They left the last fingers of the marsh behind them by afternoon.
The ground firmed gradually; mud gave way to damp soil, then to honest dirt that took a footprint without trying to keep the boot. Reeds thinned into grass. The air lost its stagnant weight and took on a cleaner bite.
The caravan moved just a little straighter.
John felt it in the way the horses raised their heads, in the way the guards no longer scanned every puddle for something reaching out of it. Even the wagon wheels sounded different—less like drowning, more like
traveling.
"You hear that?" Flint said, falling into step beside John. "That's the sound of progress. And also, the sound of my boots no longer trying to fuse with the earth."
"You were very attached to that mud," John replied.
"Ha," Flint said flatly. "You're hilarious."
Doris walked on John's other side, Brian held snug against her chest. She'd finally slept for a few hours on the barge crossing; the change showed. There was still exhaustion crowding her features, but the sharp, brittle edge had dulled slightly, replaced by something quieter. Focus. Determination.
"How far now?" John asked Gerran, who rode just ahead, map case slung across his back.
Gerran loosened the strap, pulled out a creased, water-warped sheet, and squinted. "By this count? A day and a half if the road's clear. Two if it's not."
"Is it ever clear?" Flint asked.
Gerran snorted. "Not in my lifetime."
Dorothy walked ahead, every so often pressing her palm to the air or the ground, testing for the residual pull of Paragon presence. Her face was more lined than it had been when John first met her seasons ago. Power aged people in ways time couldn't claim full credit for.
"Anything?" John called.
"For now, we've lost their direct trail," she replied. "The river did its work."
"Then they'll start guessing," Doris said quietly. "Trying the most likely routes forward."
"To the capital," Dorothy agreed. "Where else would Voidborn blood run for cover?"
Doris flinched slightly at the word. John noticed; he always did now.
He shifted the strap of his pack. "So, we're still ahead of them."
"For the moment," Dorothy said. "But don't mistake 'ahead' for 'safe.'"
Flint sighed deeply. "No one was making that mistake."
The land sloped slowly upward as afternoon wore on. Grass fields gave way to scattered copses of twisted oak and scrub-pine, their roots gripping rocky soil. Far off to the east, thin smoke trails marked villages and
farmsteads. To the west, distant hills rose like the backs of sleeping beasts.
And ahead—faint, almost more idea than form—the silhouette of something larger scraped the horizon. Walls. Towers. A jagged, symmetrical interruption in the natural skyline.
Doris saw it at the same time John did.
"The capital," she said softly.
"Or a mirage," Flint suggested. "A cruel, stony mirage."
Gerran followed their gaze, then grunted. "Aetherion," he confirmed. "Still where they left it, then."
Dorothy's mouth twitched. "Would have been more concerning if it wasn't."
For a brief, fragile moment, hope fluttered through the caravan like a shy bird.
Then they crested another rise and saw the road.
Or what was left of it.
The kingroad was a broad, stone-laid artery running straight toward the capital—a testament to imperial pride. Or it had been, once. Now, long stretches lay cracked, half-buried under churned earth. Charred patches
marked where wagons or barricades had burned. Here and there, broken poles still jutted from the roadside, ragged scraps of cloth hanging from them.
Banners.
Flint eyed one of the nearest poles as they approached. "Place has seen better days."
"Warfront reached this far," Gerran said. "Skirmishes, raids, cult ambushes. The empire's been trying to keep the road clear to the capital, but…" He gestured at the broken stones. "Order is expensive. Chaos is
cheap."
Dorothy walked to the closest fallen banner.
It lay tangled in the ditch, half-buried. She knelt and brushed dirt from the crest: a golden sunburst on a crimson field, edges
blackened by fire.
Doris exhaled slowly. "Fourth Legion. Stormwall cohort."
John's brow furrowed. "You know them?"
"Served beside them," Doris said. "Once. Before I ran." Her fingers hovered over the burned cloth but did not touch it. "They were loud. Always singing marching songs. They hated cultists more than they hated taxes.
That says something."
"Where are they now?" Flint asked.
Doris looked at the burned edges and didn't answer.
Gerran clicked his tongue. "Keep moving. Roads remember bad things. No need to linger."
They rejoined the main track.
The kingroad cut a scar through the countryside, flanked at irregular intervals by old mile-markers—stone obelisks with faintly glowing runes that counted distance to the capital. The reduced glow made John uneasy.
"Why are the markers dim?" he asked Dorothy.
She ran her fingers across one as they passed. "They're tied to Aether lines under the road. When too much blood is spilled nearby, they… falter. Not broken, exactly. Just stained."
"Can they be cleansed?" Doris asked.
"In theory," Dorothy said. "With time, and effort, and more goodwill than the empire currently has to spare."
