The city rose out of the earth like a scar that never healed.
Stone walls stretched high enough to blot out part of the sky, their surfaces darkened by age, soot, and something older—something that didn't wash away with rain. Iron spikes crowned the gates, and banners snapped in the wind, their symbols faded but still sharp enough to warn anyone who looked too long.
Tomora stopped just short of the entrance.
The sound hit him first.
Footsteps. Hundreds of them. Boots scraping stone. Merchants shouting prices that clashed into one another. Metal clanking. Horses snorting. Somewhere deeper inside the walls, a bell rang—not celebratory, not welcoming. Just loud enough to remind people who controlled time here.
His jaw tightened.
He rolled his shoulders once, like he was trying to shake off a weight that had settled there without permission.
"Why did we come to this dump?" he muttered, voice sharp, edged with irritation. "Of all the places in the world… why here?"
Patricia didn't slow down.
She walked like the city owed her space. Soldiers parted without being told. Civilians stepped aside instinctively, eyes lowering, bodies angling away. Her boots struck the stone road with purpose, each step measured.
"Because there's a woman here," she said.
Tomora scoffed under his breath.
"What, she sell magic soup or something?"
Patricia stopped so suddenly Tomora nearly walked into her back.
She turned, eyes cold and steady.
"No."
The word alone was enough to make the others pause.
Wind rushed between the buildings, carrying voices with it—whispers that didn't belong to any one person.
"The Witch of Aleron…"
"She sees through skin and bone…"
"Don't let her look at you…"
Tomora's gaze flicked sideways. Old men leaning on canes. A woman pulling her child closer. A merchant abruptly lowering his voice mid-sentence as they passed.
Patricia resumed walking.
"They say she can see what's wrong with anything," she said calmly. "People. Powers. Curses. Destinies."
Tomora's fingers curled.
The word powers echoed louder than the rest.
"So you think she can fix mine?" he asked, the edge gone from his voice, replaced with something tighter.
Patricia didn't answer right away.
When she finally spoke, her words landed heavier than silence.
"No one said fix."
She looked straight at him.
"They say she tells the truth. Whether you want it or not."
The street noise blurred for a moment.
Tomora stopped walking.
Tala's breath hitched. Jer shifted his weight. Even Yora went quiet.
Patricia's voice lowered.
"She might tell us if your power is really gone," she said. "Or if just sleeping or something."
The city seemed to lean in.
Tomora's chest tightened, sharp and sudden. His teeth ground together, and for a split second, lightning memory crawled along his spine—phantom heat, phantom strength that wasn't there anymore.
"I don't need some old hag to tell me who I am," he said quietly.
Patricia's mouth curved just enough to be annoying.
"Good," she replied. "Because she'll tell you anyway."
The streets swallowed them whole.
Narrow alleys branched off like veins, twisting and reconnecting. Stalls crowded every open space—rusted weapons, glowing trinkets, caged animals that didn't blink right. The smell was a mix of sweat, oil, old food, and something metallic that lingered too long in the air.
Tomora pushed through the crowd with his shoulders, eyes sharp, jaw set. Every laugh sounded fake. Every glance lingered half a second too long.
Guards stood on raised platforms, hands resting near weapons, eyes scanning—not protecting. Measuring.
"I swear," Tomora muttered, "if this turns out to be a waste of time, I'm gonna—"
He collided with someone smaller than expected.
A kid.
The impact was light, but Tomora's body reacted before his brain. His hand snapped toward his weapon—
—and stopped.
Something clattered to the ground.
Metal.
Tomora's eyes locked onto it.
A badge.
Black iron. Sharp edges. The insignia unmistakable.
Tala inhaled sharply.
"Is that a—"
"Commander badge," Jer finished, voice low.
The kid froze.
Not scared.
Watching.
Patricia's boot moved without warning, nudging the badge under a nearby cart with a dull scrape.
"Don't react," she said softly. "We're already being watched."
The kid bent down, scooped up something else from the dirt, and slipped away into the crowd like smoke.
Tomora stayed still.
His pulse thudded hard in his ears.
He slowly lowered his hand.
Eyes everywhere.
Balconies. Windows. Shadows between stalls.
The city wasn't just crowded—it was alert.
They moved again, deeper now. The buildings grew older, closer together. Sunlight thinned, turning the street into a strip of dim gold and gray.
A crooked sign creaked overhead.
An eye carved into wood.
Below it, a narrow staircase descended into darkness.
Patricia stopped.
"This is it."
Tomora stared down the steps.
Cold air drifted upward, carrying the scent of incense and dust and something that made his skin prickle.
The Witch of Aleron.
He clenched his fist.
Whatever truth waited below…
He wasn't turning back.
Not anymore.