Alaric and the others pressed onward in silence, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound as the forest path narrowed. Lara lagged slightly behind, her gaze constantly drifting over her shoulder. Worry clouded her features; something felt wrong.
Then, through the trees, Aramis and Redon emerged—sweat-soaked and grim-faced—half-carrying a dazed woman and her young daughter. Their clothes were streaked with ash and dirt, their movements weary, but determined.
Logan followed closely behind, his expression hollow. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white, trembling with a rage barely contained.
Lara hurried to meet them, her voice tight with alarm. "What happened?"
Logan’s breath came in short, uneven bursts. He struggled to speak, his voice shaking. "The villagers came... not long after you left. Someone saw me take you into my home yesterday. Word spread, and soon enough, the village chief showed up at my door."
He swallowed hard, anger and heartbreak twisting his features.
"They came early—too early. The chief said we were harboring fugitives. I told them you’d left the night before, but it didn’t matter. The chief accused us of bringing trouble down on the village. He said if we didn’t leave, the rebels would come and blame them. Then... they burned our house."
Lara’s gaze dropped to the small bundles clutched by the mother and daughter—little more than scraps of clothing. The rest, it seemed, had been left to the flames.
She stepped forward, her voice calm but resolute. "Come with us to Calma. You and your family will be safe there. There’s room, and we need good people."
Alaric looked at Lara gloomily.
Lara turned to him. "What?" she said quietly. "Gabriella needs people we can trust. These are those people." Lara’s voice rose a pitch higher. She thought that Alaric might argue with her.
Alaric said nothing, only sighed, a weight settling on his shoulders.
A teasing voice drifted in from beside him. "What’s wrong? Jealous?" Jethru had fallen into step beside him, a grin tugging at his lips.
Alaric pressed his lips together, a flicker of jealousy igniting within him. He couldn’t shake the thought that if Logan donned the attire of a prince, he would undoubtedly eclipse Reuben in charm and allure. That rough-hewn, rugged handsomeness of his demanded a second glance, casting an almost magnetic pull that was hard to resist, even for those who thought themselves immune.
Alaric stiffened. "Jealous? Of him? He’s a hunter. A commoner."
Jethru chuckled. "My disciple is exceptional. Don’t think you’re the only one who sees it. Plenty would line up to court her."
"I am good to her," Alaric replied defensively.
"You’d better stay true to that." Jethru’s tone sharpened, just for a moment. "If you hurt her, you make an enemy of me."
With that, Jethru strode away, calling to Orion to see who could secure the fastest horses and carriages for the journey to town.
Eight days later, dust from the road still clinging to their clothes, the travelers finally caught their first glimpse of Calma.
Amnon and Nicolas stood slack-jawed as two towering spires came into view—flanking a massive iron gate that gleamed beneath the afternoon sun.
"Is... is .. this Calma?" Amnon asked in disbelief. "These walls ... why are the walls and the gate more formidable than Savadra?"
Alaric cast him a sidelong glance, saying nothing.
"This is Prince Alaric’s fief, and soon will be his kingdom." Agilus said proudly as he grinned.
"The northern walls are finished. Amazing." Aramis batted in.
"Look at Argus and Panoptes," Agilus exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with wonder. "Didn’t they stand like proud, steadfast sentinels? Their majestic forms rise high above the city gates, casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets below." He gazed up at the towering structures, their intricate stonework glimmering in the sunlight, as if they were eternal guardians watching over the realm, protecting it from any threat that might arise.
"Who?" Nicolas finally came out of a daze and asked.
"Argus and Panoptes, the name of the two towers at both sides of the gates," Agilus added.
Nicolas was dumbfounded. Even the names sounded formidable.
As the guards recognized the royal crest on the carriages, the gates swung open. Trumpets were not sounded, but reverence was clear in every movement—no questions asked, no hesitation. One by one, the carriages entered the gate.
Even the wives of the commanders were equally surprised.
"I thought the south was barren," Layka said, peeking past the velvet curtain. "That’s why they exiled the prince here, wasn’t it?" Her voice dropped in awe. "But this... this is finer than the capital. Look—this street could fit four carriages side by side."
"I thought that the south was a desolate place, that is why the prince was banished here," Layka said as she peeked past the velvet curtain to take a look outside. Her voice dropped in awe. "But this... this is finer than the capital. Look—this street could fit four carriages side by side."
"I hope we can stretch our legs soon," Laida whispered, gently nudging her sleeping daughter awake.
Back in Fereya, Prince Alaric had arranged carriages for them. The journey had been long and tiring, but compared to their desperate flight through the mountains, it had been almost merciful.
As if in answer to her wish, the horses halted. A call rang out—the travelers were to disembark and register their arrival.
Layka and Laida stepped down first, helping the children out, their eyes drinking in the scene.
The wide cobblestone avenue was flanked by rows of flame trees, their vibrant blossoms just beginning to bloom—soft reds and oranges against the sky.
"How beautiful," Atalia exclaimed.
"Do you like it? That is Lara’s idea." Aramis said when he heard Atalia. He was standing beside Amnon as he answered a question from him. "Those flame trees extend for one kilometer, like escorts before entering the central part of Calma.
Amnon turned slowly, taking it all in. He had seen capitals—Estalis, Westalis, even Zura—but none had welcomed guests with such grandeur.
"How could Prince Alaric build all this in just two years? Or was Calma already this developed before?" Atalia asked, her arms wrapped around her child, who now bore a healthy glow. They had named her Angel, born in the darkest time—now a symbol of hope.
"Because Prince Alaric is great," Agilus said, his voice full of conviction. "And with Lara beside him, he’s destined for something far greater, even grander than Northem."