(Road to the Ruined Capital – Afternoon Mist)
The wind shifted as they walked—the kind of wind that carried voices not meant to be heard. The kind that stirred old bells in broken towers and made forgotten names taste like ash on the tongue.
The capital loomed ahead, its shattered skyline jagged as a crown of broken thorns.
Alberta, cloaked in deep gray and hooded, walked at the front with her head bowed. A strand of copper hair slipped free, but she tucked it quickly beneath her veil.
Cornelius, similarly disguised, wore plain robes befitting a traveling scholar. No noble insignia. No trace of royalty.
Francesca, in worn fabrics, held a staff and walked quietly beside them. She looked every bit the humble handmaiden.
To the outside eye, they were just another trio of pilgrims headed to a forgotten shrine.
But the silence between them was tense.
---
"You could've told me."
Cornelius' voice was low, tight beneath his hood.
Alberta didn't turn.
"Told you what?"
"That you went to him."
"Dantes followed me," she replied calmly.
"Not the other way around."
He scoffed.
"And stayed out all night for what? Some festival dream?"
"You're not just anyone, Alberta. You're—"
"Tired," she cut in.
"And I don't need your permission to feel human for one night."
---
Before he could answer, a voice cut through the mist:
"Ah, there you are."
A figure emerged from the trees like smoke with a pulse—Ceasare, elegant as ever, golden cloak dustless, smile perfectly measured.
"I was beginning to think I'd find your bodies in a ravine somewhere. Dramatic, I know—but it is you three."
Francesca frowned.
"How did you find us?"
Ceasare gave a shallow bow.
"Lord Fraun's men noticed your 'disappearance' and informed me. So I came personally. After all… what are family reunions without a little panic?"
His eyes flicked over Alberta, then to Cornelius.
"Disguises? How theatrical."
"Necessary," Alberta replied coolly.
"The Church is watching."
"Of course. Which is why I brought him."
Ceasare turned, gesturing lazily.
Dantes stepped forward, cracking his knuckles, completely unbothered.
"He didn't bring me. I just walked faster."
Ceasare ignored him.
"We'll handle the gate. Let them think you're nothing more than a few barefoot believers."
Alberta nodded. Francesca adjusted her hood.
---
(Capital Gates – Approaching)
The outer ruins of the once-holy capital rose before them—stark, crumbling, and hungry.
A line of armed guards blocked the path. Helmets dulled, but weapons ready.
The lead guard stepped forward.
"Names. Intent. Declare your purpose."
Ceasare, without hesitation, bowed slightly and presented a scroll with old ceremonial markings.
"Ceasare Montagne. I arrive with Church clearance to perform rites within the sanctuary. These"—he gestured vaguely at the hooded trio—"are penitent pilgrims under my protection. The mercenary is mine as well."
The guard eyed Dantes.
Dantes smiled too sweetly.
"Just a humble bodyguard. Trained in sarcasm and swordsmanship. He prays with his fists."
The guard's brow twitched.
Cornelius, still cloaked, muttered under his breath,
"This is absurd."
Dantes didn't miss it.
He leaned sideways and said softly—just for Cornelius:
"At least I don't need a disguise to be irrelevant."
Cornelius snapped his gaze toward him, but Alberta placed a hand on his arm.
The guard narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to Francesca.
"And her?"
Francesca bowed slightly, voice soft.
"Handmaiden. Harmless."
The guard studied her face for too long.
Then finally nodded.
"You may pass. But tread lightly. This place remembers the scent of liars."
Ceasare smiled. "We're all very fragrant."
Dantes muttered, "Some of us more than others."
---
They walked through the fractured gate in silence.
Only when the guards were out of earshot did Dantes murmur,
"You're lucky they didn't ask Cornelius to recite scripture. He would've lectured them into surrender."
Francesca snorted. Alberta covered her smile.
Ceasare grinned.
Cornelius did not.
--
---
(Within the Capital – After the Gates)
The group moved in silence beyond the shattered archway, swallowed by the ruins of what had once been holy ground.
Statues lined the path like broken judges—faces eroded, hands outstretched in forgotten prayers. Moss devoured the stone. Ash whispered beneath their feet.
The air grew colder.
And though they walked together, Alberta slowed—just enough for the others to move ahead. Francesca noticed. She hesitated… then fell back to match her pace.
Neither spoke for a while.
Not until they were alone in the hollow between ruined chapels.
---
"You didn't sleep last night."
Francesca's voice was quiet.
Alberta shook her head.
"Couldn't."
Another pause.
"Because of him?"
Alberta's breath caught—but she didn't answer.
Francesca didn't push.
She just reached out and gently brushed Alberta's shoulder, pulling the hood back slightly to look her in the eyes.
"You don't have to carry everything alone, you know."
Alberta looked away.
"I wasn't raised to lean on anyone."
"No one is," Francesca said softly.
"But we choose who we fall beside."
