-Ruik-

  The sun hung low above the hills when we first saw Torrain.

  The road dipped between slopes of gold and green, tall grass bowing to the evening breeze like waves offering quiet prayer. Below, the city spread along the river’s curve—vast, bright, carved from stone and devotion. Bridges arched across the water like the ribs of some ancient titan. The sun’s last fire clung to the walls, turning pale stone nearly white.

  And at the city’s heart, dominating everything, rose the Sunspire.

  The cathedral-keep caught the dying light, its spires and fireglass windows burning as if they had trapped the final breath of day. The highest tower pierced the sky, crowned with a brazier whose flames roared even in daylight—defiant, divine, impossible to ignore.

  Tom exhaled beside me. “By the dawn…”

  It wasn’t praise. It was awe.

  Jarold crossed his arms, jaw tightening. “They weren’t lying about the Sunspire,” he muttered. “Looks like a place meant to judge a man.”

  I didn’t answer.

  My mind replayed the whisper that had followed me from the pond, clinging like smoke no matter how far I walked.

  Torrain will take everything from you.

  Remember that I tried to warn you.

  I forced the memory down. The people behind me—tired, wounded, fragile—needed steadiness. They needed Torrain.

  Even if I didn’t.

  The gates stood open, but watched.

  Two Dawnsworn guards waited beneath the archway, armor polished to mirror-brightness, sunburst engravings catching the last edge of daylight. Unlike the battered pendants hanging from Tom’s and Jarold’s throats, these men wore gleaming gold-and-fireglass emblems—a quiet declaration of rank.

  The lead guard stepped forward, eyes scanning our torn cloaks and hollow faces.

  “Survivors from Dunkarr?” he asked. His voice carried formality, but not unkindness.

  I moved ahead of the others. “We are. The outpost fell. We need shelter.”

  His expression shifted—surprise, then something heavier. Respect, perhaps. Or pity.

  “You’ll want the Marshall,” he said. “Goodrick is in the western training court, overseeing evening drills. Follow the sound of steel.” His gaze lingered on me a moment too long, eyes narrowing slightly, as if sensing something he didn’t yet understand. “And mind yourselves. The city is on edge.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  We entered.

  Torrain was alive in a way Dunkarr had never been.

  Stone streets gleamed beneath lantern-light, each lamp shaped like a stylized sun. Priests in pale robes drifted through the avenues, murmuring prayers that mingled with the clang of forges near the walls. Sun Keepers patrolled in gleaming helms crowned with carved halos, their presence a reminder that faith here walked armed.

  The city’s brightness made me feel smaller. Less certain.

  This is what Rivulet wanted me to fear.

  This is what she said would break me.

  Tom nudged my shoulder. “You alright, Ruik? You look… spooked.”

  “Just tired,” I said, keeping my eyes forward.

  Jarold snorted. “Tired? We’re about to get beds, food, real walls. If Torrain’s ale’s half as good as its sermons, I’ll survive.”

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  I didn’t share his optimism.

  The closer we came to the Sunspire, the heavier my chest grew.

  Steel rang against steel, guiding us through a colonnade and into a wide training court. Statues lined the perimeter—Dawnsworn heroes carved kneeling beneath the sun, heads bowed in eternal devotion.

  At the center stood a broad-shouldered man, silver streaking his beard, eyes sharp and weathered. He barked orders at two sparring Dawnsworn with the voice of someone who had survived more than either ever would.

  Marshall Goodrick.

  He stopped mid-command when he saw us.

  His gaze swept over the survivors, then locked onto me. Something flickered there—recognition, maybe sorrow.

  “You,” he murmured. “You’re the pale-haired adopted boy Thorn spoke so highly of. Dawn rest him.” Then louder, sharper: “Report.”

  “Dunkarr Outpost has fallen,” I said. “Vampires attacked at dusk. Many died. We are the last survivors.”

  Goodrick’s jaw tightened. He looked away briefly, as if steadying himself.

  “I trained with Thorn,” he said quietly. “Heard Myrren’s sermons.” His eyes returned to me, sharper now. “Seeing you feels like seeing ghosts. Come. We’ll take your testimony in the keep. You’ll eat, rest. Your wounded will be tended.”

  Relief loosened Tom’s shoulders. Jarold stood straighter.

  My unease deepened.

