With the coming of dawn, they heard a gallop in the distance. Their hut overlooked the road, but was well hidden within the trees and could not be spotted unless one knew where to look. About two dozen carts passed them by, all closed and sealed with the sigil of the sword and chain, pulled by straining horses. They heard a heavy, shifting weight inside, accompanied by a faint scraping sound.
"Let's wait a bit before moving," Lilian rubbed her eyes. "We have to make sure that's all of them."
Bastet agreed, and they spent the next hour looking for any food nearby. They found more berries, which they ate outside the hut.
After gathering their courage, they got back on the marble road and approached the city. They did not have to walk for long before it led them to an arched gate which was a masterpiece of another age. Twenty feet high and wrought of heavy, green-tinged bronze, it was covered in intricate reliefs of artists and thinkers, their faces serene but cracked and dented inwards. There was no handle, or lock. It was wide open, and the bushes on its side seemed to suggest that it had not been shut in ages. The silence was absolute.
"Not this way," Bastet said. "We go around. Look for a breach."
They followed the line of the massive stone wall, pushing through thorny, overgrown bushes that clawed at their clothes. Lilian ran a hand over the stonework, her expression a mixture of awe and scholarly frustration. "The masonry… it's perfect. No mortar. Each block is fitted to the one beside it. A city this grand… it has to be in the histories. Why is there nothing?"
Bastet cared less about its history than its structural integrity. He scanned the wall for weaknesses. It took them nearly an hour of scrambling over rubble and cutting through thickets with Folly's Edge before they found it: a section where the upper courses of the wall had collapsed inward, creating a jagged hole four feet off the ground.
"There," he pointed. "We can climb that."
Bastet went first, finding easy handholds in the cracked masonry. He hauled his large frame over the top and dropped into the unnatural silence on the other side, landing with a soft thud on a bed of weeds. He turned and reached down, easily pulling Lilian up and over after him.
They were in.
The city that lay before them was one of tragic, shattered beauty. Great, black scorch marks marred the brilliant white marble of the villas, like soot on a bone. The elegant, tiled rooftops of the houses had collapsed inward, shattered by boulders that now lay half-buried in them, and their once manicured gardens. Long rows of vast marble columns flanked the boulevards, their once white surface cracked from the intense heat. In a nearby plaza, a fountain carved in the shape of a blooming lotus lay shattered, its stone petals chipped and broken, the dry basin filled with ash and dead leaves. And everywhere he looked, he saw statues, frozen in time, of merchants haggling, of children playing, of lovers whispering on stone benches. Their forms were perfect, each with a unique emotion that seemed to match their position.
But it was a scene of violence. The statue of a merchant lay toppled, his outstretched hand snapped off at the wrist, his torso half gone. A group of children playing with a ball were now a pile of fractured limbs. The cracked lips of the lover seemed to whisper to the headless neck beside it. Through it all, there was a sacred silence. No birds, no insects, no skittering rats. It was not the quiet of an abandoned place. It was the held breath of a graveyard, a city so thoroughly murdered it had forgotten how to make a sound. A profound sense of loss settled on Bastet. This place was a beautiful corpse, a shattered symmetry that seemed to grieve for its own lost perfection. And it was undeniably the city from his dream.
"I don't see anyone around," Bastet whispered. "We're probably not gonna find food, but we need a waterskin, new boots, better clothes… Some pots would be nice too." He pointed to a two-story villa whose bronze-plated door hung open on a single, twisted hinge. "Let's check there."
They moved quickly, their footsteps echoing unnervingly on the marble tiles of the entryway. The inside was a scene of arrested violence. A finely carved wooden table was overturned, its legs snapped. Silk curtains, now rotted to skeletal threads, fluttered in the breeze from a shattered window. Lilian went to a bookshelf, her fingers tracing the spines of rotted, water-damaged tomes, her expression one of deep sorrow. Bastet moved further in, his eyes scanning for anything of use. In what might have been a kitchen, he found it. Hanging from a peg on the wall was a waterskin, made of thick, sturdy leather. It was empty, but it was intact. He reached out and took it from the wall. A small victory.
