The wind carried a faint taste of smoke. Not sharp enough to sting, not thick enough to see — just a whisper of ash that clung to the back of the tongue.
The boy wrinkled his nose. "You smell that, Grepin?"
The hog grunted, ears flicking.
"Yeah, I know. Don't start. Probably just someone burning trash again." His voice faltered for half a breath. "Still smells like a funeral, though."
He kicked a stone down the road, watching it skitter into a patch of dry weeds. "Big day, partner. The L'Apertura. You excited?"
Grepin gave a deep, unimpressed snort.
"Oh, come on. We've been through worse. The guards, the coffin, the screaming lady — all that was practice for this moment."
The hog only blinked at him.
"Right. You're right. We're probably walking into another disaster."
The boy crouched, rubbing the back of Grepin's neck. The bristles were warm beneath his fingers. "Still, at least this time it's my disaster."
The emblem around his neck tapped softly against the iron ring Dante had given him. He hesitated, thumb brushing its edge. The faint breeze stirred again, bringing that same thin, metallic scent of ash.
He looked up toward the horizon — the city walls rising like a pale, jagged crown.
"Old geezer's fine," he muttered, trying to sound sure. "Probably just burned his tent again."
Grepin's snout twitched. He made a low, uneasy sound, half growl, half grunt.
"Don't look at me like that," the boy said, forcing a grin. "I'm serious. He's too stubborn to die."
The silence that followed seemed to stretch longer than it should have.
The boy stood, dusted off his knees, and started walking. The hog followed for a while, hooves crunching on dry dirt.
Then, as the city's outer gates came into view — tall, arched, and draped with banners — Grepin slowed. His steps grew shorter, his head lowering as if the air itself warned him away.
"Hey. What's wrong?" The boy asked.
The hog stopped completely, snorting and shaking his head.
The boy blinked. "You're not coming?"
A low grunt — final, firm.
He exhaled through his nose. "Figures. You always hate crowds."
Grepin nudged his leg once, softly.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be fine," the boy said, trying to sound careless. "Just wait by the hills, alright? If things go bad, I'll come running. Probably."
The hog huffed, unimpressed.
The boy smiled — a small, tired curve of his lips — and gave a mock salute. "Keep the home fires burning, captain."
He turned, stepping toward the city alone.
Bells tolled from the towers, long and solemn. The morning air carried incense, sweat, and roasted bread — all the smells of a place pretending to be holy.
Ahead lay banners, voices, and danger.
Behind him, the faint smell of smoke lingered in the wind — and Grepin's quiet oinks faded into silence.
....
Inside, the city was noise and color and heat. Drums rolled somewhere in the distance, and banners snapped overhead like tongues of fire. The boy moved through the crowd with his hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, eyes sharp.
"Saints," he murmured. "They really cleaned the place up for this."
Cobblestones had been scrubbed pale, and ribbons hung from balconies. Around him, men and women—nineteen, twenty, thirty at most—stood in small knots, each wearing an emblem around their necks like a badge of pride. No families. No children tugging sleeves. Every face here carried a mix of hunger and fear.
The boy felt the current of it in his bones: the air before a storm.
He passed a vendor selling roasted nuts, the smell sweet and bitter. A man in scholar's robes muttered prayers under his breath. Two armored candidates compared the shine of their weapons, laughing too loudly.
The boy's grin flickered. "All this for a ceremony," he said to no one. "Makes you wonder what they're planning to open."
He reached the edge of the central square and stopped. The cathedral loomed ahead—twin spires stabbing the sky, doors carved with saints and beasts. Guards in black-and-gold armor formed a line before it, their spears crossed.
Then a trumpet blared. Conversation died.
A captain stepped forward, voice cutting through the plaza. "Hear me! Before the Ceremony of L'Apertura may begin, an announcement!"
The words dropped like stones.
"One of the young lords' emblem of House Hess has been stolen."
A ripple moved through the crowd—gasps, murmurs, a few curses. The boy's stomach twisted, but he kept his face blank.
"The thief is believed to be among those gathered for entry," the captain continued. "Each emblem will be examined before anyone proceeds into the cathedral. Anyone refusing inspection will be detained."
For a heartbeat, The boy heard nothing but the rush of his own pulse.
Well, that's dramatic, he thought. They couldn't just say "routine check," could they?
He turned slowly, scanning the faces around him—every one of them tense, suspicious. The circle of space around each person seemed to shrink.
