By the time the sun climbed past noon, the road had grown crowded.
Not with people—yet—but with signs of them. Wagon ruts older than this season cutting parallel grooves in the stone-and-dirt blend of the kingroad. Hoofprints baked into muddy patches. Broken wheel spokes tossed into
ditches. The skeletons of once-sturdy roadside shrines, their offerings long since stolen, burned, or eaten by weather.
The closer they drew to the capital, the more the land remembered footsteps.
John counted the mile-markers as they passed.
Fourteen leagues.
Thirteen.
Each obelisk glowed a little brighter than the last. Whatever blood had stained their Aether lines in the hinterlands, the imperial heart here pulsed stronger, fighting off corruption.
Captain Sarv and her highway cohort rode in a protective ring around the caravan—four to the front, four to the rear, and twos on either
flank. Their formation flexed whenever the road narrowed or twisted, settling back into smooth lines as if drilled into their bones.
Brian slept fitfully in Doris's arms, waking only to suckle or cry briefly, then sinking back into shallow dreams. His weight had become an
almost permanent fixture against her chest, as constant as her own breathing.
John walked at her side, as he had for days now, one hand near his sword, the other occasionally steadying her when the road jolted.
"You're staring again," Doris murmured, not looking up.
"At what?" John asked.
"At the obelisks," she said. "At the riders. At the way Sarv keeps glancing back at us like we're a package she wants to open early."
He huffed a small breath. "Keeping track."
"You're worrying," Doris corrected.
"Yes," he said. "That too."
Her lips quirked. "Good. It means you haven't died yet."
Flint drifted up on John's other side, walking backward for a few steps while facing Captain Sarv's rear guard. "Our new friends ride like
they're expecting the sky to fall."
"Maybe it will," John said.
"Cheerful," Flint replied. "If the sky does fall, I call dibs on shelter under the wagon. You can have… whatever's left."
Doris snorted softly despite herself.
Up ahead, Dorothy walked with the steadiness of someone who had been awake too long but refused to show it. Her staff remained capped, its tip pressing against the road rather than sparking in the air. There was enough magic humming here without adding more.
They passed another mile-marker.
"Twelve leagues," Dorothy read. "If the stone can be trusted."
"It can," Captain Sarv said from horseback just behind her. "We have squads whose entire job is maintaining these. They like their numbers too much to lie about them."
"Good to see the Empire has priorities," Flint said.
Sarv gave him a look that suggested she could hear his tone perfectly well even if his words hadn't carried. "You know what happens when the markers fail?" she asked.
"People get lost?" Flint guessed.
"Supply trains miss their rendezvous," Sarv said. "Veterans marching home after a decade of war stray into bandit country. Messengers take longer to bring bad news than anyone planned for. Everything rots at the edges first. Then it spreads."
Doris glanced at the nearest obelisk, where the rune glowed faintly like an ember under ash. "And when they brighten?"
"Then someone's doing their job," Sarv said. "Or at least not making it worse."
The afternoon wore on. Heat pressed down, turning armour into ovens. Sarv's riders unbuckled chin straps and loosened collars; sweat streaked their faces beneath their helmets.
Gerran called a brief halt under a cluster of bent oaks where the road widened. The cohort formed a loose ring, not relaxing but easing out of marching posture.
"Water and food," Gerran said. "Ten minutes."
John helped Doris down to sit on a flat rock. She grimaced as she lowered herself, muscles protesting.
"Remind me," she muttered, "next time I decide to give birth, tell me not to do it right before a forced march."
"Next time?" John said. "You're already thinking of next time?"
A faint, tired smile touched her lips. "You planning to leave after this one?"
"No," he said.
"Then there may be a next time," she replied.
Flint dropped down in the shade nearby, unhooking a small leather pouch. "Want some dried apple?" he offered, holding out a strip.
Doris eyed it. "Is it actually apple this time, or one of your experiments again?"
"That mushroom thing happened once," Flint protested. "Once."
"And you couldn't walk straight for two hours," John pointed out.
