The carriage did not stop until dawn bled faintly into the sky.
They changed horses twice—at hidden stables beyond the city's outer wards—where silent men in dark livery accepted gold coins stamped with crests that no longer belonged to any kingdom. No names were asked. No faces remembered.
Audrey Hall—Justice—sat opposite Elaric the entire time.
Her veil was lowered once more. Her posture composed. Hands folded neatly in her lap, as though fleeing a Beyonder skirmish across half of Backlund were a matter of routine rather than survival.
Elaric couldn't still himself.
The ember in his chest burned hotter than it had since Emberfall, fed by chaos, by chain-wrapped violence, by the echo of crimson fire screaming on stone. Every jolt of the wheels sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through his limbs.
"You're shaking," Audrey observed quietly.
"I watched a man I read about in a novel fight cultists with living chains," Elaric replied hoarsely. "And now I'm sitting across from Miss Justice. Forgive me if I'm not composed."
A soft laugh escaped her.
"Titles feel distant these days. Call me Audrey."
She paused, then added evenly, "And Leonard will survive. The Hanged Man pathway specializes in enduring what should have killed a man several times over."
She reached beneath the seat and produced a small silver flask.
"Brandy. Medicinal. It won't blunt your characteristic, but it will steady your body."
Elaric accepted it with both hands and swallowed. The burn was clean—sharp, anchoring.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"We reach the continental express before the churches seal the city," Audrey said calmly. "The cultists will speak, even in death. Their ashes whisper. The Nighthawks, the Machinery Union—everyone will soon be searching for a child who smells of forbidden fire."
She met his eyes through the veil.
"Backlund is no longer safe for you."
"And Trier is?"
Audrey hesitated.
"Trier is… honest about its dangers."
The carriage finally slowed near the southern rail yards. Steam hissed. Porters shouted in a dozen accents. Dawn revealed their destination—a sleek black train, unmarked save for a discreet crest on every car:
A fool's cap, entwined with mistletoe.
Audrey guided him aboard the rearmost carriage.
Inside, flight gave way to quiet luxury—polished wood, velvet seats, a table laid with breakfastware. The door shut with a soft, final click.
"Rest," Audrey said. "We depart in twenty minutes. The journey to Trier will take two days. You'll need strength."
The train lurched.
Backlund slid away.
Only then did exhaustion claim him.
He woke to light and rhythm.
Clack—clack—clack.
Midmorning sun slanted through the window. The ember in his chest glowed steady, no longer flaring wildly.
Audrey sat nearby, reading a slim leather-bound book. Spectacles rested on her nose.
The image felt unreal.
"You slept six hours," she said without looking up. "Good. Your body is adapting. The first weeks are the most dangerous."
"How much do you know about what I am?" Elaric asked.
Audrey closed the book.
"Enough to fear it," she replied softly. "And enough to hope."
She poured tea—real tea, fragrant and hot.
"The pathway you carry is not among the twenty-two," she continued. "It is a fracture. When the Fool ascended and rewove the authorities of fate, deception, and change, not every shard was contained."
She met his gaze.
"One dying fragment escaped."
"Me," Elaric said quietly.
"You," Audrey confirmed. "A transmigrated soul. Young. Resilient. The ritual in your village was not chance. The Unquenchable Flame has searched for that shard for years."
"And the Tarot Gathering?"
"We believe it can reinforce the anchors," Audrey said. "That guided, you could become what Klein once was."
Elaric laughed bitterly. "I'm twelve."
"So was he," she said gently. "Once."
Silence followed.
Then Audrey spoke again, slower.
"The pathway hungers for dying things—not from cruelty, but necessity. Ignore too many flickers, and it will turn inward."
Elaric nodded. "I've felt the pull."
"Then you must learn discernment," she said. "Which flames to save. Which to let go."
The day passed in quiet instruction.
Meditation. Observation. Emotional distance.
When Elaric demonstrated his power, sparks danced across the table—shaping doors, cards, hanging figures. Fire without heat.
Audrey watched closely.
"It burns deception," she murmured. "And the visions?"
Elaric focused.
Fragments surfaced—
A mirror.
A whisper.
A golden retriever lying still.
A letter sealed in green wax.
Eyes watching.
He recoiled, gasping.
"Enough," Audrey said at once. "Respect the privacy of others' flames."
Night fell as they crossed the channel. Stars burned bright above black water. Ember Sense tugged at him—shipwrecks, wars, drowned hopes.
He ignored them.
"We arrive tomorrow evening," Audrey said beside him. "The Gathering meets beneath Trier. Some welcome you. Some do not."
"And Leonard?"
"Buys us time."
She paused.
"There are those who believe the ember should be removed. Contained."
Fear stirred.
"And you?"
"I believe in people," Audrey said simply. "Klein taught us that."
As evening bled crimson across the sky, the train slowed.
Trier rose ahead—domes and spires catching dying light.
Elaric pressed a hand to the glass.
The ember pulsed—fear, resolve, anticipation.
The whistle screamed.
A new act began.
And beneath Trier, something ancient stirred—remembering a spark it had once lost.
The dying ember had come home.
Now the Gathering would decide—
Whether to nurture it.
Or extinguish it forever.