Flint squinted at the rune. "Still legible enough?"
Dorothy nodded. "Sixteen leagues to the capital."
Flint immediately groaned. "You mean to tell me we're still sixteen leagues away? I thought we were nearly there."
"We're closer than we were this morning," John pointed out mildly.
Flint grumbled something about distance being an imperial conspiracy, but he resumed walking.
They encountered the first corpse an hour later.
It lay half off the road, already stiffening. A man in torn leather armour, eyes pecked out by carrion birds. His chest was blackened with
a burned symbol—two intersecting lines within a circle.
Paragon mark.
One of the younger guards gagged. "Gods… he's still warm."
"Not for long," Gerran said. "Check his satchel."
Flint stepped forward, expression tightening. "I've got it."
He knelt, ignoring the smell, and rifled through the dead man's worn pouch. A few coppers, a strip of dried meat gone hard as wood, a
broken ring, a crumpled scrap of parchment.
He unfolded the parchment.
John caught the way Flint's face shifted.
"What?" John asked.
Flint handed it to Dorothy.
She read it, jaw tightening.
"It's an order," she said quietly. "A field note. 'Sweep south of the Listening Stones. Search marsh perimeters. Priority target: resonant child. Capture alive.'"
Doris's breath hitched. "They're sure now. Not just guessing."
Dorothy nodded grimly. "This one didn't make it back to report that we slipped the marsh. But others will have tried. And others still
will be behind them."
Gerran scratched his beard. "So, they're hunting our general direction. But they didn't expect us to take the river track this early. That's something."
"Small comforts," Flint muttered. He glanced down at the dead man. "We should move him off the road. Give him… something."
"He wore their mark," one of the guards said tightly. "He'd have burned us just as quickly."
Flint shrugged. "Maybe. But leaving him sprawled like rubbish doesn't make us better."
John didn't say a word. He stepped forward, gripped the corpse beneath the arms, and dragged it farther into the ditch. He covered the man's face with a piece of torn cloak, then placed a flat stone over the chest, covering the worst of the burned symbol.
"That's all we have time for," he said quietly.
Doris watched him with soft eyes.
The caravan moved on.
The next body appeared half a league later—a woman this time, in travel-stained clothes, throat cut. No mark. A simple trader, from the
look of the scattered, looted goods nearby.
No one needed to say what this one meant.
The road was not safe.
From Paragons.
From bandits.
From anyone.
Near midafternoon, dust appeared on the horizon—rolling toward them in a distinct, advancing plume.
"Riders," Gerran said. "More than a scouting band."
John's hand went to his sword. "Paragons?"
"Unlikely," Dorothy said. "They move quieter. And they don't fly colours in broad daylight." Her eyes narrowed. "That looks like a banner."
Dorothy moved to the front. So did Gerran, raising a hand for the caravan to slow but not stop.
The approaching riders drew nearer, their shapes resolving into armoured figures on well-bred horses. Sunlight flashed off breastplates and helms. At their head, a standard-bearer held a tall pole from which an imperial banner snapped in the wind—black field, silver tower, ringed by stylized stars.
John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Imperial patrol?"
"Road wardens," Gerran said. "Seventh Highway Cohort, if that emblem's honest."
Flint shifted uneasily. "Honest or not, they're still the kind that asks questions."
"And questions can be survived," Dorothy said. "Cults cannot."
The riders fanned out as they approached, forming a half-circle in front of the caravan. Their leader, a woman with a scar along one cheek and eyes like polished iron, raised a hand.
"In the name of the Empire," she called, "halt and declare your business."
Gerran rode forward a few paces. "Caravan bound for the capital," he replied. "Merchants and families. We were hit outside the canyon three nights ago by Ridgeclaws and worse. Seeking safer roads."
"Everything seeks safer roads now," the captain said. She eyed the wagons. "Any wounded? Any plague? Any unregistered mages?"
John felt Doris's tense beside him.
Dorothy stepped forward before he could say anything. "I am registered," she said. "Dorothy Varlen, of the Imperial Aether Academy."
The captain's brows rose. "An academy scholar out here?"
"In a manner of speaking," Dorothy replied.
The captain studied her for a long moment, then dismounted with a fluid, practiced motion. "Captain Linnea Sarv. Seventh Highway Cohort. My orders are to keep the kingroad passable and ensure no cult-aligned forces slip through to the capital." She glanced at the caravan's rear. "We saw smoke over the marsh this morning. And felt… something last night."
Dorothy's lips thinned. "Listening Stones."
The captain nodded. "Storm of sound. Our horses bolted in their sleep." She tilted her head. "And you were where, in relation to that?"
"Too close," Gerran said.
"Closer than we liked," Flint added under his breath.