"I could walk straight," Flint said. "The road just refused to align with basic geometry."
Doris took the apple strip anyway. "If I hallucinate, I'm blaming you."
"You blame me for everything," Flint said. "It's nice. Makes me feel important."
Across the resting circle, Captain Sarv dismounted, stretching her legs with a quiet groan. One of her lieutenants approached,
murmuring something that made her expression tighten.
She beckoned Dorothy over.
John watched the three confer—Dorothy's face intent, Sarv's sharp, the lieutenant's worried. Their voices didn't carry, but gestures did: a sweeping arm toward the north, a downward jab at the road, a small circling
motion that screamed 'patrol routes.'
Doris noticed too. "Go," she said. "Listen."
John hesitated. "I don't want to leave you—"
"I'm sitting on a rock," she said. "Surrounded by armed people who actually get paid to worry about strangers. Go."
Brian shifted, making a soft mewling noise. John rested a hand on his son's head for a brief heartbeat, then crossed the cleared space.
"…—three farmsteads," the lieutenant was saying as John approached. "All under. Walls burned. Doors broken. No bodies except two at the last one. Both marked."
"Paragon work," Sarv said. "Sloppy work. They wanted us to see it."
Dorothy's brow furrowed. "They're advertising their path. Why?"
Sarv looked up as John drew close. "Because they're not chasing small caravans anymore," she said. "They're pushing a message: the
kingroad is theirs whenever they want it."
"Is it?" John asked.
"Not while I breathe," Sarv replied. "But they want people to think it is. Fear travels faster than any horse."
Dorothy folded her arms. "Do you think they know we joined up with you?"
Sarv's jaw clenched. "If they have decent scouts, yes. They'll see our plume marks on the road. They'll guess we found something worth circling."
John's hand drifted unconsciously toward his sword. "Us."
"Your son," Dorothy corrected quietly.
"We should peel off," John said. "Leave the road. Disappear."
Sarv turned fully toward him. "Into where?" she asked. "The fields? The woods? The Paragons have smaller, lighter units—they can run across open country faster than your wagons can crawl. The only reason they're
keeping their distance now is because we're here, on a road where our logistics mean something."
"Once we reach the capital—" John began.
"Once we reach the capital," Sarv said, "this becomes my commanding officer's problem, and your son becomes a subject of interest for at least four different bureaus."
Dorothy gave her a sharp look. "Four?"
Sarv ticked them off on armoured fingers. "Mage Registry. Imperial Security. Church Liaison Council. And whatever branch of the Academy handles hereditary anomalies."
"You've thought about this," John said.
"We've all had to think about more things than we wanted to lately," Sarv replied.
Dorothy rubbed her temples. "Will they protect him?"
Sarv's answer was simple. "They'll claim to."
The implication hung there.
John felt a familiar anger flare. "We've kept him alive this far without any of them."
"And you've done well," Sarv said, not unkindly. "But the circle's widening. The longer he breathes, the more people notice. Sooner or later, you need walls thicker than a wagon."
She looked past them, toward the hazy outline of the capital.
"Aetherion has very thick walls," she said. "And very thin patience."
Gerran clapped his hands once. "Time's up. Move out!"
The rest was swallowed in the bustle of people standing, tightening straps, and coaxing weary horses back into harness.
Dorothy gave John a long look. "We can decide who to trust later," she said quietly. "We just have to survive long enough to have
choices."
John nodded.
Later.
Later was beginning to feel dangerously crowded.
By late afternoon, the world changed again.
Not in a sudden flash, but in layers.
First came the fields.
Neat rows of grain rolled away on either side of the road, their ripening stalks swaying in the wind like a sea. Low stone walls divided plots; scarecrows in faded cloaks hung limp from poles, their painted faces flaked but still vaguely cheerful.
Then came the villas.
Scattered estates rose like islands of stone and tile among the fields, some simple, some ostentatious. Tall cypress trees lined their
approach roads. Fountains glittered. Guards in livery stood at gates, spears polished rather than bloodstained.
