The road that cut through the interior of the island was narrow and uneven, paved in stone that the rain had polished into mirrors.
By midday, the fog had begun to thin, leaving behind the scent of damp earth and the sound of hooves far away. Dromo was not a barren island; it was alive, but in that muted way of places where beauty had long ago learned to stay quiet.
Gemma walked a few steps ahead, her boots sinking slightly in the mud. She was tracing something in the air with her fingers, as if sketching invisible constellations.
Aros watched her in silence, unsure whether to interrupt her or not. Every time she began to listen, the world seemed to respond: trees bending slightly, birds changing direction, the low hum beneath everything deepening into something almost human.
"You're doing it again," he said finally.
Gemma didn't turn. "You told me to listen."
"I told you to understand, not to chase ghosts."
"They're not ghosts," she said, and then fell quiet.
They kept walking.The path curved between low hills where clusters of houses leaned into each other like old secrets. Smoke rose from chimneys; laundry hung across windows, pale against the gray sky. People watched them pass but didn't speak. It was the way of Dromo: eyes followed, mouths stayed shut.
Aros adjusted the strap of the satchel on his shoulder."Don't answer them if they speak," he said."They never do," Gemma replied."That's the problem."
She smiled faintly at that. It was a small, brittle smile, the kind that belonged to someone who had already learned that silence was safer than kindness.
They walked until the hills opened into a stretch of farmland. The soil was dark and rich, but the crops grew low, stunted, as if the roots refused to go too deep. In the distance, a line of windmills turned slowly, creaking like old bones.
"Was it like this before?" Gemma asked.
"Before?" Aros glanced at her.
"When you were young."
Aros gave a dry laugh. "I wasn't young on this island. I came here when faith was already a currency."
She nodded, thoughtful. "Then it's always been like this."
He wanted to say no, but didn't. Some truths were too heavy to pull into daylight.
They stopped by a stream that cut across the path, its surface trembling under the weight of wind. Gemma crouched and dipped her fingers in the water. It shimmered faintly around her hand, the same pale vibration that had frightened him in Calad.
He knelt beside her. "Careful."
"I'm not using it," she said. "It's using me."
"That's not comforting."
Her eyes flicked toward him, amused. "You don't like things you can't explain, do you?"
"I like to survive them."
Gemma smiled again, but this time it held warmth. For a moment, she seemed younger, a child, even, until the wind shifted and she froze.
Aros waited a moment, then said quietly, "You know, we could stop."She looked at him, puzzled.He kept his gaze on the stream. "We could go south, live by the coast. There are towns where the Priesthood's reach is thin. You don't have to follow whatever this is. You don't owe anyone anything."
Gemma shook her head, the movement small but resolute. "That's not true.""You're still a child," he said softly. "You deserve a life that isn't made of running."She hesitated, then whispered, "And you?"
Aros's mouth twitched into something like a smile. "I stopped deserving anything a long time ago."
Gemma dipped her hand back into the water, and when she spoke again, her voice was firm. "If we run, the voices will follow. I can't pretend they're not there."
Aros sighed. "Then let's at least make them regret whispering."
She smiled faintly, and for a heartbeat, the air between them felt almost peaceful, until the wind shifted again.
Her head tilted slightly. The air thickened.
Aros felt it too. A presence, distant but distinct, like a pulse buried in the earth."What is it?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Not them. Others."
They stood. The road ahead had grown darker, the fog returning as if drawn by the sound itself.Aros scanned the trees along the slope. "Keep walking. Slowly."
They moved forward, the crunch of gravel underfoot echoing louder than it should. Gemma's hand brushed against his sleeve, a small, instinctive gesture: not fear exactly, but recognition that something was wrong.
Then came the whistle. Short, sharp, human.Figures stepped out of the mist, five, maybe six, cloaked, armed with short blades and muskets patched with copper. The way they moved told Aros they were organized, but not disciplined. Rebels, or worse.
He raised his hands slightly. "If you're looking for trouble, you've already found it."
The one in front laughed. "No one looks for trouble here, old man. Trouble just happens to pass by."
The speaker lowered his hood. His face was wide and sunburnt, framed by an uneven beard and a smile too confident for the situation. His eyes, however, were sharp. Calculating.
Aros felt Gemma tense beside him.
The man spread his arms in mock courtesy. "Forgive the welcome. We don't get many pilgrims this deep into Dromo."
"Then maybe you should let them go when they do," Aros said.
The man grinned wider. "Maybe. Or maybe not. Depends who they are."
He took a step closer, his boots sinking into the mud. The others stayed back, watching.When he spoke again, his voice had lost its playfulness."Tell me something. The girl...is she what I think she is?"
Aros didn't answer. His silence was enough.
The man studied them for a long moment, then his grin returned, crooked and satisfied. "Thought so," he said softly. "Then we're not enemies. At least not today."
He extended his hand. "Name's Broko. And you must be the famous Aros Kevis."
Aros frowned. "You've got the wrong man pal"
Broko chuckled. "Okay wrong man, we need to talk."
Behind him, the fog thickened, swallowing the horizon.Gemma looked at Aros, uncertain. He said nothing, though his hand hovered near the hilt of his knife.
Broko's smile didn't fade. "Come on then. The world's ending in a dozen different ways, and you two just walked into one of them."