They were moved for nearly two hours.

  Not dragged. Not rushed. Simply guided with the quiet certainty of men who knew there was nowhere else to go. The archers shifted positions constantly, forming a loose, living perimeter that flexed with the terrain. Whenever the forest narrowed, two moved ahead, bows half-raised. Whenever the ground opened, others fell back, arrows already nocked, never quite pointing, never quite lowering.

  It was control without spectacle.

  Gemma walked near the center of the line, Candriela’s weight pressing unevenly against her side. The Light held her upright, threading beneath her skin in a delicate lattice that distributed strain where muscle alone would have failed. Every step sent a dull ache up Gemma’s spine, a reminder that this was not what the Light was meant for.

  It was not meant to carry the wounded.

  But it obeyed.

  Aros stayed close. Not touching, not crowding. Just there. His presence was a quiet anchor amid the constant motion of threat. She could sense when his attention shifted, when his breathing tightened, when his gaze moved to track a shadow too long in one place.

  After a long stretch of silence, when the rhythm of footsteps had begun to dull thought itself, Aros leaned slightly toward her.

  “Do you have anything else hidden under your hat?” he murmured.

  The phrasing was almost casual. Almost light.

  Gemma exhaled softly through her nose. “More power?” she asked.

  Aros’s eyes flicked briefly toward the archers, then back to the forest ahead. “Enough to make this… inconvenient.”

  “Yes,” Gemma said without hesitation. “I do.”

  Aros absorbed that without surprise. He had seen enough already to believe it.

  “And you’re choosing not to use it,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Gemma adjusted her grip as Candriela stumbled, redirecting the Light, swallowing a sharp breath as it burned. “Because if I unleash it here,” she said quietly, “someone dies. Probably several someones. And if I lose control even for a moment, it won’t be the ones holding bows who suffer first.”

  Aros nodded slowly.

  “That’s fair,” he said. “But listen to me.”

  She glanced at him.

  “If this turns worse than it already is,” Aros continued calmly, “you don’t hold back for our sake. You use what you have.”

  Gemma frowned. “And you?”

  “We’ll manage,” he said simply. “Each of us will do what we can.”

  There was no bravado in his voice. No illusion of survival guaranteed. Just acceptance.

  Something tightened in Gemma’s chest.

  They walked on.

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  The forest began to change.

  Not dramatically. Gradually. Trees thinned, spacing themselves farther apart as if something beneath the soil resisted their roots. The ground hardened, leaf litter giving way to stone. Old paths emerged underfoot, half-swallowed by moss, edges softened by centuries of weather and neglect.

  Gemma felt a pressure then—not magical, not physical. Historical.

  This place remembered violence.

  The structure appeared without warning.

  It rose from the jungle like a scar that had refused to close.

  Stone walls, blackened and cracked, formed a rough ring around a central mass of collapsed towers and fractured arches. Vines strangled the exterior, thick and aggressive, as though the forest had attempted reclamation and failed halfway. Portions of the roof had caved in entirely, leaving jagged openings where daylight spilled in harsh, uneven shafts.

  This place had been ancient before it was abandoned.

  The stones were massive, fitted together without mortar in some sections, carved with symbols worn down to little more than grooves. Reliefs had once depicted figures—warriors, flames, something like crowns—but time and fire had erased intent. Statues lay toppled near the entrance, faces eroded beyond recognition, hands broken, torsos split cleanly as if struck by deliberate force.

  It had not been built for beauty.

  It had been built to endure.

  They were herded through a breach in the outer wall where stone had collapsed inward long ago. Inside, the air cooled immediately, heavy with damp and the faint, lingering smell of smoke that never truly left stone once it had learned fire.

  The floor sloped gently downward, drawing them toward the heart of the structure. The corridors were wide, deliberately so, designed to funnel groups inward while denying them cover. Torch brackets lined the walls, some still blackened, others bent out of shape. The silence here felt intentional, as if sound itself had been trained not to linger.

  Seren Dal stiffened.

  “I know this place,” he said quietly.

  Several heads turned toward him.

  “This was one of their sites,” he continued. “Before the war spread outward. The Soldiers of the Flame.”

  Digiera’s lip curled. “Maniacs.”

  Seren Dal nodded. “They believe fire reveals truth. That pain strips lies from flesh. They don’t kill quickly. They prove things first.”

  Gemma felt Candriela shift weakly against her shoulder.

  The archers pushed them forward again.

  The corridor opened suddenly into a vast circular chamber at the heart of the ruin.

  The ceiling had collapsed almost entirely, leaving the space open to the sky. Pale daylight spilled down onto cracked stone, illuminating layers of scorch marks that radiated outward from the center like rings in a dead tree. Melted metal had fused into the floor in places. Blackened bones lay embedded in the stone, half-buried, as if the ground itself had grown tired of swallowing them.

  At the far end of the chamber stood an improvised throne.

  It was constructed from broken stone, old banners, and fragments of armor fused together by heat. Asymmetrical. Aggressive. A seat designed to dominate space rather than comfort the body.

  A man lounged upon it.

  He was young. Disturbingly so. Too young for the authority his posture implied. Blond hair fell loosely around his face, unkempt but intentional, as though disorder itself were a choice. His smile was crooked, uneven, the kind that suggested amusement rather than joy.

  His eyes were sharp.

  Dangerously alive.

  Gemma’s gaze shifted instinctively.

  And then she saw him.

  Talon sat to the man’s right, bound in heavy chains that wrapped her torso and arms, anchoring him to a block of stone shaped into a crude seat. Her head was bowed slightly. Her hair tangled. His face bruised and marked, but unmistakably him.

  Alive.

  Gemma’s breath caught so hard it hurt.

  Aros stiffened beside her.

  The man followed her gaze and smiled wider.

  “Oh,” he said lightly. “You now him.”

  He rose from the throne with theatrical ease, boots scraping against stone. He spread his arms, encompassing the chamber, the prisoners, the ruin itself.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Truly.”

  His voice carried easily, echoing faintly off the stone.

  “You’ve traveled far. Fought hard. Lost much.” His eyes glittered as he looked at each of them in turn. “Which makes this moment all the more meaningful.”

  He turned slightly toward Talon, resting a hand on the back of her stone seat as one might rest a hand on a favored possession.

  “Allow me to be a gracious host,” he continued. “You have arrived at the beginning.”

  A pause.

  His smile sharpened.

  “Of your death.”