John watched it all with a strange detachment. It felt like walking through a painting: ordered, curated, designed to be seen.
He thought of burned banners and dead traders and stone pillars singing in the dark.
This world seemed to belong to a different story entirely.
Flint whistled low as they passed a particularly large estate, its terraced gardens tumbling down a hillside in carefully sculpted
levels.
"Someone's doing well," he said. "Nice to know the Paragons aren't burning everyone out here."
"For now," Dorothy said.
They passed a minor checkpoint where bored-looking city-wardens waved Captain Sarv through with minimal questions, recognizing the Seventh Highway crest. A few lingered to stare at the caravan's muddy,
exhausted faces.
One pointed at Brian.
"Is that safe?" he asked under his breath.
John met his gaze. "No," he said. "But he's ours."
The warden swallowed and stepped back.
And then, at last, the walls of Aetherion filled the sky.
They rose from the earth like a second horizon: stone layered on stone, ring upon ring. The outer wall towered several times the
height of any man-made structure John had ever seen up close, its grey surface marred by faint scars—old siege marks, weathering, the slow chew of time. Watchtowers punctuated its length at regular intervals, their tops bristling with ballistae and signal masts.
Beyond the outer wall, glimpses of inner rings showed—higher fortifications, narrower slits, glimpses of white and gold architecture inside. Far to the right, a cluster of taller towers speared the sky.
Dorothy followed his gaze. "The Academy," she said. "Those spires there."
They gleamed coldly in the slanting light.
Doris shivered. "They look like needles."
"They are," Dorothy said. "In more ways than one."
As they drew closer, the road widened to accommodate the flow of traffic: ox-carts laden with grain; smaller merchant caravans; peasants on foot carrying baskets; a few mounted nobles with banners snapping proudly. Guard posts thickened. Patrols increased.
The caravan fell in line with a queue approaching an arched city gate set into the immensity of the wall. Above the gate, massive carved letters proclaimed:
AETHERION — HEART OF THE EMPIRE
Below that, smaller text in older script read:
We Hold Against the End.
Flint eyed the inscription. "Comforting," he said. "If a bit dramatic."
John could not stop staring.
He'd fought on border fortifications. He'd walked the walls of minor strongholds.
Those had been toys compared to this.
The gate itself was a marvel: double doors of reinforced oak banded with steel, currently open inward. Thick portcullis teeth waited in the arch overhead, ready to drop. Guards in polished armour checked documentation
and cargo with methodical efficiency at multiple stations.
Captain Sarv peeled away from the caravan's front and cantered up to a side gatehouse, presenting a sealed tube. After a brief
exchange, an officer inside nodded sharply and stamped a paper.
Sarv rode back, expression set.
"We're cleared as one unit," she said. "Under my escort and authority. That will get us through before nightfall."
Gerran inclined his head. "You have our thanks, Captain."
"You have my curiosity," she replied. "And the Empire's temporary protection." Her eyes slid to Brian. "Don't squander it."
Doris adjusted her hold on the baby, cloak pulled forward to shield his face from dust and prying eyes. "We're not the ones who started
grinding this axe," she murmured.
Sarv's gaze softened a fraction. "No. But you're holding it now."
They rolled forward.
As they passed under the arch, John felt something.
A subtle pressure.
Like walking through a curtain of invisible smoke, tinged with metal and old incense. The air grew briefly thicker, then looser again
once they were inside.
He inhaled sharply.
"What was that?" he asked.
Dorothy's eyes were closed, her expression tight. "Threshold wards," she said. "Detection nets. They taste for magic, sickness, certain
curses. Aetherion doesn't like surprises walking through its front door."
"Did they… notice him?" Doris whispered, clutching Brian.
"Of course they did," Dorothy said quietly. "They notice everything. The question is what they'll do with what they felt. And how quickly."
John looked back over his shoulder.
Beyond the arch, the world he knew stretched out: broken road, burned banners, marsh haze. The sky over it was bigger, less defined.
Ahead, Aetherion sprawled upward and inward, crowded and humming.