Captain Sarv's gaze swept them. Sharp. Evaluating. When it reached John, it hesitated a heartbeat on his sword, his stance, the way he positioned himself just slightly in front of Doris and Brian without seeming to.
Then her gaze dropped to the baby.
"Some luck," she said quietly. "Bringing a newborn through this mess."
"Luck," Doris echoed. "Yes."
Captain Sarv's eyes narrowed slightly, but she let the word pass.
Dorothy stepped in smoothly. "Captain, we're attempting to reach the capital before the Paragons adjust their hunt. We have reason to believe they're actively searching this region for a particular… target of interest."
"Any target of interest to them is a problem for us," Sarv said. "Explain."
Dorothy hesitated just long enough to be noticeable. Then she drew a careful breath.
"A child born under unusual circumstances," she said. "In a storm that turned wrong. The Listening Stones responded to his cry."
Sarv's reaction was subtle.
Her shoulders stiffened a fraction. Her hand, resting lightly on the pommel of her sword, curled slightly tighter.
"And this child is with you?" she asked.
"Yes," Dorothy said.
John's whole body went taut.
Sarv's gaze slid to him again. "You're the father?"
"Yes," John said.
"And will you answer honestly?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
She nodded once. "Good. Because if you lie and I have to find out the hard way, this will go badly for everyone."
John kept his voice level. "Understood."
"Is he Voidborn?" Sarv asked bluntly.
Silence swallowed the road for a heartbeat.
Doris's fingers dug into Brian's blanket. John felt the question land like a stone between them.
"Yes," Doris said. Her voice was soft but clear. "He is."
It was the first time she'd said it openly in front of strangers.
Sarv didn't flinch. "That explains the Stones. And the storm."
Dorothy frowned. "You believe us quickly."
Sarv's expression was grim. "You're not the first caravan we've seen staggering up this road with wild stories about resonance and cults. But you're the first with a baby that makes the air feel like it's listening."
John blinked. "You can feel it?"
"Not like your kind do," Sarv said. "But enough. Years on the road dulls a lot of things. It sharpens others." She glanced past them,
toward the southeast. "Our scouts saw movement on the northern ridges at dawn.
Cloaked figures. They turned back when we approached."
"Paragons," Dorothy said.
"Likely," Sarv agreed. "Which means they're on this side of the marsh. And which means whatever you're running from is real enough to chase."
Gerran lifted his chin. "Will you let us pass?"
"Yes," the captain said. "On one condition."
Flint groaned quietly. "Here it comes."
Sarv ignored him. "We escort you the rest of the way."
Dorothy blinked. "You have that many riders to spare?"
"No," Sarv said. "But my orders are to keep the road secure for priority threats. A Voidborn child, screaming across half the spiritual
landscape, ranks higher than chasing bandits off some merchant's cart."
John exhaled. "You're willing to risk your unit for us?"
Sarv's lips curved in something too thin to be called a smile. "Protect the thing the enemy wants most. It's the fastest way to force them into the open. And if we get you to the capital, that's one more weapon the emperor might use against the cult later." Her gaze hardened. "Don't mistake compassion for strategy. They walk together, but they are not the same."
Doris swallowed. "We don't care why you help," she said. "Only that you do."
Sarv nodded. "Then stay in the center of the column. We'll ride front and rear. Any cloaked fool who steps within bowshot of this caravan
will regret it."
Gerran exhaled, relief and unease mingled. "We'll keep your pace, Captain."
"See that you do," she replied. "We ride in ten minutes. Feed your horses. Drink. Breathe." Her eyes flicked once more to Brian. "And keep him as quiet as you can. The world's listening loud enough as it is."
She turned away, barking orders to her squad.
Dorothy watched her go. "This complicates things," she murmured.
"Complicates?" Flint said. "I call this an improvement."
"Imperial eyes," Dorothy said. "Imperial reports. Imperial rumours. The more people who know, the harder it will ever be to vanish if we need to."
John looked at Brian.
Then at the approaching silhouette of Aetherion's distant walls.
"We were never going to vanish," he said quietly. "Not with him. That choice was gone the moment he was born."
Doris leaned into him. "Then we walk the road we have."
"Escorted," Flint said. "For once."
"Don't get used to it," Dorothy said.
They didn't.
But when the caravan rolled forward again, wrapped now in the steel ring of Captain Sarv's riders, John felt—if not safe—then slightly less exposed to the teeth of the world.
The capital loomed closer with every mile.
So did the Academy.
So did the moment when Brian's existence would no longer be a secret carried by a caravan and a handful of weary souls—but a fact stamped into imperial records and whispered down a thousand corridors.
The road of broken banners carried them onward.
And somewhere far behind, in marsh and ridge and scarred stone, the Paragons adjusted their hunt.