I watched through the boy's eyes—Soren. Me. My past life.
A past life threading itself into present breath.
Now I understood the dreams I had in those restless nights.
The way his hand clenched around the coin.
Silver laid with gold. Noble craftwork.
One side bore the Caelus insignia—two lions, tridents, and a scutum.
Insignia of a noble family.
The other, a crown of olive leaves and a single name engraved. The edge crafted round and smooth.
The coin, an enkolpion pendant, the general, Caelus—Kaelen—given to me.
I saw it. I saw now.
===
He barely felt his body being lifted.
Breath shallow, limbs limp—Soren floated in and out of pain, the kind that gnawed through every nerve until even agony lost its shape. He couldn't move a finger, but somehow, he was still breathing.
The world shifted beneath him. Someone was carrying him. His right eye was sealed shut, dried blood caking down from his swollen temple. He caught a glimpse of light. His face covered in hay. Dim light flickering like a dream—and then everything faded again.
He hung between life and death.
But the boy who should've died… didn't.
When he awoke again, he lay on clean sheets. Gauze wrapped his chest and arms. His left leg and ankle were secured in wooden splints. He was in a quiet earthen room, its walls painted with white chalk.
Then the curtain rustled.
A plump woman with warm eyes appeared. She didn't speak much, but her hands were gentle. She spooned broth into his mouth, gave him medicine, helped the physician examine him.
He sensed something missing—his hand felt empty—but everything was a blur.
Half-awake, Soren heard whispers that they would soon head to Umbria.
That was all he understood.
When his fever finally broke, they began preparing him to leave. Rome was no longer safe.
He was too weak to walk. So they lifted him onto a stretcher, gently securing him into a horse-drawn cart.
Before he was moved, the woman rubbed his forehead with her thumb, whispering a chant for protection. Then she slipped the coin into his palm, closed his fingers around it, and held them tightly before letting go.
Soren felt eased.
An agile woman, and a quiet, broad-shouldered man, accompanied him. A couple—middle-aged, plain, with the kind of kindness that needed no explanation.
They tended to him without fuss. Wiped his brow when he sweated through his clothes. Fed him crushed herbs with goat's milk. Hushed him when the pain came in waves.
Sometimes, Soren was sure his body wouldn't hold. That the breath would just… stop.
But it didn't.
The cart moved slowly. They changed horses when they could—sometimes mules in hill towns, sometimes fresh wheels in busier cities. The roads were long, uneven, but they were never turned away. Wherever they stopped, doors opened.
He asked once, in a whisper.
"Why?"
The woman only smiled.
"We serve the general. Our family has, for generations. He told us, protect this boy like our own."
So they did.
The couple took him first to Umbria—a quiet stop nestled in the hills, far from the reach of soldiers and spies. There, they waited. Gathered supplies. Arranged the next part of the journey.
From Umbria, a team of sworn mercenaries escorted them—four hired mercenaries, paid well to guard the boy without asking questions. They rode in silence, their faces half-covered, weapons always in reach.
The terrain turned harsh. They crossed rugged mountain paths, where wheels cracked and had to be mended. They pushed through dense forests, fording rivers with carts half-submerged.
Sometimes the horses panicked, and the whole procession had to stop while the men calmed them.
On a good day, Soren could sit up for a short while, propped with cushions and clenching his teeth against the pain.
But most days… he couldn't even hold a breath without hurting.
His body was wrecked. His lungs felt like they were filling with fire. Fever came and went. The movement of the cart rattled his bones until it blurred his mind. The woman never left his side. She wiped his mouth when he coughed blood. She whispered prayers into his damp hair when he groaned in sleep.
No one treated him like a burden.
Not even once.
He was never told what day it was. Only that they were getting closer.
He didn't know how long the journey took.
Weeks bled into months.
But he clung to the only truth left in him: the coin in his palm. The general's token.
The general had not abandoned him.
Someone still knew he was alive.
Someone had seen him, broken, and decided he was worth saving.
===
The season changed near the end of the journey. It was autumn when the cart finally reached Constantinople.
Soren was burning with fever. He barely recognized Silas, who came running to meet him, tears shining in his lashes at the sight of his broken brother.
They carried him into the great blue church—its domes catching the golden light of evening. A physician was summoned. They stayed by his side day and night.
When Soren opened his eyes again, blue filled his vision—domes brushed with dusk.
Blue glowed in golden evening light.
The boy's gaze lifted toward the sacred space above, overwhelmed, even as his body shook with coughing. Silas sobbed beside him.
Once his fever passed, they moved him to a quieter home. A sanctuary. The house was simple, but beautiful, with a garden in bloom.
Elias arrived days later, bringing news of Noam.
Noam had surrendered himself. Wracked with guilt, he had entered a monastery near Avila. He never asked Soren for forgiveness—believing himself unworthy. He had taken a vow of silence and celibacy.
Soren's body never fully recovered. On good days, he limped through the garden, feeling the breeze. Most days, he could not leave his bed.
The brothers visited when they could, bringing him warmth and stories. Silas often read aloud from scrolls he found in the house library. The couple that had brought him from Umbria remained and sought out every healer in the city.
Sometimes Soren smiled at their laughter. But his skin grew paler. His frame thinned week by week.
Then, at the edge of autumn, a pigeon arrived.
Tied to its leg was a slip of parchment, sealed in wax.
Soren held it with shaking hands, fingertips brushing a crest he knew by heart.
The general was coming.
The boy hope lifted.