"My sun shall never set. I shall never rest. Should I lower my guard for even a single moment, she would slip her whispers into my absence. Your exhaustion shall become your protection, King of Men."

  — Words of Solar?s, XXIII

  Revealed to Thérion the Veiled, Year 1 of the Endless Day

  CHAPTER IX

  While the echo of the horn still resonated through the port city, Siegfried turned to his archer.

  "R?chard, take a parchment and write: Ashengard has retreated. The statue is destroyed. We need help clearing the canal and repairing the city."

  The boy nodded and tapped his pauldron so that Plume would perch on it, then rummaged through a worn pouch at his belt. He pulled out a scrap of parchment, a sliver of charcoal, and scrawled the words under the watchful eye of his chief. He slipped the message into a bone capsule attached to Plume's leg.

  "Fly to Solheim, my friend," he whispered with an almost inaudible tenderness, leaning close to her. "Straight to the heart of the capital. And deliver this message to the captain."

  With a gentle gesture, he launched her into the air. The goldenbeak rose, her wings beating against the lingering drifts of smoke, before vanishing into the sky, crushed beneath the eternal zenith.

  In the alleyways, Dragar's men abandoned their tasks, leaving the civilians they had been helping to clear the rubble, and converged toward the city's entrance at the outer East docks, where the ships waited, moored and intact despite the carnage. Gathered there, they formed a dark and silent mass, their torn cloaks snapping in the wind, their eyes turned toward their lieutenant who joined them with a heavy step, followed by the squadron. Along the winding path that had brought them there, Siegfried had explained in greater detail to his archer and his specter the deeper reasons behind his suspicions.

  There, beside the two ships, he stopped, his breath still ragged, as one of his warriors came forward to deliver his report. After a brief moment, the chief of the Golden Lances climbed a rope ladder and took his position at one of the wooden railings of the ship. With his single eye, he swept the scene and began his address.

  "Children of Solheim! Listen to me with every ounce of strength you have left, for this moment concerns not only the living who still breathe beneath the Sun, but also the dead whose shadows cling to our heels in this chaos. Before we leave this place cursed by blood and fire, before we turn our backs on this carnage that has torn from us I know not how many of our own, we will pay one last tribute to those who fell before our eyes. Gather all the bodies. Those of our brothers-in-arms who defended this port until their hearts ceased to beat, and those of Ashengard's soldiers who perished beneath our blades in this endless day. There is no distinction in death. Not here. Not beneath this sky that crushes us all beneath its motionless blaze."

  He pointed toward a stretch of ground near the outer docks of the maritime city.

  "Stack them over there upon a pyre. And let the flames carry out their sacred work beneath the gaze of Solar?s. May they consume the flesh and free the souls into her eternal light."

  Every syllable, weighted with a heavy gravity, held the men in reverent silence. Then, before descending into the hold, he singled out the Vaan Hart squadron with an outstretched hand.

  "You! Follow me!"

  As they fell into step behind the old man, the surviving soldiers dispersed through the ruins of the maritime city, their footsteps echoing dully on cobblestones stained with soot and blood. Some departed in silence to retrieve the bodies of their fallen brothers-in-arms and enemies alike. Others set about gathering materials to build a pyre worthy of those heroes: beams torn from gutted houses, planks from shipwrecked vessels, ropes and shredded sails that had once carried hope toward distant horizons.

  With a respect mingled with grief, they dragged the remains of their companions toward an improvised mound they raised near the canal docks. The funeral pyre grew slowly, a poignant mixture of the wreckage of war and the remnants of a maritime life now extinguished.

  Inside the vessel, the air was heavy, thick with the smell of damp wood and salt. Dragar stopped beside a heap of crates and sacks, his hands searching with practiced confidence among the provisions.

  "I'm not coming with you, knights," he said, pulling out a rough canvas bag. "My place is here, with my men. But you — you have to go, and what I'm about to tell you may not sit well. Since the Chains are destroyed, there's no quick way back to the capital. So you have no choice but to travel on foot. Fifty kilometers to Solheim — no less than two days under this zenith."

  "Not even an old farmer's cart, Lieutenant?" asked R?chard.

  "Nothing. My soldiers already checked."

  Dejected, the boy lowered his head.

  The old man opened a bag, pulled out rolled blankets and several light tents, and tossed them at the Stone-Skin's feet.

  "Here, take these. Everything you need for camp and cloaks to shield you from the furnace."

  "Thank you, but we already have everything we need to camp in my pack, Lieutenant," the colossus replied, handing the equipment back.

  The old man nodded. He reached for a leather satchel resting on a nearby shelf, revealing pots of ointment and rolls of clean linen.

  "Salves and bandages for you — you really need to tend to those wounds, boy," he told him.

  "And what about you, Lieutenant?" asked the knight, still pressing his side.

  A faint smile crossed Dragar's face.

  "What? You mean these little scratches? Those are nothing but grazes. Yours, on the other hand, already smell of death."

  With his free hand, Siegfried took the medical supplies and thanked him with a simple nod.

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  Dragar continued, his voice dropping a tone.

  "My faction has everything you need here — fill your flasks and take provisions. There's more than enough here to carry you all the way to Solheim," he said, jerking his chin toward the crates.

  His eye traveled over the paladin from head to toe.

  "And there's something for you to change into as well. Unless you'd rather keep dressing like a dancer from the Oasis."

  The rest of the squadron laughed as the old man made his way to a table and pulled a parchment and a piece of charcoal from a drawer, his calloused fingers gripping the crumpled paper with gruff assurance. He began to scrawl, his thick, straight letters spreading across the page at a rapid pace, a crooked smile stretching his cracked lips. The flickering glow of an oil lamp hanging in the hold cast moving shadows across his weathered face, and his eyes slid intermittently toward Siegfried and his knights who stood nearby in the confined space, surrounded by crates and damp rigging. Each glance he cast their way seemed weighted with a tacit approval — a rare gleam in features carved by war. He wrote with a contained intensity, as though he were setting down on parchment a truth he kept to himself, a tribute whose words remained veiled to all but him.

