The road to Bondrea was a long scar through the marshlands, slick with rain and the fading light of day. Hooves struck the mud in rhythm, the sound blending with the slow, uneven breathing of the sea beyond the hills.
Alexander rode beside Lukas, their horses close enough for the edges of their armor to scrape. The commander's movements were precise, mechanical , the kind of man shaped not by duty but by obsession. His eyes, a cold gray, scanned the horizon without blinking.
"You ride quietly for a noble," Lukas said at last. His tone was light, almost friendly, but it carried something sharp beneath it. "Most of your kind can't resist hearing their own voice."
Alexander kept his gaze on the road. "I find silence more instructive."
Lukas smiled or , ather, let his lips stretch in something that resembled a smile. "A wise answer. Though some might mistake it for fear."
"I've learned to live with fear," Alexander said. "It keeps me from dying stupidly."
"Does it?" Lukas tilted his head, studying him. "Or does it keep you from living at all?"
For a moment, only the rain replied. Then Lukas leaned closer in the saddle. "You know, Your Grace, the Light has been merciful with you. Others in your place would have been stripped of title, lands, and head alike. But here you are, riding with us. A survivor."
Alexander's jaw tightened. "A servant," he corrected.
Lukas chuckled. "Are you? That's what they call you now? Lord Servant?. The noble who serves without question? Tell me, how does a man who was born to rule accept kneeling so easily? When the Priesthood took Dromo from your bloodline, did you thank them for it?"
Alexander's hands stayed loose on the reins. "The Light decides what belongs to whom. I prefer not to argue with some powers."
The jab landed, Lukas's smile showed he knew it.
"You are almost convincing"
Alexander forced a mild, courtly grin. "I've learned that the Light doesn't need me to believe. Only to obey."
Lukas's laughter cut through the drizzle like a blade. "Ah, there it is. The perfect answer. You'll fit right in with the rest of us saints."
Their conversation drifted with the wind. Around them, a hundred soldiers rode in formation, banners low and armor dulled by travel. Behind the main column, the wooden cart rattled and groaned over the stones. It was covered, its canvas tied tight, yet every now and then something inside shifted, slow, synchronized, as if breathing under command.
Alexander's gaze flicked toward it. "You never said what's in there."
Lukas followed his eyes and chuckled. "Not what. Who."
He pulled on the reins, signaling the convoy to stop. The soldiers obeyed instantly, dismounting with practiced ease. Lukas climbed down, his boots sinking into the wet ground, and gestured toward the cart. Two Custodians drew back the cover.
Figures emerged one by one: men and women dressed in tattered clothes, skin pale as candle wax, eyes wide but utterly vacant. They stood perfectly still until Lukas raised his sword. Then, as the blade tilted, their heads turned in the same direction.
"They're called the Hollow," Lukas said. "Rebels, mostly. Heretics, thieves, the occasional priest gone astray. The Light gave them a second purpose. Obedience."
Alexander's stomach tightened. "You mean they're slaves."
"Slaves still need will," Lukas replied, smiling faintly. "These have none. They follow only what shines."
He flicked his wrist, and the Hollow took a synchronized step forward. The mud didn't even stain their feet; it was as if the world itself refused to touch them.
"Useful, don't you think?" Lukas continued. "They don't eat, they don't speak, they don't question. I suppose the Light found a better use for sin than forgiveness."
Alexander dismounted slowly. "I see no use in corpses that walk."
"They're not corpses," Lukas said softly. "They're miracles."
The rain began again: thin, steady, threading between the helmets and spears of the men. Ahead, the outline of Bondrea rose from the mist: wooden towers, broken roofs, the faint gleam of lamps buried in fog. The city looked tired, like a wound that had never closed.
When they reached the outskirts, Lukas ordered the troops to dismount. The streets were empty, the doors barred, windows blind. Somewhere distant, a bell tolled, faint, uncertain.
For a moment, nothing moved. Then a soldier near the lead raised a hand. "Commander," he whispered, pointing toward a cluster of shadows near the northern wall. "Movement."
Lukas narrowed his eyes. Shapes flickered between the houses. Dozens of them, too coordinated to be vagrants, too cautious to be soldiers.
Alexander's breath caught when he recognized one of the figures. Even through the fog, the stance was unmistakable: the blade low, the weight forward. Aros.
He froze for a heartbeat. Lukas didn't notice or pretended not to.
"Rebels," the commander said, voice almost delighted. He lifted his sword, and the air around it began to hum. "The Light delivers quickly."
Alexander's horse shifted beneath him. "Wait," he began, "we don't know who..."
But Lukas had already turned the blade toward the shadows.
The Hollow reacted instantly. Their eyes flared faintly, reflecting the metal's glow, and in perfect unison, they began to move, not running but gliding, limbs jerking in unnatural rhythm. Within seconds, the quiet street filled with the sound of feet slapping against stone, dozens, then hundreds, all moving toward the rebels.
Alexander clenched his jaw. The smell of salt and iron filled the air.
Bondrea was no longer quiet.The Light had found its prey.