The square of Calad was already full before dawn. Everyone had come to witness the killing of a man.
Mist rolled in from the harbor, crawling over the cobblestones and clinging to the banners of the Valval Priesthood. The air carried that particular thickness reserved for the days when purification was announced, when faith demanded spectacle. The crowd waited in silence, cloaked in grey mantles that smelled like salt. Fishmongers, sailors, beggars, and nobles stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the pale towers, all with the same expressionless devotion.
High above the atrium, the Custodians stood in perfect formation beneath the banner of the Light, motionless. At their feet, in chains, the condemned man breathed with the serenity of one who no longer hopes.
Aros watched from the shadow of an arcade. Gemma stood beside him, wrapped in a cloak too large for her small frame. There was no room for surprise in this act; everyone knew why the man was dying. He had not stolen, nor killed, nor conspired. He had doubted. And in Dromo, doubt was an offense against the very structure of the world.
The Custodians began the chant of the litanies. It was a deep, rhythmic melody, crafted to lull the listener. The bells of the Great Temple answered from the towers, their solemn tone rolling over the crowd like an invisible tide. Aros felt the air itself change; the collective breath of the people turned into a single pulse. The power of the Light, he thought, could not be seen, yet it pressed upon the chest, a physical reminder that the soul was subject to something greater than itself.
Gemma squeezed his hand."I can't…" she murmured weakly.
He turned his head slightly. The girl's eyes trembled as if the sound of the bells were resonating within her. A pale moisture glistened on her forehead; it was not sweat. Aros recognized it immediately: resonance. The same energy the Custodians invoked from the temple, Gemma could feel, perceive, and if she lost control, she could answer it.
"Easy," Aros whispered, barely moving his lips. "Don't listen. Focus on me."
Gemma nodded, but the murmur of the crowd was rising. The Custodians had descended the steps, leading the man to the center of the square. One of them, robed in gold, drew a ceremonial blade from his belt. Its surface shimmered faintly, as if it were catching light from a source no one else could see. When he raised it, the chanting ceased.
The air contracted, the blade itself began to hum: a low, almost sorrowful tone. The Custodian placed his other hand on the prisoner's shoulder and spoke a single word, lost in the echo of the bells. Then, with deliberate calm, he thrust the blade into the man's chest.
The reaction was immediate. The light from the sword flared outward, white and blinding, flooding through the victim's veins like liquid fire. His body arched violently, suspended in a moment that felt both sacred and cruel. When the Custodian withdrew the blade, the light did not fade, it bled from the wound, silent and weightless, until it dissolved into the mist.
Aros fought the impulse to look away. He had seen such executions before, but each time they grew harder to endure. It was not the death that unsettled him; it was the precision. Power here did not kill by force, but by faith.
"Don't look," he told Gemma, but she did not obey.
Her breathing quickened. The air around her began to vibrate, first subtly, then visibly. Her cloak stirred as if wind were rising from within. Aros felt a burning behind his eyelids, a pressure he knew too well. If she lost control here, before all these people, the Priesthood would sense it.
He leaned closer, gripping her shoulders. "Gemma, listen to me," he whispered. "Don't answer it. Let it pass. It isn't yours."
The girl's lips trembled. "It hurts."
"I know. Breathe."
The bells rang again, nearer now, as though their sound were coming from the ground itself. The murmuring of the crowd dissolved into perfect stillness. Only the wind, the salt, and that constant hum remained. Gemma closed her eyes. The air tightened to its limit, and for a single instant, one heartbeat suspended in time, the flame of the ceremonial brazier rose more than a meter high, white and flawless, giving no heat. Aros pulled the cloak over her before anyone could notice. When he looked again, the light had vanished, yet the silence persisted.
The Custodians dragged the man's body toward the altar, and the crowd began to disperse, obedient, wordless. Gemma was breathing unevenly, her lips pale. Aros held her arm and guided her toward the alleys leading down to the port. No one looked at them; in Dromo, indifference was the last refuge of the living.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked as they moved through the shadows. "Yes" Aros replied without slowing. "It was like it was speaking to me," said the girl. "Like it wanted me to answer."
He didn't respond. He already knew what those words meant. If the Light could hear her, it could also find her. Not if we find it first
They reached the edge of the harbor where the tide lapped weakly against the stones. The mist had thickened, wrapping the city in a pale shroud. From somewhere far inland, the bells began again, soft, unrelenting.
Aros stopped and looked toward the towers. "Come on," he said quietly. "We won't be safe here when the sun rises."
Gemma took his hand again, and together they disappeared into the fog, while behind them, the song of the bells echoed through the city, steady, eternal, and watching.