---
The road south of Brackenfall did not indicate its destination, and Kael found that he trusted it more for that. It wound through low hills and shallow valleys, where old stone markers had fallen and been half-buried by time. Their inscriptions had eroded into meaninglessness. Travelers had smoothed the path, not for efficiency, but because it had endured. The land here had never cared who ruled it.
They walked for most of the day in silence, not out of tension but because neither felt the need to fill the space. The events at Brackenfall lingered in Kael's thoughts, not as guilt or fear, but as something unfinished. He replayed the encounter, not for what he had done, but for how little it had taken for the world to respond.
That unsettled him more than resistance ever had.
By mid-afternoon, the terrain shifted subtly. The soil darkened and the vegetation thickened, with trees bending inward as if the road had once cut something important in half. Lyra slowed, her posture changing just enough for Kael to notice.
"This land isn't claimed," she said, scanning the tree line, "but it's not empty either."
Kael nodded. "Old borders."
"Older than kingdoms," Lyra replied. "Older than language, in some cases."
They passed remnants of structures that had been abandoned so completely that their purpose had become uncertain—stone circles collapsed in on themselves, low walls overtaken by moss, markers suggesting settlement without revealing culture. Kael felt a faint pressure as they moved through these spaces, as though the land itself retained memory even after forgetting words.
It reminded him uncomfortably of himself.
As the sun dipped lower, they encountered another traveler—a man leading a pack animal laden with crates wrapped in oilcloth and rope. He looked up cautiously as Kael and Lyra approached, his hand tightening on the reins.
"Evening," Lyra called calmly, slowing her pace.
The man nodded once but did not relax. "Road's been strange these past weeks," he said. "More folk passing through than usual."
"Trade returning," Lyra suggested.
"Maybe," the man replied, though his tone hinted at doubt rather than disagreement. His gaze lingered on Kael, not drawn by recognition, but by something harder to define. "Or maybe people are moving for reasons they don't yet understand."
Kael met his eyes politely but said nothing.
After a moment, the man continued on his way, the sound of hooves fading into the distance.
"You feel it too," Lyra said once he was gone.
"Yes," Kael replied. "Movement without coordination. Pressure without direction."
Lyra glanced at him. "You talk like Mireya did."
Kael considered that. "That worries me more than it should."
They made camp near dusk in a shallow clearing where the trees parted enough to allow firelight without fully exposing them to the sky. Lyra set wards of the practical kind—lines drawn in ash, bells strung where wind would carry sound rather than silence. Kael watched but did not interfere, though he noted how methodical she was, how each action had purpose even if it lacked ceremony.
"You didn't interfere in Brackenfall," she said, noticing his attention. "That was deliberate."
"Yes," Kael said.
"Because you're afraid of becoming careless," she guessed.
Kael stirred the fire with a stick, watching sparks rise and fade. "Because I've already been careless enough times to know what it costs."
Lyra accepted that answer as she often did, neither pushing nor dismissing it. Instead, she moved closer to the fire and spoke more quietly.
"There are places ahead where what you are won't matter nearly as much as what you can do," she said. "Not because people don't fear power, but because they understand it better than you think."
Kael looked at her. "You're leading us somewhere specific."
"Yes."
"Somewhere dangerous."
Lyra smiled faintly. "That's relative."
---
They reached the river city of Hollowreach two days later.
Unlike Brackenfall, Hollowreach did not pretend to be untouched by history. The city rose in layers carved directly into pale stone cliffs, with bridges and platforms crossing open air in deliberate defiance of gravity. Barges moved steadily along the river below, their crews efficient and unsentimental, while banners bearing the sigil of the Compact fluttered from the upper tiers.
It was not a capital, but it was influential.
Kael felt it the moment they crossed the outer boundary, a subtle shift like entering a space where rules had been negotiated rather than inherited. Here, power had structure, and structure demanded recognition.
"This is where stories come to be corrected," Lyra said as they descended the main ramp. "People here know the difference between rumor and capability."
"Which one am I?" Kael asked.
Lyra glanced sideways. "Undecided."
They secured lodging in the lower tier, where the river mist clung to stone and voices carried strangely between levels. Kael noted the presence of patrols moving with deliberate irregularity, their equipment worn but well-maintained, their eyes alert without being hostile.
Someone else knew how to keep a city standing.
That evening, Lyra took him to a hall built into the cliffside, its entrance marked not by guards but by inscription—names, hundreds of them, carved deeply into stone, some crossed out, others circled, a few surrounded by additional markings whose meaning was unclear.
"What is this place?" Kael asked.
"A registrar," Lyra said. "Not for titles. For actions."
Inside, the hall was lit by a series of suspended glass orbs that glowed with steady, colorless light. People moved through the space quietly, exchanging documents, consulting clerks whose expressions held neither judgment nor curiosity.
A woman approached them, her hair bound tightly, her eyes sharp. "Purpose?"
Lyra answered without hesitation. "Assessment."
The woman's gaze shifted to Kael. "Voluntary?"
"Yes," Kael said.
There was the slightest pause, then a nod. "Then understand this is not instruction. It is observation."
"That's all I want," Kael replied.
He meant it.
For the first time in a long while, he did not want the world to bend. He wanted to know where he stood within it.
And in Hollowreach, he suspected the answer would be far less flattering than the myths that followed him.