Oliver’s panic rose in his chest the closer we got. Through the bond, I reached out to him.
I promise nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t let it.
We reached Gyra just before dusk.
The village sat in a shallow valley, tucked between low hills and old trees whose roots curled like knuckles through the earth. Smoke rose from chimneys in thin, deliberate lines.
Warm. Domestic. Alive.
My stomach twisted.
Three watchfires burned along the ridge above the road, evenly spaced, deliberate. Oliver slowed beside me the moment he saw them, still a bowshot away from the boundary stones.
“They didn’t have those before,” he murmured.
I felt the truth of it settle in my bones.
Gyra looked like a place meant for life. Wide fields, well-tended paths, homes built close together like they trusted one another. I could almost imagine laughter carrying on the wind, children running between houses, hands passing bread from one person to another.
Almost.
Figures moved near the gate. Armed. Watching. Not wandering or chatting, but still, alert. Waiting.
Oliver stopped walking.
The bond pulled tight between us, sharp with memory. I felt it then, his childhood layered over the present. Bare feet on packed earth. The smell of grain. A voice calling his name that wasn’t kind.
“This is as far as I’ve ever left without permission,” he said quietly. “Past the boundary stones.”
I followed his gaze.
The stones lay half-buried at the edge of the road, old markers carved with symbols that hummed faintly under my skin. Life magic. Ancient. Protective.
Now twisted.
Fresh carvings had been cut into them, deep, angry lines that scraped against my senses. I didn’t need to read the words to understand.
Castor swore under his breath. “They’ve declared it.”
“Declared what?” I asked.
Oliver didn’t look at me when he answered. “Exile. Severance. Anyone marked by those runes is no longer considered part of Gyra.”
My chest went tight.
“And the punishment?”
He swallowed. “Death. On sight.”
I stepped closer to him without thinking, my shoulder brushing his arm. The wind stirred, restless, tugging at my cloak like it wanted to move ahead of me.
“Do you see that?” I asked softly.
Near the gate, one guard shifted. Turned his head.
Then another.
Then all of them.
“They know you’re here,” Castor said.
“I haven’t crossed the stones yet,” Oliver replied, though there was no comfort in it. His hands trembled at his sides.
I reached for him and took his hand, grounding us both.
“Hey,” I said. “Look at me.”
He did.
Whatever he saw on my face made him breathe again.
“We walk in,” I said quietly. “Together. Just like we said.”
“And if they attack?” Castor asked.
The wind answered before I did, low, rising, tasting the air.
“Then,” I said, meeting the eyes of the guards watching us from the ridge, “they’ll learn what it costs to hunt what they don’t understand.”
Oliver squeezed my hand once.
We stepped forward.
Toward Gyra.
Toward a home that had decided to become a battlefield.
The guards didn’t raise their weapons as we approached. The gate was close enough now that I could see the soot ground into their armor, the tension in their shoulders.
My fingers twitched, ready. Wishing for the cold familiarity of my blade.
Wait, Oliver sent through the bond.
“State your purpose,” one of the guards called.
His voice broke at the end.
I studied him, young, barely younger than Oliver, armor worn too carefully. Fear clung to him like a second skin.
Oliver took a step forward.
“My name is Oliver of Gyra,” he said clearly. “I was born here.”
The air shifted.
A murmur ran through the guards.
“Oliver,” one said, dragging a hand through bright red hair. “I’m surprised you had the balls to show up here.”
I stepped in front of Oliver.
“Say that again,” I said quietly. “Slowly.”
The man scoffed. “And what’s a barefoot girl like you going to do?”
Oliver tugged sharply on the bond. Not yet. We still need to get inside.
“Would you like to find out?” I asked calmly, a smile resting on my mouth.
The laughter died.
The wind coiled low around my ankles, restless but contained.
“That’s enough,” Milo said.
He stepped forward from within the gate, armor dull in the firelight. He looked older than Oliver, or maybe just harder. His eyes lingered on Oliver too long.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Milo said. Not angry. Tired.
Oliver’s breath hitched. I felt it through the bond like a bruise being pressed.
“I didn’t come back for you,” Oliver said. “Or for them.”
Milo’s jaw tightened. “Then why are you here?”
“Because our father is holding something that doesn’t belong to him anymore.”
That did it.
Hands shifted. Feet planted. The space around us thickened with decision.
Milo’s gaze slid to me. Measuring. Weighing.
“And you must be the Soulbearer,” he said.
“You must be another brainwashed priest,” I replied.
A pause.
“If he crosses the stones,” Milo said quietly, “I won’t be able to stop it.”
“I know,” Oliver and I said at the same time.
The word hurt worse than any threat.
“You broke your oath,” Milo said, eyes narrowed at Oliver.
“I know.”
“You abandoned Gyra.”
“I didn’t abandon it,” Oliver said. “I was exiled.”
A sharp inhale rippled through the guards.
Milo looked past Oliver, then, straight at me.
“And you,” he said. “You’re the reason.”
“I’m Sahora,” I said. “And I didn’t make your brother choose.”
Milo laughed, sharp and humorless. “Didn’t you?” He turned back to Oliver. “You brought her here knowing the order.”
Oliver didn’t deny it.
“She’s my Soulfated,” he said.
Fear flickered through the bond, but beneath it, something heavier.
Resolve.
“I didn’t come to take,” Oliver said. “I came to ask.”
A shadow moved behind the gate.
The air changed, not with magic, but with authority.
Oliver’s father stepped forward.
He looked whole. Strong. The kind of man people followed because they believed he knew what he was doing. His eyes found Oliver immediately.
“My son,” he said.
The word landed like a verdict.
“You return under exile,” he continued. “You stand accused of oathbreaking, endangerment of Gyra, and consorting with forces beyond our control.”
“You may enter,” he said. “Not as family. Not as a citizen.”
The gate creaked wider.
“You will answer for what you’ve become.”
The wind pressed against my ribs, asking.
Not yet, I told them.
Oliver stepped forward.
Then another step.
Toward Gyra.
Toward a home that had already decided what it wanted him to be.
Gyra smelled of bread.
Fresh loaves cooling on the stone. Stew simmering behind shuttered windows. Clean water ran through narrow channels carved into the streets.
Life.
Too much of it.
People watched us as we passed, not with fear, but assessment. As if we were a problem they’d already solved once.
“You will stay in the east hall,” Oliver’s father said. “You will speak only when addressed.”
Oliver said nothing.
Something curled in my chest, preparing.
We passed a small shrine set into the wall of a home. Green and yellow light pulsed warmly inside.
The Life shard.
It wasn’t chained.
It was tended.
A woman knelt before the altar it was on. Clutching necklace around her neck. She rocked slowly, muttering in a language I didn’t understand.
“She was dying last winter,” Oliver’s father said. “The shard healed her.”
“At what cost?” I asked.
He stopped.
“That is not an answer,” he said, “you are privileged enough to know..”
“You will meet me in the morning,” he said to Oliver. “Your trial begins then.”
The word settled like a sentence already half spoken.
He turned to a nearby guard. “Take them to the east hall. I want guards posted at their doors.”
And with that, he left us.