  Because as Goodrick stepped closer, his gaze dropped—not to my face, but to my eyes.

  As if searching for something glowing beneath the surface.

  As if he already knew.

  And high above us, atop a Sunspire balcony, a tall figure watched.

  Vaelor.

  The Risen.

  Unmoving.

  Unblinking.

  Watching me the way a man watches a prophecy he intends to kill.

  We followed Goodrick through Torrain, our shadows smudging the bright stone. People stared—some with distrust, others with open disdain. A few stepped back when I met their gaze.

  “Not the most inviting welcome,” Jarold muttered.

  “We look like a stain upon their brightness,” Tom said quietly.

  I scanned the streets, but my eyes kept drifting back to the Sunspire.

  The street opened into another courtyard, bathed in light spilling from the cathedral-keep above—a sun burning in the night. Its spires pierced the sky like spears tipped with hot iron. For a moment, I felt small enough to vanish beneath its shadow.

  Light poured through massive stained-glass windows, painting the stone in reds and golds. The city looked like it was built from embers.

  Before we reached the steps, Goodrick’s guards split and took position. The great doors—carved with solar motifs—parted slowly, and a shaft of golden light spilled outward like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

  I raised a hand to shield my eyes and stepped inside.

  When the glare faded, a grandeur unlike anything I’d known revealed itself.

  Firelight danced across white marble floors and walls. The Dawnsworn sun-sigil gleamed above us, alive beneath the arched dome.

  “Are we dead?” Jarold whispered.

  Tom swallowed. “No… resurrected.”

  Marble pews stretched along the outer hall, polished surfaces reflecting the glow, leading toward a raised pulpit—half marble, half gilded rays fanning outward like the sun itself.

  Behind it, stained glass wrapped the wall in a sweeping mural: the sun triumphant over night, shadow-fanged forms writhing beneath its blaze, embers rising from their collapse.

  Goodrick guided us to a long table beneath the dome. Others already ate there—but when we approached, several stood and shifted away, eyes lowering as if afraid my shadow might stain them.

  Goodrick murmured to his guards, then turned to me. “Come. We need to speak privately, Thornsson.”

  I hesitated, watching my people eat. Children pointed at the murals. Smiles returned. For the first time in days, they were alive again.

  Tom and Jarold caught my gaze and nodded, urging me on.

  I followed Goodrick into a quiet corridor. His guards lingered at a distance.

  “I’ll say this plainly,” he said. “Vaelor wishes to see you. Now.”

  He waved the guards back.

  “Alright,” I said. “Where is—”

  “I respected your parents,” he interrupted. His hand settled on my shoulder—heavy with memory. “But you are not welcome here.”

  The grip felt too familiar. Thorn’s grip. Steadying. Guiding.

  “Then why let us in?” I asked.

  “Your people will have a place,” he said. “As long as…” He hesitated.

  “As long as what?”

  “As long as they don’t believe you are who they think you are.”

  “I thought you were being plain,” I said.

  His jaw tightened. “The prophecy of the one born of the sun. The one destined to end the night.”

  “A story,” I said. “Something my parents used to—”

  “No, Ruik.” His voice cut sharp. “A prophecy. One with weight. And some believe he is already here.”

  The pieces shifted, unwanted.

  “My parents believed,” I said. “But I am just—”

  “Think,” he snapped. “A child appears below the Great Mountain. Adopted. Gifted. Survives what should kill him. Leads his people to the Risen’s gates.”

  Fear burned in his eyes.

  “You forgot the rest,” I said quietly. “A boy broken by loss. A boy who leads because there was no one left. A boy who hasn’t knelt to the Dawn in years. How can he be the prophecy?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Goodrick said. “The people are already writing your story. Vaelor has noticed.”

  “I came to save my people.”

  “The prophecy says you came to lead them.”

  Cold iron settled in my chest.

  “So what then?” I asked. “I leave? Hide?”

  “Yes,” he said sharply. “The damage is done.”

  “I won’t abandon them,” I said. “If he fears me, he’ll punish them too.”

  “I would do my best,” Goodrick said softly.

  “That’s not enough.” I stepped forward. “Take me to him.”

  “Ruik—”

  “Take me to him.”

  A guard approached. “Sir. The Risen awaits.”

  I met Goodrick’s eyes.

  “Show me the way.”