It is still the second of September, year 1300…
The sky above Valerion is faintly blue, streaked with pale threads of dawn that have yet to reach the ground. Dew clings to every blade of grass in the amphitheater's open court, sparkling like pieces of broken glass. The air is cool, heavy with the smell of moss and stone dust. Our footsteps echo strangely in this hollow arena, as though the whispers of a lost people respond to each sound we make.
I raise my voice, calling for the meeting to continue. The sound bounces back at me, multiplied by the curved walls. Everyone gathers slowly, faces drawn in sleepiness and curiosity. My hand lifts, sweeping outward, tracing the outline of structures carved long ago into the shape of jasmine flowers.
"This, everyone," I say, my tone careful, controlled, "is the Amphitheater Valerion. It is not merely ruin; it is the remnant of a civilization. The Bovine People, hybrids of man and cattle, built this place nearly five centuries ago. Here they sang, wrestled, held rites of fertility, and gave honor to their dead."
As I speak, I feel the weight of their absence pressing down. The marble walls, veined and cracked, are choked with vines. The floors are cold, slick with dew. Above, rows of seats curve in long arcs that could once hold thousands, now only emptiness and silence.
I point toward the gate—no, the hole that remains. "Once there were three gates of gold. They were torn away when the Mikhland army came. Melted, turned to bars or ornaments for vain monarchs."
Everyone's eyes follow where my hand rests. For a moment, the circle is quiet.
Lianne, slender and pale, steps forward. Her hand rises, fingertips brushing the stone beneath the seating rows. She looks upward, her breath caught as if she can see shadows of the people that once filled these stands. Moss clings to her fingers when she draws back, her gaze lingering.
Helene, her golden hair a banner in the dim light, tilts her face toward me. "What became of them, Zihao? These… Bovine People?" Her voice is soft, almost reverent.
I do not answer. It is Veritas beside her who speaks, his voice low, like a scholar reading from a worn page. "They met the fate of all who opposed Mikhland. Extinction. They live only in fragments of stories now." His eyes are distant, seeing past us, perhaps hearing the echo of voices no one else can.
Quang Minh climbs up the nearest row of seats, rope in hand. He ties a heavy stone to its end, lowering it with the patience of a craftsman. The rope brushes the wall, and he watches, measuring smoothness as though this ruin might yet yield secrets. His brow furrows, his mouth a straight line.
Ky kneels, pulling a piece of moss from the base of the wall. "Why leave this place untouched?" he asks, his voice sharp, almost accusatory. "If Mikhland wished destruction, why not level it?"
Before I can speak, Joon-soo answers. He sits at the edge of a seat, knife in hand, the metal grating softly against the marble as he sharpens its edge. "Because this lies far from their settlements. Too far, too empty. Later it became nothing more than a playground for children when they dared wander the grasslands."
Aldo stands apart. His eyes are fixed on a fragment of collapsed arch, half-buried, softened by centuries. His face is unreadable, but his stare is long, too long, as though he sees not stone but a reflection of something within himself. His silence is heavier than words.
I clap, drawing all attention back. From my satchel, I pull a wooden box, square and plain, a slot cut into its lid. Alongside it, I set down six small ballots, and six pens of split bamboo.
"Now we vote," I announce. "Each of you will write the name of the one you wish to see run for leader—Aldo, Joon-soo, or myself. Cross out the other two names, fold the paper once, and drop it here."
Aldo turns sharply, confusion written in the crease of his brows. "Why is my name there?" His tone is blunt, displeased.
I do not flinch. "Because when asked, you did not say no." [He will not admit it, but silence is as good as consent. And besides… someone must carry the burden, if not me.]
Helene is the first to step forward. Lianne follows at her side, hands trembling slightly as they hold the ballot. Then Veritas, his movements deliberate, scholarly. Quang Minh, steady, practical. Hai and Ky last, exchanging a brief glance before each scribbles down their choice.
When all are done, I open the lid. The papers are folded neatly, identical, my careful preparation ensuring no deceit. I begin to count, speaking each result aloud. Then I step away.
Aldo enters. He too counts, his fingers steady though his mouth tightens at each tally. He exits, replaced by Joon-soo. He counts with the casual seriousness of a soldier sharpening his blade. Each of us, one after another, until it is done.
We return together. I look at each of the six who cast their votes. "Do the results differ?" I ask.
One by one, they shake their heads. Their answers are calm, unanimous. "No. It is consistent."
