The frost had thinned.
What once clawed at the gorges of the Lawless Lands now lingered only in breath and shadow, retreating inch by inch as if the world itself were exhaling after a winter held too long. Wind moved differently here—not howling, not tearing—but whispering, brushing past stone and grass with restrained intent.
Two riders followed the pale road east.
Their cloaks fluttered behind them—black, heavy, lined with deep blue. Each bore the same emblem: a blue raven with wings spread wide. A small sigil stitched over the heart. A larger one stretched across the back, its thread catching light in a way that felt less decorative than watchful.
The mark of the Black Post.
Selina had given them the cloaks at dawn, her voice low, deliberate.
"No one will touch you while you wear this. But before you reach Astraelis—burn it."
She hadn't explained further. She hadn't needed to.
So far, she had been right.
Wherever Midarion and Reikika passed, the world adjusted around them.
Not welcoming. Not hostile.
Avoidant.
Conversations stalled mid-breath. Taverns quieted without anyone speaking. Merchants paused with coin half-counted, eyes flicking to the raven before finishing the exchange too quickly—or not at all. Guards found sudden reasons to turn away, to step aside, to remember duties elsewhere.
No one challenged them.
No one approached them either.
Respect, yes—but not the kind that warmed. It was the respect reserved for storms on the horizon. For fires already lit.
Midarion felt it in his shoulders, the way people leaned back just enough to keep space between them. Reikika noticed it in their eyes—how quickly curiosity died when it met the raven.
The Black Post's name traveled faster than they did. Not as legend, not as glory—but as consequence.
And now it was both shield and burden.
Midarion rode a horse dark as wet stone, broad-shouldered and unflinching, its gait steady even on cracked frost. Reikika's mount was pale grey, nearly white in certain light, its ears always turning, its steps light but precise.
They left Arechi without ceremony.
No speeches. No farewell gathering.
Just quiet nods, clasped wrists, and the lingering warmth of hands that had shaped them.
The frost cracked under hoof as the land opened outward. The Lawless Lands shrank behind them, dissolving into distant ridges and smoke-thin memory. Ahead, the world widened.
The cold remained, but it no longer bit. Rivers began to thaw, their surfaces splitting into slow-moving silver veins. Snow thinned along the slopes, retreating into shadowed hollows. Silence followed them—not hostile, not watchful. Vast.
At night, they camped without fire when they could.
Midarion set snares with practiced ease. When the land allowed it, Filandra's presence stirred—fine threads of pale light slipping from his fingers, weaving silently through brush and stone. The strings vibrated faintly, attuned to movement, tension, intention. They caught fish without splash, rabbits without cry.
Reikika brewed tea from river herbs, frostleaf and crushed mint. She hummed sometimes—soft, untrained, more breath than melody. Midarion listened without comment, eyes on the dark, the rhythm of her voice settling something unspoken between them.
Their silence was not empty.
It was earned.
On the second day, they reached a tavern bent beneath ivy and years. Laughter spilled through its windows until the door opened.
Then it vanished.
Every sound cut at once. Cups froze halfway to lips. A chair scraped sharply as someone shifted back too fast.
The ravens gleamed.
Midarion and Reikika did not pause. They crossed the room and took the only empty table by the window.
No one spoke.
After a moment too long, the innkeeper approached. His smile was tight, careful. His eyes never rose higher than their shoulders.
"Evening," he said. "Soup's hot. Lamb's fresh." A pause. "On the house."
Reikika met his gaze calmly. "We'll pay."
The man swallowed. "Please. It's… better this way."
She didn't argue. She didn't thank him.
The food arrived quickly. Too quickly. Bowls filled to the brim, bread thick and warm. Around them, conversation resumed in fragments, voices kept low, laughter restrained as if it might draw attention.
Midarion listened. He heard stories stop when they reached certain names. He felt eyes glance at the raven, then away.
When the innkeeper returned to clear the bowls, he spoke again, quieter now.
"You're headed east," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Passing through," Reikika replied.
The man nodded once. "You'll see the towers before the walls. They catch the sun first." His mouth twitched, something like a smile failing to form. "Just… mind the markets."
That night, laughter returned—but not fully. Not freely.
They left before dawn.
Days passed, folding into one another like pages pressed together too long.
They crossed plains washed in pale gold, forests that whispered without wind. Villages shifted when they entered—doors closing softly, windows shuttered halfway. Kindness came stiffly, offered as obligation rather than choice.
A baker undercharged them and refused correction, hands trembling. A ferryman waved them across without payment, refusing to meet their eyes. A guard inspected their cloaks, then stepped aside without a word, face pale.
No praise. No gratitude.
Only relief when they moved on.
Once, as they camped near a river swollen with thaw, Reikika broke the silence.
"They're afraid," she said.
Midarion nodded. "Of what the raven means."
"And of what it doesn't," she added.
He understood. The symbol did not promise safety. It promised aftermath.
Filandra stirred faintly in his mind.
Power is never what people fear most, she murmured. It is consequence without appeal.
In a riverside town, smaller than most, they paused to refill water. The street smelled of fish oil and bread. People noticed the cloaks—and stepped back. Not dramatically. Not rudely. Just enough.
A child ran forward with a clay jar before anyone could stop him.
"Water?" the boy asked, eyes wide but steady.
Midarion accepted it. Drank. Handed it to Reikika.
"You going to Astraelis?" the boy asked.
Reikika hesitated, then nodded.
"They say the rivers sing there," the boy said eagerly. "At night."
No one scolded him. No one smiled.
An older woman gently pulled him back a moment later, her hand firm on his shoulder. She bowed once to them—not deeply, not warmly—and guided him away.
When they left, the town resumed breathing.
Slowly.
As the third week neared, the land changed again.
The hills rose higher, carved into terraces fed by clear streams. Roads shifted from packed earth to pale stone, engraved with constellations worn smooth by centuries of passage. Symbols glowed faintly underfoot, responding to movement, to presence.
Reikika traced one with her fingers. "Old prayers."
"They're still listening," Filandra whispered through Midarion. These stones remember what the stars forget.
Then came dawn.
They crested a ridge and saw the valley.
Mist lay thick and luminous, pulled apart by rising light. Beyond it, towers rose—white, gold, and flame-bright—catching the newborn sun as if the sky itself had knelt.
Ignis.
The capital of Astraelis.
Neither spoke.
The road descended between statues of ancient kings, their faces serene, their crowns eroded by time. Obelisks stood between them, carved with constellations that glimmered as dusk approached.
Banners lined the final road.
Midnight blue. Silver-threaded like scattered stars. At their heart, a royal shield bearing three interlocked circles—ocean-blue, gold, and white—woven into perfect balance. Above them, a three-pronged crown.
The banner moved as if alive.
Reikika exhaled. "We made it."
Midarion dismounted. His boots struck stone, final and irrevocable.
"Ignis," he said quietly.
Filandra whispered, Now burn it.
They removed the cloaks.
As night fell and the first stars appeared, silent flame consumed the ravens. Blue thread blackened. Sigils curled into ash. The wind carried it forward—toward the glowing gates.
Protection ended.
Judgment awaited.
And beneath the stars, destiny did not look away.