The road that crossed the island's middle was narrow, a bit uneven, the kind that made every step sound heavier than it was. Stones slick from rain glimmered like bits of broken glass.
By noon the fog was lifting, leaving behind that smell: wet soil, sea salt, maybe even something metallic. You could still hear horses somewhere far off. Dromo wasn't dead. It just didn't like to show itself. The kind of beauty that hides because it's tired of being looked at.
Gemma walked ahead. Her boots sank a little each time, squelching. She kept tracing lines in the air, like she was remembering a pattern she'd seen once in a dream.
Aros watched, not sure if he should stop her or just let her finish whatever she was doing. Every time she got quiet like that, things around them shifted, branches moved, birds turned, the hum under everything deepened. It wasn't imagination. Not anymore.
"You're doing it again," he said finally.
Gemma didn't turn. "You told me to listen."
"I told you to understand, not to chase ghosts."
"They're not ghosts," she said, and then fell quiet.
They kept walking. The path curved between low hills where clusters of houses leaned into each other like old secrets. Smoke rose from chimneys; laundry hung across windows, pale against the gray sky. People watched them pass but didn't speak. It was the way of Dromo: eyes followed, mouths stayed shut.
Aros adjusted the strap of the satchel on his shoulder. "Don't answer them if they speak" he said.
"I never do," Gemma replied, "That's the problem."
That earned a small smile from her. Thin, fragile. Like it might break if she tried to hold it too long. Aros felt pity for her, she was just a little kid.
They walked until the land opened into farmland. The ground was dark, almost black, the kind that promised more than it gave. Crops grew low, twisted. Roots didn't trust the dirt, maybe.
Far away, windmills turned slow, creaking like bones waking up.
"Was it like this before?" Gemma asked.
"Before?" Aros glanced at her.
"When you were young."
Aros laughed once, dry. "I wasn't young here. I came when faith already had a price tag."
She nodded. "So it's always been like this."
He almost said no, but what was the point. Some truths are better left under the dirt.
"Always, huh? I'm not that old, kid," he said, half-smiling.
Gemma didn't bite.
They stopped near a stream that cut the path in two. The water shimmered under the wind. Gemma crouched, touched it. The glow around her fingers, same one that scared him once, back in Calad. He crouched too. "Careful."
"I'm not using it," she said. "It's using me."
"That's not comforting."
She gave him a look, amused. "You really hate things you can't explain, don't you?"
"I like to survive them."
Her smile softened, almost warm this time. For a second she looked like the kid she was supposed to be. Then the wind shifted and she froze.
Aros waited, then said, "We could stop, you know."
She blinked. "Stop?"
"Go south. Live near the coast. The Priesthood doesn't have much pull there. You don't owe them anything. Or anyone."
She shook her head. "That's not true."
"You're still a child," he said softly. "You deserve a life that isn't made of running."She hesitated, then whispered, "And you?"
Aros's mouth twitched into something like a smile. "I'm not a child."
Gemma dipped her hand back into the stream. "If we run, the voices will follow. I can't pretend they're not there."
Aros sighed. "Then let's at least make them regret whispering."
That got a small laugh out of her. The air between them softened for a moment, almost peaceful. Then the wind came again.
She tilted her head. The air got thick.
Aros felt it too. A presence, distant but distinct, like a pulse buried in the earth."What is it?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Not them. Others."
They stood. The road ahead had grown darker, the fog returning as if drawn by the sound itself. Aros scanned the trees along the slope. "Keep walking. Slowly."
They moved forward, the crunch of gravel underfoot echoing louder than it should. Gemma's hand brushed against his sleeve, a small, instinctive gesture: not fear exactly, but recognition that something was wrong.
Then came the whistle. Short, sharp, human. Figures stepped out of the mist, five, maybe six, cloaked, armed with short blades and muskets patched with copper. The way they moved told Aros they were organized, but not disciplined. Rebels, or worse.
Aros raised his hands a little. "If you're looking for trouble, you just found it."
The man in front laughed. "No one looks for trouble here, old man. It just shows up."
The speaker lowered his hood. His face was wide and sunburnt, framed by an uneven beard and a smile too confident for the situation. His eyes, however, were sharp. Calculating.
Aros felt Gemma tense beside him.
The man spread his arms in mock courtesy. "Forgive the welcome. We don't get many pilgrims this deep into Dromo."
"Then maybe you should let them go when they do," Aros said.
The man grinned wider. "Maybe. Or maybe not. Depends who they are."
He took a step closer, his boots sinking into the mud. The others stayed back, watching.When he spoke again, his voice had lost its playfulness. "Tell me something. The girl...is she your daughter? Or should i be worried about you?"
Aros didn't answer. His silence was enough.
The man studied them for a long moment, then his grin returned, crooked and satisfied. "Thought so," he said softly. "Then we're not enemies. At least not today."
He extended his hand. "Name's Broko. And you must be the famous Aros Kevis."
Aros frowned. "You've got the wrong man pal"
Broko chuckled. "Okay wrong man, we need to talk."
Behind him, the fog thickened again, swallowing everything past a few meters.
Gemma looked up at Aros. He said nothing, but his hand was already near the knife at his belt.
Broko's grin didn't fade. "Come on. World's ending in a dozen different ways, and you two just walked into one of them."