"That does not belong to you."
The voice was calm, melodic, and came from directly behind him. Bastet spun around, his heart lurching into his throat, Folly's Edge leaping into his hand.
A man stood in the doorway, blocking the light. He had made no sound. He was missing his left arm, the sleeve of his ragged tunic pinned neatly at the shoulder. But he did not stand like a cripple. His posture was perfect, his balance absolute. His face was eerily beautiful, its proportions almost too exact to look human. His startling blue eyes moved from Folly's Edge to the waterskin in Bastet's hand, studying him without any obvious alarm.
For a long moment Bastet waited, but Ariadne's oath had not forced him to return what he stole. This man was not a Wesian soldier. He forced his grip on Folly's Edge to relax, though he did not lower the blade. "Forgive us," Bastet bowed his head, "we thought this town to be abandoned."
"Then why not enter through the gate?" The question was gentle, but it was not a suggestion.
"Look, if this belongs to you, we'll return it. We wish to trade, but we do not have coin. We can work."
"Who are you? And what are you doing here?"
"We are travelers, separated from our caravan." Lilian cut in, stepping forward slightly to place herself between the man and Bastet.
"A caravan?" The man's eyes narrowed. "No caravans use this road. Not for a long time. Where are you truly from?"
"Don't worry, we are not enemies," Bastet interjected quickly. "There was a battle. We got separated from our unit. We are just trying to survive."
"Wesian soldiers?" the man asked.
"Yes."
"Order me, then." He took a deliberate, soundless step into the room. "There's no need for you to work. Just make me give you supplies like you always do. That is, if you really are who you claim to be."
Bastet squinted. A cripple was bound by the oath? Hadn't Kreil said that Ariadne's blood was rare enough to not be used in vain? Was he a retired soldier, whose injuries prevented him from fighting any more wars? Or was his position important enough to warrant it, despite his physical state?
"We hold no rank," Lilian replied, finding her footing. "We have no authority to give orders."
"Then how can I trust you?" the man countered.
"You know about the oath," Bastet pointed at the door, "so go and get an officer. It'll be trivial proving our allegiance."
The man opened his mouth to say there weren't any, but bit his tongue before any words could escape his lips. But it was too late, and Bastet noticed the hesitation. His probe was successful. He straightened his back, taking a half-step forward to reclaim the space the man had taken. His hand never left the hilt of his sword. "You're a cripple, and no one is around. If we were your enemies, we could simply take what we need. And if we were the kind of masters you're used to, we would have already started giving orders. Instead, we have offered to work. Isn't that proof enough that our intentions are peaceful?"
A look of profound, weary understanding entered the man's eyes. "To point out a man's weakness, to state your own strength, and then to call your restraint a kindness… Yes," he said, his voice quiet and absolute. "You are Wesian to the bone." He gestured back toward the waterskin in Bastet's hand. "Keep it. The Wesian carts will return in a week's time. They can take you to Chromos, where you can find your way."
"And until then?" Bastet asked, his suspicion not lessening in the slightest.
"You may stay in this house. The previous occupants have no further need of it," the man stated simply. "We are a humble community. Everyone contributes. It is not easy for us to work." His remaining hand closed over the smooth stump at his left shoulder. "So if you wish to eat, help us. The quarry provides. The Sculptor demands. You will haul the stone."
"Then help we shall," Bastet nodded. "Thank you, sir…?"
"Thomas," the man replied. "We'll be going to the quarry at midday. We'll come pick you up."
The man turned and walked away, his movements unnaturally smooth and silent. He did not look back.
Bastet let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. They had a roof over their heads and a temporary truce. He looked at Lilian, who was staring at the overturned table in the center of the room. "Do you think we should trust him?" she questioned. "It's not too late to grab what we can and run away."