Alberta's lips parted—an answer caught in her throat.
But her hands shook, ever so slightly.
Francesca stepped closer and wrapped her arms around her. Not tightly. Not dramatically. Just enough to be steady.
Enough to say,
I'm here.
And Alberta—finally—let her head rest against her shoulder.
---
"What if I lose him?" Alberta whispered.
Francesca didn't ask who she meant.
She just closed her eyes and whispered back,
"Then I'll help you find yourself again."
---
(Sanctum District – Broken Inn, Nightfall)
They found shelter in what had once been a pilgrim's resthouse.
The roof was half-collapsed, but the hearth still worked. A cracked icon of a saint leaned in the corner, eyes faded, smile chipped.
The world outside was crumbling, but inside… the group sat around a low fire, shadows stretching across stone and dust.
Ceasare stood near the window, arms folded, eyes watching the faint flicker of torchlight deeper within the ruins.
"A convoy from the Budasca church is expected by morning," he announced.
"Supply and prayer mostly—but someone in their ranks might have access to records."
Cornelius, still cloaked and quiet, looked toward Alberta.
Ceasare continued, voice smooth.
"I plan to intercept them. Quietly. Maybe even pose as a scout."
Francesca, seated near the fire, looked up sharply.
"Why would you risk that? You're still aligned with the Church, aren't you?"
"Francesca—" Alberta warned gently, but Francesca's tone had already sharpened.
"We still don't know who ordered the attack on the Montagne estate. And now you're suddenly… helpful?"
Ceasare turned slowly, his smile gone.
"Because I'm still Montagne blood."
His voice was soft, but edged like glass.
"You think I don't want answers too?"
Francesca stood, fists clenched.
"You wear gold, Ceasare. You speak like you're clean. But you weren't the one carrying Alberta out of a burning manor. You weren't the one standing in the ruins."
Ceasare's eyes flicked toward Alberta—then to Dantes.
His tone steadied.
"I can't move freely with Alberta and Cornelius. They're too recognizable. And Francesca…"
He hesitated, gaze narrowing.
"…you're a Duraret. Some paladins may know your face. Your blood. Especially if your father's reach is longer than we thought."
Francesca flinched.
Alberta stepped between them, calm but firm.
"Enough. We don't have time to fracture now."
She turned to Ceasare.
"You'll go to the convoy?"
"Yes."
"Then not alone."
Her gaze shifted.
"Dantes will go with you."
Dantes, mid-stretch near the corner, blinked slowly.
"…I'm sorry, what?"
Ceasare gave a faint, smug smile.
"Perfect. He's loud enough to distract a god and looks like a heretic with a sword. You'll fit in wonderfully."
Dantes groaned.
"Why is it always me? What happened to 'mercenaries sleep near doors and avoid politics'?"
Francesca smirked despite herself.
"Because you're expendable," she deadpanned.
"Ah, love the honesty." Dantes stood, dusting off his coat.
"Fine. But if Ceasare gets stabbed, I'm blaming diplomacy."
Ceasare replied smoothly,
"If I get stabbed, I'll make sure to bleed dramatically."
Alberta exhaled, rubbing her temples.
"I'm surrounded by dramatists."
Cornelius, from the far corner, muttered,
"You chose them."
She glanced at him.
"No. They found me."
And as the fire crackled and silence settled, the weight of what waited tomorrow curled at the edges of the room like smoke.
---
The fire burned low.
Outside, the wind slipped through the bones of the city, stirring banners that no longer bore meaning. Somewhere beyond the ruins, the bells of a forgotten shrine tolled once—then fell silent again.
The group had scattered to their corners of the inn, each settling into uneasy sleep.
All except Alberta.
She stood in the archway of the broken hall, eyes fixed on the stars peeking through fractured beams overhead.
Her hands were clasped tightly behind her back, shoulders drawn with thought.
Behind her, Francesca approached quietly, wrapping a spare blanket over Alberta's shoulders.
"You always watch the sky like it owes you something," she said softly.
Alberta didn't look away.
"It does."
"Hope?"
"A sign."
Pause.
"…Or maybe an answer."
Francesca lingered beside her for a moment.
Then:
"Do you trust him?"
Alberta finally looked over.
"Ceasare?"
Francesca nodded.
Alberta's answer was a whisper lost between stars and ruin.
"I want to."
From the upper floor, Dantes leaned against the window ledge, arms crossed, watching Ceasare sharpen a blade he probably wouldn't need.
"Just so you know," Dantes muttered down to him,
"if you sell us out, I get to stab you dramatically in return."
Ceasare didn't look up.
"If I sell you out, I expect nothing less."
They both smirked, but didn't laugh.
And outside, the wind picked up again—carrying ash, whispers, and the scent of something old returning.
Tomorrow, they would move.
Tomorrow, truths would stir.
But tonight, the fire held just long enough
to keep the darkness waiting.