I nod. Slowly, with deliberate weight, I speak: "Aldo receives four of six votes. I, one. Joon-soo, one. Therefore—Aldo shall be our first leader."
The words hang in the air like iron chains.
Aldo does not move at first. Then his eyes flicker, just once, toward Lianne. Her lips part slightly, almost apologetic, almost loyal. [Of course she would choose him. He freed her; her gratitude is natural.]
Then his gaze slides across Quang Minh, Hai, and Ky. They shift uneasily beneath his stare. [Three votes aligned. Coordinated. Too neat. Too convenient. Suspect.]
Aldo exhales, a sharp sound. His jaw sets, though not in triumph. There is no joy in his face, no victory in his stance. His eyes are colder, harder. Leadership is a yoke, not a crown.
The amphitheater is still, as if even the ruins hold their breath. In the silence, I feel tension coil between us like a serpent. [This is how it begins. The Strays are no longer only a wandering band. We are a group bound by choice, by vote. And yet, already, the fractures show.]
Helene's fingers twist together. Lianne lowers her head, as though ashamed. Veritas watches with unreadable calm. Joon-soo slides his knife back into its sheath with a metallic hiss, his eyes narrow but bright, unreadable.
The sun has not yet risen above the horizon, but light creeps steadily across the sky, pale and unrelenting. The amphitheater, once a place of games and songs, now witnesses something else: the birth of leadership, the seed of future discord.
Aldo steps forward at last, his shadow long across the stone. His mouth opens, but no words escape yet. His eyes cut through us all, heavy with a weight none of us can share.
[He will lead, but the question is—where? And will we follow because we choose to, or because we must?]
The morning wind stirs, carrying with it the smell of moss and dust, and the faint whisper of echoes that do not belong to us.
The dawn seeps slowly through the broken arches of Valerion, light trickling across the mossy stone and the curved rows of seats. The morning is cool, carrying with it the damp smell of old marble and grass wet with dew. We gather, all eyes shifting toward the low podium at the center, a platform no taller than a man's chest, yet higher than the surrounding ground. Upon it, Aldo steps forward.
Seven pairs of eyes lock upon him, unblinking. The amphitheater holds its breath.
Aldo stands awkwardly at first, his hands pressed against his sides, his back a little too stiff. His gaze flits across us as though he is reluctant to be seen. [He looks… human. Vulnerable. Strange for a boy who bends flesh and bone as if it were clay. Strange for one who wears a mask of calm so easily when the knife is in his hand.]
I know this hesitation well. Aldo was once a socially awkward nerd, by his own confession, though less so now. Still, one cannot banish the old self entirely—it clings, even beneath new skin. He seems unsure whether to speak, whether his words can command weight enough.
I lift my hand in a subtle gesture, a signal only he would notice: a small nod, a silent encouragement. My lips part, shaping words without sound—go on, bolder.
He catches it in the corner of his eye, then breathes once, deeply, and steadies. When he finally turns, when his voice begins to flow, it is calm, distant, yet heavy as iron laid on the table:
"Today, we begin as the Strays. Not as nameless captives, not as pawns in an empire's game, but as a body with purpose. This moment is not mine—it belongs to all of you. My task, as chosen by your hands, is to lead, not to command. To guide, not to dictate."
The words echo through the amphitheater, carrying on the damp morning air. His face remains serious, almost cold, but in the depths of his tone I hear conviction. He continues:
"Our foundation will rest on six pillars: merit, transparency, equality of opportunity, consensual cooperation, fair enterprise, and the will to endure. No man or woman among us shall rise by birthright, but by ability. Decisions will not be hidden in shadows but laid open before the eyes of all. Each of you shall be given the chance to grow, to strive, to shape both your own life and our shared course."
I watch him—his posture stiffens, but his words gain rhythm, building themselves into something more solid, as if each sentence forges a stone for the foundation he speaks of. His hands do not move, but his eyes flicker between us.
"We will stand as partners, not as masters and subjects. Our strength will not come from obedience, but from agreement freely given. Let our labor, our craft, our commerce, reward the hands that work and sharpen the minds that dare to create. Let no one take without giving, and no one be silenced when the future is weighed."
Lianne shifts, eyes wide, her breath quickened as though the words stir something like loyalty or awe. Helene watches with cautious interest, her jade eyes gleaming as though to test the logic within each declaration.
