(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man sat in silence for a long time after that. The fire had burned low, and the room was filled with shadows that seemed to lean in, listening. The Scholar waited, his quill poised, his eyes fixed on the weathered face of the storyteller.
"We left Lyon at dawn," Aurelio said finally, his voice a low rumble. "Seven of us. Seven survivors, walking south toward Rome. Toward Nero. Toward whatever darkness awaited us. We knew we were walking into a trap. But we walked anyway. Because that is what survivors do."
He looked up, his eyes glistening in the firelight.
"They keep walking. Even when the road leads nowhere. Even when the destination is death."
---
— Memory —
The road south was a wound in the earth.
The plague had touched everything. Villages stood empty, their doors swinging in the wind, their hearths cold. Fields lay fallow, the crops rotting where they had been planted. The only signs of life were the crows; fat, black, indifferent. They perched on the rooftops, watching the travelers pass with their heads cocked, their beaks stained with the blood of the dead.
Aurelio walked at the head of the column, his sword in his hand, his eyes scanning the horizon. Behind him came Cecilia, her arm linked through Elara's, her face pale but resolute. The girl had not spoken in days. She walked with her eyes down, her feet moving automatically, her small face empty of anything but exhaustion.
Behind them came Liam, his sword across his back, his senses alert. Behind him came Gerald, his axe slung over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the treeline. Behind him came Donata, her forge hammer tied to her belt, her face a mask of grim determination. And behind them all, Riccio, his bow strung, an arrow nocked but not drawn.
Seven of them. Seven survivors, huddled together against the cold, against the plague, against the creeping certainty that they were being followed.
"He is out there," Gerald said on the third night, as they huddled around a small fire in the ruins of a wayside shrine. "Godbrand. I can feel him."
"You feel your own fear," Liam replied. "Godbrand is miles away. Perhaps dead."
"Godbrand is not dead. Godbrand is waiting."
"Then let him wait. We are walking toward him. He does not need to follow."
Gerald grunted, unconvinced. He stared into the flames, his jaw tight, his hands clenching and unclenching. The firelight cast deep shadows across his face, making him look older, harder, more like the man he had been before Alicent had changed him.
"You should sleep," Cecilia said to Aurelio.
"I cannot sleep."
"You have not slept in days."
"I have not slept in years."
She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was firm.
"Then sit with me. Watch the stars. Pretend, for a moment, that the world is not ending."
He looked at her. In the firelight, her eyes seemed to glow. The hollow cure had saved her life, but something had been lost in the bargain. She was paler than she had been, thinner, her movements slower. But her spirit was intact. That was what mattered.
"The world is ending," he said.
"Then let it end. We will watch it together."
---
The second week brought rain.
Not the gentle spring rain that nourished crops and filled rivers, but a cold, relentless downpour that turned the roads to mud and the mud to quagmires. They walked through it because they had no choice. They slept in it because there was no shelter. They ate cold rations and dreamed of warm bread and dry blankets.
Elara began to cough on the tenth day.
At first, it was a small thing; a tickle in her throat, a clearing of her lungs. But by the twelfth day, it had become a wet, rattling sound that made Aurelio's heart clench with fear.
"She needs rest," Cecilia said. "She needs medicine. She needs a dry place to sleep."
"There are no dry places," Aurelio replied. "Not anymore."
"Then we make one."
They found a cave at the base of a cliff, its entrance hidden by a tangle of brambles. The interior was damp and dark, but it was out of the wind, and the rain could not reach them. Liam gathered wood for a fire. Gerald cleared the brambles. Cecilia laid Elara on a bed of dry leaves and covered her with her own cloak.
"She is burning up," Cecilia said, her voice tight.
"I know."
"If she does not get better..."
"She will get better."
"How do you know?"
Aurelio did not answer. He could not. He did not know. He only knew that he could not bear to lose another child. Not Elara. Not after everything.
They stayed in the cave for three days.
