(Unknown Stronghold – In the Dim Halls of Captivity)
A chill, ancient air filled a stone chamber, its walls mottled with salt and secrets. Faded murals of fire and the fated three—women cloaked in shadow and flame—glowed dimly under shafts of weak light. At the center, in a creaking throne of bones and gold-threaded chains, sat Mercedes. Though blind, her gaze pierced the gloom with an uncanny certainty.
The heavy door creaked open. Footsteps entered—soft, measured, echoing in the silence. A man, shrouded in darkness, strode forward and set a sealed scroll upon an altar beside her.
Mercedes lifted her chin ever so slightly, a wry smile playing on her lips despite her predicament.
"They've seen the mark," she murmured, voice low and dangerous.
"Ash cannot silence what is buried in our blood."
The figure did not reply immediately. Instead, he retrieved a small instrument from the folds of his robe—a tool to unseal words—and with deliberate care, he said,
"The path begins when she chooses. Only then shall the ruins awaken."
A spark of amusement glimmered in Mercedes' voice as she mocked the masked figure,
"You still tremble at the mere prophecy of a witch?"
Her tone dripped with dry sarcasm.
"Do you fear the phantom legacy of one who can see through the lies of kings?"
A pause—then the man's reply, measured and low:
"Keep your riddles, Mercedes. The chain is not so easily broken. Order must be given—the ones beyond these walls will cross, their fate sealed by salt and memory."
Before his words could sink in further, a second, younger voice—barely above a whisper—entered the scene. The masked man's subordinate, known only in hushed circles as a keeper of secrets, stepped forward, accepted the scroll, and bowed before departing.
Mercedes turned her face slightly at the sound of the retreating footsteps.
Something familiar. A breath. A ghost of memory.
She didn't speak it aloud. Didn't name the chill running down her spine. Only a faint, bitter chuckle escaped her lips—half mocking, half mourning.
Even in captivity, her wit was sharp as any blade—and her eyes, though blind, saw far enough to unsettle those who feared prophecy.
With the door's creak closing behind the silent figures, Mercedes turned slowly to a carving on the ceiling—three spectral figures entwined with a roaring flame—and whispered,
"Let the fated ones remember what even gods have buried."
The salted air stirred as if in reply.
-------
As the mist began to lift from the ruined city outskirts, Alberta's team stood ready to depart for Glinsthía, burdened by silence and memories. A polished black carriage, marked with Varithiel's royal crest, arrived at the edge of the path.
From it stepped Lord Fraun, cloaked in regal navy, his gaze cool and composed.
He approached with diplomatic grace.
"The Council of Varithiel extends its regards," he announced.
"Your movements are… noted. While the Church watches from the east, the Crown listens from the west."
Dantes folded his arms, tone dry.
"I don't trust this Fraun person," he muttered to Alberta, lips curving.
"He speaks like a man who sharpens scrolls into blades."
Francesca, pale and leaning slightly into Alberta, exhaled faintly.
"He feels like a prayer carved by silence."
Cornelius spoke quietly, voice steady.
"I don't know who to trust anymore—church, nobles, even blood. That's why we choose for ourselves."
Alberta met Fraun's gaze without flinching.
"Then consider this your farewell. Whatever we face—your courts will not decide it."
Fraun offered a shallow bow.
"Then may your truth survive the telling."
Without another word, he turned back toward his carriage, vanishing into the mist as the team turned their eyes to the road ahead.
(The Road to Glinsthía – Detour)
They walked under an empty sky, a hush falling over the land that no longer prayed.
Francesca leaned quietly into Alberta. Cornelius led, jaw tense, while Dantes lingered at the rear, eyes fixed on shadows that whispered only to him.
Far ahead, the towers of Glinsthía loomed pale and cold.
But before the holy gates came into view, the road curved through a small valley lit by warmth and soft light. Lanterns. Smoke. The sound of fiddles.
"That's Lastmire," Cornelius said quietly.
"An old pilgrim village. Devout—but peaceful."
Alberta looked to Francesca, who was pale and tired. She looked to the others. Then made the decision.
"We stop here for the night."
None argued.
And as they descended toward the village, the sound of music grew louder—like a heartbeat the land had almost forgotten.