A tall woman with crimson braids muttered, "Who'd be stupid enough to steal an emblem before L'Apertura?"
The boy smiled faintly. Present.
He edged away from her and slipped toward the shadow of a column, mind already turning. He couldn't run; the gates were sealed, guards at every exit. He couldn't hide the emblem; they'd find it eventually.
"Alright, Me," he whispered, "time to improvise."
A voice brushed his ear. "Talking to yourself already?"
He looked up—startled—and saw her.
A girl stood a few paces away, face quite exquisite like a doll. She held her emblem in both hands, knuckles white. The sight froze him for a beat too long.
Her.
The girl from the carriage. The one who screamed.
For a heartbeat, the memory flickered—the coffin lid, her terrified face, the word ghoul echoing between them.
Now she looked at him without recognition. Clean clothes, washed face, hair cropped close—he was another stranger in a sea of strangers.
The boy blinked away his grin. "Didn't mean to startle you, miss."
"You didn't," she said quickly, though her fingers tightened on the emblem. "I just—thought you were someone else."
"Story of my life." He stepped aside, keeping his voice easy. "Mind if I stand here? Better company than the guards."
She hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Fine. But don't talk to me during the inspection."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The trumpet sounded again. Lines began to form before the cathedral. One by one, the participants stepped forward, presenting their emblems for inspection. The process moved slowly—too slowly. Each clang of metal on armor felt louder than the last.
The boy forced his breathing steady, palms damp inside his pockets.
Next to him, the girl whispered, "They say the stolen emblem belonged to Lord Hess's son."
He glanced at her. "You seem well-informed."
"My family serves the House," she said, eyes on the guards. "It's a disgrace."
"Ah," The boy said lightly. "Then I suppose we're both praying they find the culprit fast."
She gave a tight nod, not noticing the flicker of humor in his eyes.
The line inched forward. Five people left ahead of them. Four.
He could feel the emblem's weight through his shirt, pressing against his chest like a heartbeat he didn't want.
Three.
He adjusted his collar. The captain's voice barked, "Next!"
Two.
The girl—Lyca, her name would come later—stepped forward first. The guard inspected her emblem, nodded, and waved her through the gate.
The boy was next.
He swallowed the dryness in his throat and forced a grin.
The guard extended a hand. "Your emblem."
The boy handed it over.
"Name," the guard said.
"Quiss," he replied smoothly. The name came out like a borrowed coin—light, practiced, not quite his.
The guard grunted. His eyes moved to the emblem again, to the faint scratches etched into its back—Grepin's desperate work. He rubbed his thumb across them, frowning.
"It's for sure an abstract work." he said.
Quiss smiled, all teeth and nerves. "Yes, indeed."
"Hmm." The guard held it to the light. The scratches caught like veins of dull silver. For a moment, Quiss's pulse hammered in his throat—one second from discovery. Then a voice shouted from another line: "Captain, another emblem confirmed!" The guard turned his head, distracted.
Quiss exhaled softly, the sound swallowed by the din. He took the emblem back when offered.
"Next," the guard barked.
Quiss stepped through the checkpoint, shoulders loose but wired tight beneath the surface.
Just ahead, Lyca lingered near the cathedral steps, waiting. Her posture was measured, hands folded against her chest. When she saw him emerge unchallenged, she gave the smallest nod—relief, or something close to it.
"You passed," she said.
"Seemed polite to," he replied, as if it were a choice.
She studied him, puzzled by his tone. "You don't sound very worried."
"Oh, I'm terrified," Quiss said lightly. "Just good at disguising it."
She turned away, adjusting her veil. "This isn't a joke. If they find the one who forged an emblem, they'll execute them on the spot."
Quiss tilted his head, pretending to think. "For copying a piece of wood?"
"It's not just wood," Lyca snapped. "Every emblem carries a mark—a recognition from the Council. It means you passed the Test, that you earned the right to enter the L'Apertura. Without it, you don't belong here."
He smiled faintly, eyes dark beneath his hood.
"Then maybe the test is broken," he said softly. "If it needs death to prove who deserves a door."
Her expression faltered, uncertainty flickering beneath the veil. "You sound like you don't believe in it."
"Belief's for people who can afford it." His grin returned—thin, crooked, self-contained. "Me, I'll take results."
For a moment, the noise of the plaza dulled—the crowd melting into a blur of murmurs and echoing armor. Lyca looked at him again, something flickering behind her eyes, a whisper of recognition she couldn't place. A dirty face, a coffin lid, a scream. Then it was gone.