The rain did not stop. Elara's fever did not break. Cecilia refused to leave her side, feeding her broth, wiping her brow, whispering words that Aurelio could not hear. The girl's breathing was shallow, her skin pale, her eyes closed. She looked like a small, broken doll.
On the third night, Liam returned from a scouting mission with a bundle of herbs wrapped in a cloth. His face was grim.
"An old woman in a village not far from here," he said. "She gave me these. She said to boil them in water and make the girl breathe the steam."
"Who was she?"
"I do not know. She did not give her name. She said only that she had been waiting for us."
"Waiting?"
"She said the Echoes had told her we were coming."
Aurelio felt a chill run down his spine. "Can we trust her?"
"Can we afford not to?"
They boiled the herbs over the fire and made Elara breathe the steam. The girl coughed and sputtered, but her breathing eased. The fever did not break, but it did not worsen.
"We stay one more day," Aurelio decided. "Then we move."
---
The third week brought a change in the weather.
The rain stopped. The clouds parted. The sun returned, pale and weak, but warm enough to dry their clothes and lift their spirits. Elara's fever broke on the eighteenth day. She was weak, but she was alive.
"We need to find horses," Gerald said. "At this pace, it will take us another month to reach Rome."
"Where would we find horses?"
"There is a town ahead. A real town, not a burned-out village. I saw smoke from the ridge."
"A town means people. People means plague. Plague means death."
"It also means supplies. And horses."
Aurelio looked at Cecilia. She nodded.
"We go to the town. But we are careful. We do not stay longer than we must."
---
The town was called Aquila.
It was small, perhaps a few hundred souls, nestled in a valley between two hills. The buildings were intact, the fields were planted, and the streets were filled with people going about their business. It was like stepping into a different world; a world where the plague had not yet reached, where the war was a distant rumor, where hope was still possible.
A merchant sold them horses at a fair price. A baker gave them bread without being asked. A blacksmith sharpened their blades and refused payment.
"Go with God," the blacksmith said, pressing a handful of silver into Aurelio's palm. "And bring the Emperor down."
"You know why we are here?"
"Everyone knows. Nero has declared himself the savior of Italy. He says he will end the plague and restore order. He says he will build a new empire from the ashes of the old."
"And you do not believe him?"
"I believe he is a madman. And madmen do not save. They destroy."
---
They left Aquila at dawn, mounted on fresh horses, their bellies full of hot bread and warm stew.
"The blacksmith was right," Liam said. "Nero is a madman. But madmen can be killed."
"Not easily."
"No. Not easily. But it can be done."
They rode south, the road stretching before them like a grey ribbon. The sun was warm on their faces, and for a moment, Aurelio allowed himself to hope.
That night, they made camp in a grove of olive trees.
The trees were old, their trunks gnarled, their branches twisted. They reminded Aurelio of the Weeping Grove, of his family, of a life he had lost and would never regain.
"My father used to say that olive trees are immortal," he said, staring up at the branches. "He said they could live for a thousand years. That they had seen empires rise and fall. That they would see many more."
"Perhaps they will," Cecilia said, sitting beside him.
"Not these. The Cabal burned the Grove. The trees are dead."
"Trees can be replanted."
"The memories cannot."
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, "The memories are not in the trees. They are in you. As long as you live, the Grove lives."
He looked at her. In the fading light, she was beautiful; not in the way of court paintings, but in the way of a blade that had been tested and had not broken.
"I love you," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them. They hung in the air, fragile and terrifying.
She did not flinch. She did not look away.
"I know," she said. "I have known for a long time."
"And?"
"And I love you too. But love is not enough. Not in a world like this."
"Then what is enough?"
"Survival. Endurance. The stubborn refusal to give up. That is enough. That is everything."
---
— Present —
The old man leaned back in his chair. The fire had died, and the room was cold, but he did not seem to notice.
"We reached the outskirts of Rome three days later," he said. "And we found the city in chaos. Nero's army had surrounded it. His followers were everywhere. And Godbrand... Godbrand was nowhere to be seen."