I barely have time to react before a woman rushes forward, grabbing his arm. “Apologies, my lady!” she says hastily. “He didn’t mean to bother you.”
The boy squirms in her grasp and his wide eyes lock onto mine, full of something raw and urgent. “My sister is at Rust Hollow!” he cries out, his voice cracking with desperation. “Will you free her?”
The world stills.
I see the hope in his face before I feel it in my chest, before I recognize the sharp, gutting ache of it.
The woman—his mother?—claps a hand over his mouth, her face paling as she bows again, murmuring another frantic apology.
I don’t move. I don’t blink.
Kaelzar says nothing. He leaves the moment entirely to me. But his words slice through my memories like icy water to the face.
Hope is dangerous. It blinds you to the things that will hurt you most.
But he’s wrong. Hope is the only thing that matters.
Hope is the only thing that has ever changed the world.
I straighten in the saddle, my heart steadying as I lift my chin. No. I will not be afraid of hope. I will not fear the thing that makes people fight, that makes them believe.
I smile at the boy with a nod. “To the future!” I call back, letting the words ring, letting them take root.
The boy beams. His mother goes still. Around us, a murmur ripples through the crowd. Uncertain at first, then swelling into a tentativecheer.
“Here finally comes the trouble,” Kaelzar murmurs.