"Run where, Lilian?" he turned to face her. "We have water for a day, maybe two. We have a handful of berries and some rhubarb. We have no map. We're wounded, exhausted, and lost." Bastet undid the improvised bandage around his shoulder. He thought it looked nasty, so he poured some water to clean it. "And what if this gets infected?"
She had no answer. He was right. The grim logic of their situation was a cage. But it was not the whole truth. He couldn't leave even if they were perfectly healthy. The humming of the sword had confirmed it. The Baron's clue, the key to finding Maria, was here. To walk away now would be to abandon his sister all over again. He had no choice but to stay, no matter the risk.
"At least they don't have any officers among them. He gave us a clock," Lilian said, her mind working quickly. "Seven days until those carts return. Seven days in a city that, for whatever strange reason, Wesia uses as a supply depot. We can heal up and rest, and leave before they arrive. But… Are you sure no one will be looking for us? Is it really alright to stay here?"
Bastet cupped his chin. The logical answer was yes. For all Wesia knew, she was just the daughter of a historian. Two more people disappearing in the confusion after a battle could easily be written off among the dead. The thought was a comforting one, but he dismissed it instantly. Comfort was a luxury he could no longer afford. He did not know what the Wesians knew, but he had to assume the worst. "No," he said finally, his voice a harsh murmur. "It's not alright. We assume we are being hunted." He looked from her to the silent ruins of the city. "But we had to cross a blighted forest to get here. It wouldn't be the first place they looked."
"We give them false names. I'll take…" Lilian grabbed one of the books from the shelf and opened a random page. "Annie."
Bastet looked down. "Then I'll take my father's name. Lucian."
With their stories set, a tense quiet settled over the room. It was the most security they had known in days, yet the feeling was one of being trapped in a beautiful cage. Lilian, unable to rest, continued flipping through the pages of the books that weren't too damaged to read. Many were histories she had never heard of, from a kingdom lost to time. She opened one, its pages stiff and fragile. "Listen to this," she whispered, her voice filled with a scholar's awe. "It's a manual on sculpting. It says the masters of Statia could carve marble to resemble the softest silk, to capture the very motion of the wind in a subject's hair…"
Bastet wasn't listening. He continued flipping through the drawers. He found a hammer and some nails, which he packed into his backpack. There was also a small tin pot that would be perfect for boiling river water which would otherwise be unsafe to drink. He opened the wardrobe, but quickly closed it. The smell was horrible, and the clothes had fallen apart. But on the bottom shelf, he saw a set of sturdy bronze sewing needles in a wooden case, which he promptly pocketed. As he stood, his boot settled on a floorboard that gave a dull creak unlike the others. He knelt, running a hand over the seams. The grain didn't match. It was a patch, and a clumsy one at that. Prying at the edge with his new skinning knife, he lifted the plank, revealing a hollow space beneath. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, were four silver cups and an ornate tray. He packed them away, then sat by the door and rested his head against the wall.
His ears were straining against the unnatural silence of the city, and his eyes were fixed on the window. He saw a figure in the distance, walking down the marble boulevard toward them. It was Thomas. And he was not alone. The other eleven settlers followed behind him in a silent procession, each maimed in some way. Midday had arrived.
Bastet watched them approach, his mind racing through their cover story. But as they drew closer, a sudden gust of wind swept down the boulevard, kicking up dust and dead leaves. Through the window, it rustled Bastet's own ragged shirt and whipped a loose strand of Lilian's red hair across her face. But the clothes of the approaching settlers did not move. Not a single fold of their ragged tunics so much as fluttered. Their hair fell in perfect waves, yet remained utterly, impossibly still.
"Lilian," he choked out, his voice a strangled whisper. He didn't take his eyes off the approaching figures. He simply grabbed her arm, his grip white-knuckled.
She looked up from her book, startled by his tone. "What is it?"
"They aren't wearing clothes."
She looked through the window, confused. "What are you—"
"The clothes," he said, his eyes wide with terror as Thomas and the others stopped just outside the villa. "The hair. The skin. It's all one piece."
Her eyes followed his gaze, and the color drained from her face as she understood. They were not people.