  He plunged a hand into a crate, drew out a stick of red wax, melted it at the flame of the oil lamp, then pressed his ring into the warm wax, leaving the imprint of a seal in the shape of a sun crossed by a lance.

  "My seal. He'll know it comes from me."

  When he was done, he raised his head. The crooked smile faded halfway, replaced by a mask of military gravity. He held the parchment out to Siegfried, his eye piercing through him.

  "This is for Captain Ardahm," he growled. "You'll tell him your suspicions yourselves. But this — he has to read it in my own hand."

  Dragar stepped back and regarded them with a hardness forged by years of war, though a shadow of respect softened his face. Something rare in this man of iron.

  "Two days' march along the canal. No carriages, no shortcuts. Just your courage and a desert that does not forgive. You're from the Solar Guard, so this will surely be your first crossing beneath the zenith. So listen carefully, soldiers, for these two rules will keep you alive: drink little but often, let the water graze your parched throats without ever wasting a drop; and rest whenever your bodies demand it, for the dust and the light break the reckless."

  "Old Yoach?n told us exactly the same thing as the lieutenant," the young archer murmured, lightly nudging Mei's arm with his elbow.

  Hearing what R?chard had just said, Dragar planted both fists on his hips, as if surprised, and muttered to himself.

  "Hmmm. So they also had the good fortune of speaking with that legend?"

  He paused, his gaze sweeping the squadron as though measuring their endurance.

  "I could tell you were no ordinary soldiers. But believe me when I say that even the strongest can fall out there." He paused again. "And Mei — I have something to say to you before you leave."

  He stopped once more for a brief moment, his fingers tightening on the edge of a crate, as if weighing his words.

  "When we were fighting side by side, you and I, in that chaos — I saw Sara? in you. That same flame in your eyes. That same shadow that makes you both what you are. We both know she is far too strong and far too cunning to simply disappear. I'd stake the eye I have left on it. So I ask only one thing of you: bring her back to me, girl. Your sister is like a daughter to me."

  She said nothing. But her gaze had filled with resolve at the lieutenant's words.

  He knew that silence carried more weight than a thousand words for the clan of shadow assassins, so he turned on his heel with a brusqueness that made the planks crack beneath his weight. He climbed the narrow ladder leading out of the hold and jumped onto the dock, his massive silhouette striding away toward the pyre where his men were still stacking the bodies of the valiant fighters who had fallen in battle.

  Still inside the ship, while Juuh'ma filled flasks and provision sacks with the help of the young archer, Mei carefully removed Siegfried's soiled bandages. She dipped a cloth into a bowl of clear water mixed with grain alcohol, then cleaned the wounds with precise, methodical movements. Without lifting her eyes from her work, she spoke.

  "Did you see how they destroyed the statue, Sieg?"

  Her chief did not move, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

  "No. Did you?"

  She wiped the dried blood from around a deep gash, her movements unchanged.

  "They blew it up using deflagration alchemy. Dozens of barrels filled with that blackish powder, bound to the feet of Aagard?ne."

  "Are you certain, Mei?" asked Siegfried.

  "No doubt whatsoever."

  A silence.

  Ears sharp, the N'zonki and R?chard stopped what they were doing and drew closer to the paladin.

  "Does that mean the powder came from Ashengard, Sieg?" asked the boy.

  After a brief moment of reflection, he answered.

  "Hard to say without proof. But if that is the case, I can only tell you one thing: it would be good news for Solheim."

  "Good news?" the archer repeated, surprised.

  Rather than answering him directly, Juuh'ma — who had grasped what his brother meant — posed a question of his own.

  "If the powder didn't come from the Northern Isles, where do you think it came from?"

  The young Desrosiers' eyes went wide. He had just understood.

  "Another kingdom wants us dead as well?"

  With a single grave nod, the rest of the squadron confirmed it.

  The specter handed the curved needle to the archer, whose face had gone tense. He went to heat it at the flickering flame of the oil lamp and returned it to Mei, who wiped it clean on a fresh cloth. Carefully, she brought the tip to the first wound. The needle bit into the flesh. Grimacing, Siegfried pressed on nonetheless.

  "However, as long as we don't know the exact origin of this powder, there's no use losing ourselves in speculation, R?chard. These are nothing more than assumptions that change nothing of what we already know: a traitor is conspiring with another kingdom. And even if they proved to be true, what would we—"

  The needle pressed deeper, threading its way through the bruised flesh. The pain made him clench his teeth, cutting his sentence short.

  "We will protect our kingdom, for that is our oath," the boy continued, his voice firm.

  A smile appeared behind the Noohrikane's mask.

  "Well said," the colossus approved, resting his hand atop the boy's head with a quiet pride. "Let's finish packing the bags, my young friend. Solheim awaits."

  As they returned to the crates, Mei closed the last wound in silence. Her fingers tied the thread with precision before cutting the excess with a sharp snap. She applied the healing ointment, then set the new dressing in place with the same methodical care as always.

  Once the treatment was done, the knight retrieved a light linen tunic folded on a crate and signaled his squadron to gather their belongings, which had been carefully stowed in the hold during their departure from the capital. Siegfried adjusted his one remaining intact pauldron, tightened the leather straps worn down by combat, and fastened his half-cape of ashwolf hide. They all pulled on cloaks, veils, and turbans meant to shield them from the fire falling from the sky.

  That done, they climbed out of the hold and moved away from the outer East docks, ready to face whatever lay ahead.