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As she stared, he remained motionless, listening to something the rest of them could not yet hear.

Maia followed the line of his gaze into the dark. He was not guarding them from what lay behind; he was watching for what waited ahead.

11

The City of Stubborn Stone

They set off at first light.

The morning mist thinned as their party crested the ridge, revealing the distant walls of Meridon. Pale stone rising like the bones of an ancient beast, veined with ivy and shadow. Beyond, the city stretched toward the sea, its towers cutting sharp lines against the dawn.

“Meridon,” Captain Deyar said. “Stubborn as the cliffs it’s built upon.”

Julen leaned forward in his saddle, squinting at the sight. “It looks… secure. Stronger than Eryssan.”

Deyar gave a low grunt. “That’s what they tell themselves. Stronger walls, higher towers. They think such things make them safe.”

Julen frowned. “I’d rather stone than oaths.”

“Then pray the stone holds,” Deyar said dryly.

He looked briefly toward Caelith’s chained wrists before turning back to the horizon. “When the oath was first spoken, Meridon turned its back. They claimed our reliance on Umbralyn was a weakness. But the truth is…” He spat into the dust. “No one knows which is right.”

Maia’s chest tightened. She searched Caelith’s face for something human - fear, pride, even contempt - and found nothing she could use. She could read a fragment older than the city, but she could not read him at all.

“And yet,” Caelith said quietly, “they still call for us when the dark stirs.”

A short bark of laughter escaped Deyar, though there was no humour in it. “A clever tongue. That’s what unsettles them most - not your strength, Guardian, but your words. The words that cut sideways, never straight.”

The group pressed onward in uneasy silence. Behind them, Caelith said nothing. But the corner of his mouth had turned up slightly, just once, and Deyar had seen it, too.

The road descended into a cleft between cliffs, where the sea wind whipped harder, carrying the tang of salt and the cries of gulls. Farmers’ cottages appeared first: squat stone homes huddled beneath the walls. Windows shuttered tight. As the riders passed, doors cracked open only far enough for wary eyes to peek through.

“Not much of a welcome,” muttered Rhelas, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

“They see chains after the tremor,” Julen replied, glancing nervously at Caelith. “The Umbralyn are not protectors here as they are in Eryssan. They’re intruders. They fear the power we have given him.”

Maia could not blame them; fear had a smell and she carried it, too. She glanced at Caelith, waiting to see if he reacted, but he did not.

The gates of Meridon loomed ahead, iron-banded and bristling with pikes. Guards in black and amber livery stood in double ranks, their halberds crossed to halt the caravan’s advance. The captain at their head stepped forward, his scarred cheek catching the dawn.

“State your purpose,” he ordered.

Deyar reined his horse closer, voice carrying the weight of command. “Message from Eryssan’s Elders. The Fracture stirs. The council will want this before sundown.”

The captain’s eyes flicked over the riders, lingering on Caelith. The Umbralyn sat tall and silent. A ripple of unease passed through the guard line. One of them muttered “monster” under his breath. The word stuck to Maia’s skin.

“Hold,” Deyar snapped, his tone brooking no argument. “This one is under oath. Bound. He rides at the Elders’ order, not his own.”

The captain hesitated, then jerked his head. The halberds lifted, the gates groaned open, and the light shifted darker as they entered Meridon.

The city pressed close at once, streets narrower than Eryssan’s, houses tall and leaning, their upper windows nearly touching above the cobbled lanes. The smell of tar, fish, and smoke wrapped the air. People crowded the thoroughfares, but as the riders passed, conversations faltered. Faces turned. Merchants pulled their children back. Every gaze slid toward Caelith, toward the glint of metal at his wrists.

Maia felt the weight of those stares like stones pressing down. She forced herself taller in her saddle, though it didn’t make much difference. How must it feel, she thought, to be seen always as a shadow, no matter what you had done?

At the base of the hill, the council hall loomed, a fortress of dark stone carved with old sigils of the sea. Its banners snapped in the wind as bells tolled overhead.

Deyar swung down from his horse and gestured to the scribes. “Colwyn, Dorn, Aras. You’re with me. We carry the message inside. Guardian—” He hesitated, then added with a grudging nod. “Stay close. They’ll want your account as much as the Elders’ words, though they’ll spit at needing it.”