"We are not blind to our condition. We are hunted, displaced, torn from the soil that should have been ours. But this exile is not the end. Our road is long, and its end is Earth—our homes, our families, the life denied to us. Every hardship we endure is a step toward return. Every trial is proof that we do not break."
His voice grows a little stronger here, but I see the tremor in his throat. [He is not a demagogue. Not one to intoxicate with words. His strength lies elsewhere. And yet, perhaps because of that, the honesty bleeds through more clearly. It does not smell of performance.]
"So let the Strays be known: we are a meritocracy of the willing, a company of equals, a people bound by choice. As long as I stand as your leader, my charge is simple: to hold us together through adversity, to clear the path forward, and to keep our eyes fixed not on despair, but on the horizon of home."
He pauses, inhales. Then adds, with deliberate finality:
"And remember this: I am not your master, nor your Boss. Address me only as Core Member, Pillar Head Member, or—if you must—The Pioneer."
The silence after is vast. Only the distant chirping of birds filters in. Then, at last, a soft sound—Lianne, her palms coming together, timid claps echoing in the empty amphitheater. She is alone in it.
Joon-soo snorts, arms crossed, his lips curling into something halfway between amusement and acknowledgment. "Not bad," he mutters, eyes glinting. "You're no firebrand though. No demagogue. But it's your voice, Aldo, not someone else's. I'll give you that."
I note inwardly that Aldo has stumbled twelve times—small stutters, the trip of syllables, brief catches of breath. Yet even with those flaws, the core of the speech stands solid, and unexpectedly, he has shaped something near to a song. [I am surprised… he improvises far better than I expected. Perhaps this is what leadership does—presses words out of the tongue that once refused to speak.]
Aldo does not thank anyone. He simply exhales, his expression tightening again, and then presses on: "Two issues face us immediately. The first: Hai is still in the hands of Insularis. The second: we must establish the United Financial Fund—a shared pool for investment and support."
Ky yawns openly, rubbing his eyes, then raises a hand lazily. "And HQ? We don't set one?"
Aldo shakes his head. His voice is firm but not sharp. "The group is nine. Too small. We are mobile, light. When we reach fifteen members, we will consider."
Ky's lips purse, but his eyes glimmer with wanderlust. He shrugs, saying nothing more.
Helene raises her hand, posture straight. Her tone is precise, measured. "Who audits this fund? How is transparency ensured? You require contributions—then who watches the watchman?"
Aldo's gaze shifts calmly toward Quang Minh. "He will be the accountant."
Quang Minh, crouched nearby with his rope, immediately looks up, his brow furrowed. "Again? I already bend my back running numbers for AldoCorp. That's two lives' work for one man."
Aldo does not flinch. "Salary increased thirty percent. Insurance fifteen."
Quang Minh's mouth opens, then closes. A brief silence. Then his head inclines slightly, his expression smoothing into reluctant acceptance. He resumes his measuring, rope sliding along the marble.
Aldo adds, evenly, "I will ensure audit myself, but all records will be open to every member. Full reconciliation at will." He scribbles swiftly on a slip of paper, the scratching of bamboo pen loud in the morning quiet. "I contribute twelve-point-five percent of my income. Minimum contribution for each: one-point-five."
Without hesitation, Joon-soo drops down from his seat, signs the paper. "Ten percent."
I follow. [If trust is to mean anything, then I cannot delay.] I write quickly: "Eight-point-five percent."
Veritas steps forward, his hand steady, and signs with ease. "Eighteen percent."
Helene narrows her eyes, lips curling in a sharp line. "So my voice in this fund weighs according to my contribution? That is what I see here."
Aldo does not soften. "Correct."
Her eyes sharpen. The tension in her jaw is visible. Yet after a pause she says, "I accept. But add this to the document: compromise projects are group matters, every member reserves right to objection."
Aldo nods once, writes, adds a note. "Copy and archive later." His tone is flat, as though such procedures are routine.
The tension eases slightly. Helene leans back, exhaling, her golden hair catching the faint light. Quang Minh continues his quiet measurements, lost in numbers. Veritas watches, expression unreadable.
Aldo glances over the paper once more, then folds it. His eyes lift, sharper now, steady. "Then the next matter is immediate. Rescue Hai."
The words settle like stones on water, sending ripples through us all.
[So it begins. The fund binds us. The vote binds us. And now, the first mission under Aldo's name. The horizon grows nearer, but the path grows narrower. I feel the weight tightening already, as though this amphitheater does not only house our meeting, but the ghosts of what it will cost us.]