"You should go in," she said. "The gates will close soon."
"After you." He gestured with a half-mocking bow.
She hesitated, then turned toward the cathedral doors. Quiss followed, brushing his fingers against the emblem hidden beneath his shirt. The carved grooves pressed against his skin, like a heartbeat that wasn't his.
Behind them, the line thinned. The guards' shouts sharpened.
"Strange," he murmured.
Lyca glanced over her shoulder. "What is?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just thinking how quiet it gets right before everything changes."
The crowd surged forward. The great iron gates loomed ahead, shadows swallowing the light.
Then the bells began—low, resonant, final.
Their tolls rolled through the plaza like thunder across stone. One by one, the last of the chosen crossed the threshold.
The captain's voice rang behind them:
"Close the doors. L'Apertura begins."
The iron gates slammed shut.
The sound echoed like a heartbeat ending.
.....
The echo of the closing gates shivered through the stone.
Then, silence.
Every footstep faded as the vast hall swallowed the sound, the last murmurs of the city muffled behind thick walls of marble and ash-stained glass.
Quiss stood among the other participants — twenty, maybe thirty of them — their faces half-lit by torches mounted on pillars carved with runes older than the city itself. All were grown, poised, and hungry-eyed; men and women hardened by years of waiting for this chance. None spoke.
At the far end, beneath an arched mosaic of the first Emblem, stood a line of Council wardens. Their robes were white, veined with silver script. Between them rose a dais — and on it, a tall, empty frame of wrought iron shaped like a door. Its center shimmered faintly, as though catching light that wasn't there.
Quiss's grin faltered.
"That's it?" he whispered. "All that talk for… a gate?"
Lyca glanced sideways, but didn't answer. Her knuckles were pale against her emblem.
A voice broke through the quiet — low, resonant, filled with authority.
"Step forward, bearers of the Emblem. The L'Apertura opens only to those whose intent has been weighed."
The wardens raised their hands as one. Threads of pale light unraveled from their palms, curling toward the iron frame. The air shifted — thicker, warmer, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Quiss felt it immediately. Pressure beneath his ribs. A hum behind his eyes.
Lyca's breath caught. "Do you feel—"
"Yeah," he muttered, swallowing hard. "Feels like it's looking back."
The frame flared — just once — and then everything inside it bent.
The light warped, the walls swam, the very shape of the room stretched and folded until the ceiling dissolved into a canopy of dark green leaves.
A forest stood where the cathedral had been.
The torches had become flickering fireflies; the marble floor was now damp earth. The pillars reached skyward as massive trunks, roots threading through the ground like veins. The air smelled of rain and iron.
Someone gasped behind him. Another fell to their knees, whispering a prayer.
Quiss simply stared.
"This is…" He trailed off. "Insane."
Lyca's eyes darted across the trees. "Is it an illusion?"
"Does it matter?" Quiss said. "If we die in a dream, it still counts."
Her lips tightened, but she didn't argue.
A faint chime drifted through the air — delicate, wrong somehow, like a bell ringing underwater. From somewhere unseen came a voice, layered and distant.
"One by one, the unworthy will vanish. The worthy will walk forward."
Every emblem in the participants' hands began to glow. The light was different for each — gold, silver, crimson, violet. When Quiss looked at his, the wood pulsed faintly blue, cold and faintly alive.
He grinned again, though this time it felt forced. "Guess it likes me."
Lyca said nothing. She looked almost pale beneath the shimmer, eyes distant, as if listening to something deeper than sound.
Then the ground trembled.
A crack of light split the forest floor ahead — the "path," forming itself. The participants instinctively moved toward it, drawn like moths to flame.
Quiss hesitated, half a step behind. His eyes darted toward Lyca — then toward the trees that now seemed to breathe.
Something was watching them.
....
Outside, the night was utterly still.
The guards had dispersed. The plaza lay empty but for a single creature standing at the base of the cathedral steps — a small, plump hog with bristled fur and intelligent eyes.
Grepin snorted once, pawing at the stone. His ears twitched. From beyond the sealed gates, he felt it — a vibration, faint but steady, like the heartbeat of the world shifting off rhythm.
He looked up at the towering spires, their stained windows flickering with phantom light. His snout quivered. A low, uneasy grunt escaped him.
Then the air trembled — just slightly — and the torches lining the plaza went out one by one.
Darkness claimed the steps.
Grepin didn't move. He only watched the cathedral, eyes wide and bright with something close to fear.