--------
The village of Lastmire glowed like a lantern adrift in mist.
Though the shadow of Glinsthía loomed behind its hills, the town was momentarily free—alive with the breath of music, ribbons, and old songs sung beneath firelit skies.
It was festival night, and even broken lands remembered how to dance.
Alberta watched it all from the window of their inn.
The laughter. The fiddles. The distant whirl of dancers moving like memory given shape.
She didn't speak.
She didn't ask permission.
She simply vanished into the night.
----
The square pulsed with warmth.
Children ran between lanterns strung like fallen stars. Old women whispered blessings into candles. And the music—it was a song not written, but remembered in the body.
Alberta stepped into the light like a secret unveiled.
Her cloak slipped from her shoulders. Her boots were gone. She spun barefoot on the cobbled stone, letting the rhythm guide her. Hair loose, laughter in her breath—she became a streak of copper flame among shadow and song.
She didn't dance like someone watching.
She danced like someone free.
Dantes hadn't meant to follow her. But when he saw the open window, the empty boots, the flicker of red among the crowd—he was caught.
Not by beauty.
But by the way she moved like a fire trying to remember what it meant to burn.
He didn't speak until she saw him.
"You followed me," Alberta said mid-spin, smiling.
"You're lucky it was me," Dantes replied.
"Cornelius would've chased you down with a scroll. Francesca claimed she's a handmaiden, not a bodyguard. Honestly, I respect that."
She laughed softly.
The music shifted.
"One dance?"
"I don't—"
"Dance?" she teased.
"I thought you didn't follow people either."
He studied her hand.
Then took it.
They danced.
And later, when the music had faded and she laughed beneath the glow of paper lanterns, Dantes muttered with mock dread,
"Gods, you're going to be sunburned in the face and I'm going to get blamed for it, aren't I?"
Alberta blinked.
"It's night, Dantes."
He gestured at her glowing cheeks.
"Still counts. You look like a lantern someone prayed too hard over."
She gave him a playful shove.
"You watched me dance barefoot in the cold and that's your concern?"
"If the priestess of Yara comes back with freckles, the Church might smite me."
Alberta laughed again—warm and real.
"Sunburn suits you," he added.
She arched a brow.
"So I look like a priestess and a tomato?"
"More like a blessing. With sharp elbows."
She smiled.
"Say another word and I'll sunburn you."
He raised both hands in surrender.
"Mercy."
And for a breath longer, they didn't move.
------
The inn creaked with the sounds of old wood and brewing tension.
Cornelius stood at Alberta's empty door, arms crossed. The bed—unslept in. The window—open.
Francesca sat at the hearth, sipping tea.
"She's gone?"
"Came back," Francesca replied without looking up.
"Just before dawn. Still in one piece. Sorry to disappoint."
"And you let her go?"
"I'm a handmaiden, not a prison warden."
Cornelius growled under his breath.
"She could've been attacked—"
"She danced," Francesca interrupted. Sip.
"In a field. Beneath lanterns. Calm down, paladin."
Right on cue, the door opened.
Alberta stepped in—cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Her cloak hung loose.
Dantes followed, gloves tucked in his belt, smirking.
Cornelius stiffened.
"Where. Were. You."
"Walking," Alberta replied.
"All night?"
"There was music."
"And no sense, apparently."
"She danced. I watched," Dantes added casually.
"Very responsible of me."
"You let her dance?"
"She's a grown woman, not a sword."
Francesca:
"I should start charging for tickets. This tension is delicious."
Cornelius turned away.
But Francesca caught the look in his eyes.
Not just worry. Not just anger.
Jealousy.
-----
By midmorning, the team reached the edge of the fallen city.
The capital of Glinsthía stretched before them—half-swallowed by moss and memory.
Stone spires lay broken like snapped fingers. Stained glass crumbled into blood-colored shards. Statues of saints, their eyes gouged out, lined the road like forgotten witnesses.
Francesca slowed. Her breath caught.
Alberta placed a hand on her arm.
"Francesca?"
Her voice cracked.
"She never forgave us."
"Who?"
"My mother. The land. The Church. All of it."
And from the center of the ruined chapel square,
a figure watched them.
Cloaked. Smiling.
Waiting.