The pale yellow of dawn sinks deeper into the stone ribs of the amphitheater, seeping into the cracked walls as though the very stones breathe with us. Dust drifts in the air, illuminated by sharp shafts of morning light, and every movement of a hand or a garment stirs a faint echo against the concave bowl of the ruins. I keep my hand lifted, fingers spread, as if holding the fragile outline of the future between my palm and the rising sun.
"My suggestion," I say, voice steady but carrying across the half-empty tiers, "is that the Strays' foreign policy should be guided by five principles: Cooperation, Peace, Respect, Neutrality, and Credibility."
The words sound rehearsed, though I know I have not rehearsed them. They come from something I have carried within for years, a conviction shaped by every book I have read and every silent night spent imagining the paths history had taken on Earth. The others look at me, some with curiosity, some with suspicion. I meet their gazes without flinching.
Joon-soo is the first to step forward. His boots scrape the stone, and his arms swing in broad gestures as though even his body must protest against my measured tone. "Zihao," he says, his voice almost too loud for the early hour, "your five words sound good. But tell me—what if negotiations fail? What if Insularis strikes us first? Do we sit still, hands tied, until we are chained like Hai? Force will still have to be used."
His almond-colored eyes flash under the dawn light, and his jaw tightens. He is not mocking me; he is earnest, too earnest, and that is precisely what makes his words dangerous.
I inhale slowly, keeping my hand lifted a moment longer before lowering it to rest upon my knee. "It is obvious," I reply, eyes never leaving his. "When all measures fail, force is the last resort that must be brought out. But it must be the last. To unsheathe the sword before exhausting every word is to admit weakness of thought."
[He thinks me soft. He always does. To him, hesitation is weakness. Yet to me, hesitation is calculation. One strike must be enough, because one strike too many may destroy all.]
Lianne shifts lightly on the step below me, her blond hair catching the sunlight like threads of pale fire. Her voice is calm, the kind that softens tempers without even intending to. "Three people," she suggests, her eyes moving from Aldo to me to Joon-soo. "A main diplomat to speak, a bodyguard to protect, and a spy to watch. That is the most efficient form. Small, unseen, but not defenseless."
A murmur runs through the group. I catch the flicker of Aldo's eyes—sharp, narrow, as if already measuring every angle of such a formation. He has been silent too long, yet he lets the moment hang.
Aldo finally speaks, his voice low but carrying, resonant in the chamber of stone. "Opinions?"
Helene is the first to answer, her dark eyes glinting with an edge of practicality. "There should be a Communication Orb. Without it, we risk silence, and silence is death. They must remain connected with us at every step."
Ky follows almost immediately, raising his hand with a firm nod. "This is an important mission. Too important. In my reasoning, if we are small, then every limb, every breath must go into the same task. All-in. Nothing less." His voice has that stubborn solidity, like a door barred from within.
The amphitheater feels smaller suddenly, as if the walls lean in. Joon-soo, restless as ever, claps his hands once and declares: "Then let us vote. Fight, or peace? No more circling."
I sense the way his words divide the air itself. Peace—or war. He looks at me, eyes daring, waiting for me to falter.
[He knows my answer already. To him, I am predictable. Perhaps I am. But principles are not cloth that can be changed with weather. They are bones. And if they break, the body collapses.]
I answer without raising my voice: "Peace."
He grins—not in humor, but like a swordsman recognizing his rival's stance before the clash. "War."
The tension thickens. Even the dust seems to hang unmoving.
Aldo rises slowly, his movements deliberate, his hands resting briefly on his knees before releasing. His gaze sweeps over us, unreadable. "Then we vote." He produces two stacks of ballots—red for war, blue for peace—and his calmness chills the room more than any shout could.
We each take one. The paper feels rough between my fingers, a color more significant than its weight deserves. I do not hesitate. My choice is the same as my words. Blue.
The others cast theirs, and Aldo gathers them without ceremony. He counts once, twice, his face unchanged. Lianne and Quang Minh flank him, verifying. At last, Aldo lifts his head.
"Five votes. Four for peace. One for war." His eyes flick briefly toward Ky, who does not flinch.
Relief does not come, not immediately. [Four to one. Yet one is enough to remind me that unity is never absolute. There will always be a voice that pulls against the cord. And perhaps that voice is necessary. Perhaps.]
Aldo's tone shifts to business. "Resources must be distributed—"
But before his words settle, all seven of the others speak almost at once, voices overlapping, demanding all-in. The echoes crash against the stone. Aldo's brow creases faintly, but after a long silence he inclines his head. "So be it."