The gate closed behind them with a low, heavy rumble.
It sounded, to John, uncomfortably like a lock turning.
Inside, the city pressed close.
The road narrowed between closely built stone houses, their upper stories leaning inward as if trying to gossip about the traffic passing beneath them. Balconies draped with laundry. Small shrines carved into walls, filled with wax-stub candles. Shop signs swinging gently in the breeze.
Smell hit next.
Bread baking. Smoke from hearths. Sweat. Spices. The tang of tanned leather. The sour-sweet reek of too many people living in too little space.
Voices filled the air—shouts from vendors, children's laughter, haggling, the clatter of carts. Life. Chaotic and dense.
Brian stirred at the noise, whimpering.
Doris rocked him, whispering nonsense syllables, her voice a soft line of sound against the clamour.
Captain Sarv raised a hand, signalling a slight slowdown. "We'll take you to the caravan quarter near the South Market," she called back. "You can stable, resupply, and breathe. After that—Academy messengers will likely come for you. News travels faster in here."
Doris stiffened. "We've only just arrived."
"This city is made of ears," Sarv said. "And tongues. And far too many people who think writing reports makes them important. Someone felt that threshold ward stir. Someone will go looking for why."
Flint muttered, "We should have painted 'NOT SPECIAL' on the wagon."
Dorothy gave a short, humourless laugh. "It wouldn't have helped."
They twisted through a series of streets that shifted from cramped to broad, from cramped again to suddenly open. The buildings around
them changed too—narrow tenements giving way to broader taverns and inns, then to long stables and open yards crowded with wagons.
The caravan quarter.
Gerran breathed out like he'd been holding tension for hours. "Home," he said. "Sort of."
Stable boys and yard-hands swarmed as they pulled into an assigned lot, shouting greetings, grabbing reins, guiding wagons into bays. The smell of hay, manure, and oiled leather wrapped around them.
Sarv dismounted.
"This is where we part," she said.
Dorothy frowned. "You're not taking a direct report to the Academy?"
"Oh, I am," Sarv said. "But that doesn't require dragging you behind me like a parade. The less public spectacle we make of the child, the better. For now."
"For now," Doris echoed softly.
Sarv's gaze softened again, just at the edges. "Rest. Eat. Sleep in something that isn't moving. If anyone comes asking too many questions before dawn, send a runner to the nearest watch post and drop my name."
"Will that help?" John asked.
"In this district?" Sarv said. "Yes. I still terrify the right people here."
Gerran extended his hand. Sarv clasped forearms with him in a soldier's grip.
"You kept more of us alive than we'd have managed alone," he said.
"You kept the road from eating you whole," she replied. "That counts for something in my reports."
She turned her horse, signalling her riders to fall in. Before she left, she looked once more at Brian, now fast asleep despite the noise.
"Good luck," she said quietly.
It sounded more sincere than anything imperial she'd said all day.
Then the Seventh Highway Cohort rode off, swallowed by city streets.
For the first time in days, the caravan stood without an outer ring of steel.
John exhaled slowly. The sudden absence of armoured riders was both a relief and a new kind of vulnerability.
Doris leaned against the wagon; eyes closed for a moment. "We made it," she whispered.
"Not all the way," John said. "But far enough to count."
Dorothy came to stand beside them. "Tonight, you rest," she said. "Tomorrow, we start playing politics."
Flint groaned. "Can't we fight monsters instead?"
Dorothy actually smiled this time. "You'll miss Ridgeclaws soon enough."
John looked around at the bustling yard, at the looming shapes of city buildings beyond, at the distant, partially visible towers of the Academy.
The world had closed in.
But it had also opened up.
"We're inside," he said.
Doris opened her eyes. "Now we see if that's salvation," she replied, "or just a prettier cage."
Brian slept on, tiny chest rising and falling.
Somewhere above, unseen among the web of wards and watchful spells, Aetherion's magical senses adjusted to a new presence in its heart.
They had arrived.
Nothing would be simple again.