The road crests a final rise just after dawn.

  Eric feels it before he sees it, the shift in the air, the way the column slows without being told to. The wind eases, not in kindness, but in anticipation. The land falls away ahead of them, rolling down into a wide basin of stone and river and walls.

  Then the capital reveals itself.

  Towers rise first, pale against the winter sky, their tops catching light even through the clouds. They are taller than Eric imagined, thinner too, like spears thrust upward in challenge rather than shelter. Walls follow, layered, massive, scarred by age and reforged in places so clean they shine. Banners hang motionless in the cold, their colors deep and unmistakable.

  A murmur passes through the supplicants.

  Some gasp openly. Some laugh, sharp with disbelief. Others simply stop, staring as if the sight might vanish if they blink.

  Eric does none of those things.

  Awe hits him, yes, but unease follows close behind.

  This is not the city from his books.

  Those cities were living things, grown around markets and temples, shaped by need and story. This capital feels imposed. Ordered. Measured. Like something that has decided what it must be and will not bend.

  “It’s… bigger,” Emil breathes beside him.

  Cathryn folds her arms, eyes narrowed. “It’s watching us.”

  The column moves again, drawn forward by gravity as much as command. The road widens, stone replacing packed earth beneath their feet. Snow thins here, pushed aside by constant traffic and the heat of so many bodies.

  And then the wagons appear.

  Clean. Polished. Warm-looking.

  They roll out from a side road ahead of the column and slow deliberately, allowing their passengers to disembark at a pace that ensures they are seen.

  Marrius Jr. steps down first.

  His cloak is fresh, fur brushed and full. His boots gleam. His hair is neatly bound, his cheeks unchapped, his eyes bright with rest. Marvin follows, broad and solid, no sign of the weeks the rest of them have endured carved into his face.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Around them, others emerge, boys and girls Eric recognizes only vaguely from villages passed long ago. They stretch, laugh, stamp their feet as if cold is an inconvenience rather than an enemy.

  The contrast is brutal.

  Supplicants in mud-stained cloaks and cracked boots slow as the rested ones fall into line beside them. No words are exchanged at first. They do not need to be.

  Marrius’s gaze finds Eric almost immediately.

  “Well,” he says lightly, stepping close enough that Eric can smell soap. “You survived.”

  Eric meets his eyes. “So did you.”

  Marrius smiles. “Of course I did.”

  Marvin chuckles, low and satisfied.

  Emil shifts, fists clenched. Cathryn places a hand on his arm, subtle but firm.

  Eric says nothing more. The road has taught him the cost of visible resentment.

  The city gates loom ahead, massive and open, their iron bands dark against pale stone. The space before them is wide and bare, swept clean despite the season.

  And there, standing across the breadth of the approach, are the healers.

  Eric slows involuntarily.

  They form a living line from wall to wall, dozens of them, perhaps more. Men and women of all ages, dressed in robes of white and blue in countless shades, some pale as frost, others deep as river shadows. They stand hand in hand, eyes closed, heads bowed in quiet concentration.

  The air hums.

  Not with sound, exactly, but with pressure. With presence.

  “What is that?” someone whispers.

  Eric feels it then, a warmth brushing against his skin, faint but unmistakable. Like stepping closer to a fire after weeks in the cold.

  The column halts.

  A captain raises his voice. “Walk forward. Do not stop. Let the blessing pass.”

  One by one, the supplicants move through the line.

  As the first reaches the healers, light blooms.

  It is not blinding. Not dramatic in the way Eric imagined magic might be. It is soft, layered, threads of pale blue and gold weaving through the air, sinking into skin and cloth alike.

  A boy stumbles, then straightens, eyes wide. A girl gasps as bruises fade from her hands. Someone laughs, a short, disbelieving sound.

  When Eric’s turn comes, he steps forward slowly.

  The warmth deepens.

  It seeps into him, gentle but thorough, chasing pain from joints, knitting cracked skin, easing the tight knot of exhaustion that has lived in his chest for weeks. He feels lighter, clearer, as if a weight he did not realize he carried has been lifted away.

  His breath catches.

  This is magic.

  Not the distant, dangerous thing of fairy tales, but something precise. Controlled. Wielded with purpose.

  For many around him, it is the first time.

  Eric sees it on their faces, wonder breaking through fatigue, hope flaring dangerously bright. He hears murmurs of gratitude, prayers spoken aloud without shame.

  When he passes beyond the line, the cold feels less sharp. The road feels less heavy.

  But the unease does not leave.

  He turns back once, watching the healers maintain their formation, their faces calm, their hands steady. This much magic, used so casually, is staggering.

  It is also instructive.

  The capital does not deny power.

  It displays it.

  The gates swallow them.

  Inside, the city is noise and stone and order. Streets stretch wide and clean, buildings rising in precise tiers. Guards stand at regular intervals, armor polished, expressions unreadable.

  Eric walks forward, healed body moving easily now, and feels the last fragile illusions of the journey crumble.

  This was never about reaching the capital.

  This was about arriving properly shaped.

  And whatever comes next, he knows one thing with quiet certainty,

  The city has plans for them.

  Whether they agree or not.