There is no triumph in his tone, only the weary weight of inevitability. He adds, "I will attempt contact with Chang Chul-moo. He may arrange talks with Insularis."
Ky raises his hand again, like a stone rising from water. "And what of the group now? What are we to do?"
Aldo's eyes narrow just slightly, then he says flatly, "Whatever you wish. Announce it, and we will arrange departure." And with that, he turns, cloak brushing against the stone, and becomes the first to leave the amphitheater.
The silence he leaves behind is heavy.
Joon-soo stretches his arms, yawns loudly, and throws himself onto a worn bench with careless abandon. Within moments, his breathing evens, a warrior asleep as though the debate had drained all passion from him.
Quang Minh gathers his clutter of tools, Lianne trailing after him with a half-smile, and disappears toward the city's edge. [Likely the library again. Numbers are his battlefield.]
Veritas mounts a horse—one I had not seen before. Its frame is powerful, hooves broad, mane black as coal. The animal moves with a dignity rare even among trained warhorses. I watch as Veritas steadies himself in the saddle, his platinum hair brushing the beast's neck.
"That horse," I murmur, more to myself than to anyone else. "Strong as mountain rock, swift enough to run all day, eyes colder than iron. It does not shy from fire or steel."
[Too much for simple travel. It is the kind of horse that belongs to cavalry, not scholars. But perhaps even Veritas feels the weight of storms to come.]
He curses softly at the price he had paid—two gold coins rushed into the seller's hand—and then rides off, his figure diminishing against the horizon.
The amphitheater empties slowly, one body after another leaving, until only echoes and sunlight remain. The weeds between the stones sway gently in the wind, indifferent to our choices. I remain seated for a long moment, my fingers brushing the rough surface of the step beneath me.
[Peace has won the vote. Yet peace is never certain. The vote may settle our path for today, but tomorrow? Tomorrow, the ground may shift. And when it does, I wonder—will my words still stand, or will blood wash them away?]
The wind answers with silence, carrying the dust of old battles into the morning air.
The morning air is crisp and smells faintly of dew and stone as I take the first step away from the amphitheater, the sun still low, casting long shadows across the cracked marble and the weeds that stubbornly push through the gaps. My boots make a soft crunch against the gravel path, but before I can turn fully, a movement catches my eye—a figure, not far off, standing still as though she has been paused in thought. Helene. Her golden hair glints in the pale sunlight, falling in a loose cascade around her shoulders, and her sapphire eyes are fixed on some invisible point in the distance. [She looks contemplative… deeper than usual. Something weighs on her.] I call her name, letting the sound carry, careful not to startle her.
Helene turns, her gaze immediately finding mine, sharp yet questioning. "Zihao? What is it?" she asks, tilting her head slightly, a mix of curiosity and subtle unease in her expression. I take a few steps toward her, the distance between us narrowing, feeling the cool morning breeze stir the loose strands of her hair.
"I thought I'd check if you were alright," I say quietly. "You've been standing there for a while."
Her shoulders relax a fraction, and she answers, her voice low and thoughtful, "I was just… thinking about what I should do today." Her eyes drift downward for a moment, then glance at mine as if seeking a kind of affirmation.
I tilt my head, considering her words. "Have you finished your usual quality control supervision for Aldo's enzyme production machines?" The question is casual, but it carries the weight of routine that she and I both know too well.
A small nod follows, deliberate and precise. "Yes, I have," she replies, then her gaze drifts away again, lingering on a spot far beyond the amphitheater. She stays silent, the muscles around her mouth tense, as if weighing whether to voice thoughts she has kept locked away for a long time. Finally, after a long pause, she speaks. "It's been a while since… since I was a gender-bender. The Matthews name has begun to fade, and my Helene identity… it has become more and more overwhelming. But…" Her voice falters slightly, and her shoulders slump. "…the emptiness, the sadness, it's still there."
[Even now, she carries the burden of that transformation like a shadow she cannot shake.] Her words settle around me with a gravity that fills the space between us. I can see her fingers fidgeting slightly, twisting the fabric of her tunic, betraying the calmness in her posture.
She continues, the words now spilling more freely. "And now, there's the discomfort… the Strays are still not disciplined enough, the laws are full of loopholes, and there's so much that could go wrong." I nod silently, aware that her Virtuous spirit, her unwavering ethical compass, guides her even when others might overlook the cracks. Her gaze sharpens, her jaw setting as she looks out over the empty expanse, the moss-covered steps of the amphitheater stretching behind us like the bones of some ancient beast.
"I want to find the Bone Collector," she admits finally, her tone quiet but resolute. "The one who gender-bendered me. I want the medicine to return to my original male gender." Her eyes meet mine directly, unflinching. [She's relentless, even in her personal quest. That persistence… it is formidable.]
I inhale and speak softly, aware that every word must balance caution and support. "Helene, the Bone Collector is cyclical. It has been fifteen years since the last activity, and the next cycle could be anywhere between twelve and sixty years from now." My gaze follows her eyes, which are already scanning the horizon, as if seeing through the limits of time itself.
She sighs, a sound that seems to pull the air from the morning around us. From a worn leather satchel, she produces a stack of documents she had left in a corner of the amphitheater, spreading them carefully across a flat stone, the corners weighted down by small stones she has picked up. Diagrams, cross-outs, and circled annotations cover every page. "Look," she says, pointing to a set of notes meticulously lined and annotated. "The Bone Collector may have a main lair. We don't need to wait for the next cycle to find it. I've marked nineteen potential locations on this map."
I lean over the stone, scanning her notes and the map. Her persistence is remarkable. Every line of ink, every carefully drawn circle, tells me she has thought this through multiple times, that her mind does not rest until it has grasped every angle. I place my hand on her shoulder, a gesture of reassurance more than familiarity. "I'll support you," I tell her quietly, "after the negotiations are over."
Her eyes soften briefly, gratitude and relief mingling with the persistent spark of determination. "Will you keep your word?" she asks, the question both a test and a challenge.
I meet her gaze, steady. "I will."
She nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Then I can delay this for the common good of the group."
From her satchel, she pulls a single sheet of paper, smooth and pale in the morning light, and hands it to me with an expectant look. I raise an eyebrow. "What is this for?"
"To keep you accountable," she replies simply. "If you don't honor your promise, I will use this commitment form to sue the group court."
I blink at her, incredulous. "The group court hasn't been established yet."
"That will be proposed to Aldo later," she says matter-of-factly, as though that makes everything reasonable. Her gaze is sharp, unyielding, expectant.
I sigh softly, taking the paper and signing it. [It's… excessive. But also… reassuring. She needs structure, a binding of words to action, and perhaps I do too.] "There," I say, sliding the signed form back toward her.
She studies the signature, satisfied. "Just like riding a nice bike requires a license and staying in the right lane. Keeping promises in 'transactions' is the right thing to do."
I tilt my head, a smirk tugging at my lips despite the morning chill. "Where did you ride a bike with a license and a separate lane?"
"Germany," she says, her tone light but firm. "It was an electric bike, not a Fahrrad." I can't help but think she stumbled slightly on the German word, yet she recovers quickly. [Even in language, she imposes order.]
She rises and starts walking again, deliberate steps over the uneven stone, and I follow. My pace quickens unconsciously to match hers. She glances over her shoulder, a teasing light in her eyes.
"Why are you following?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, though my curiosity pricks at me.
"I have no plans at the moment," she admits. "And I'm tired of following Aldo all the time. I want to learn more about you, Zihao." Her tone is casual, yet there is an undercurrent of sincerity that makes my chest tighten slightly.
We walk in silence for several steps, the only sound the soft scrape of our boots against the gravel and the distant calls of birds stirred by the rising sun. The amphitheater's shadows stretch long behind us, curling across the ground like dark fingers.
Finally, I break the silence. "Do you live with Aldo?"
She nods, her expression open, almost innocent. "Isn't it obvious? It's a benefit he provides for working in his company. No need to rent a house, and… being in the same group makes me feel more secure."
I do not ask further. There is a quiet strength in her words, a simplicity that belies the complexity of her life. We walk on, side by side, the wind ruffling our clothing, the stones underfoot cool and uneven. Silence stretches between us again, but it is comfortable now, not oppressive.
[The morning light catches her hair, gilding each strand, and I realize that even in this strange world, among Strays and the ruins of old empires, moments of clarity and connection are possible. We are all burdened, all driven by obligations and promises, but for this brief stretch of time, we walk together in understanding, our paths intertwined for reasons both practical and… quietly personal.]
And so we move forward, the amphitheater fading behind us, each step carrying the weight of duty, the promise of commitment, and the unspoken trust that, for now, binds us in this fragile, uneasy peace.