CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We left one ghost town behind only to find another.
Then another. After the third, I stopped letting myself hope we’d find anything different.
Every village was the same. Silent. Empty.
Houses stood blackened and hollow, their windows like dark eyes watching us pass.
Fields were scorched. The soil brittle and dry.
There were no inns. No markets. No farms. No food.
We survived by breaking into whatever was left behind.
Root cellars, pantries, houses... Most food was already spoiled though.
Mold, rot, or rats had gotten there first.
In one of the villages, I found a newspaper.
Its pages were crinkled and half-faded, but enough of it was still readable.
Maybe it was the reason everyone had left.
The headline was clear: The Wall, the border to Alevé, had been closed.
There was no way out of Vestance anymore. Even the trade routes were shut down.
The paper didn’t show the smell of ash, though. It didn’t show the crying children, the mothers with sunken eyes, or the fathers gripping reins with white-knuckled hands.
But we passed them. On the main roads, we saw the families who had been turned away. I saw their faces. Their fear. Their exhaustion.
And I felt it.
“They’re turning away children too,” Will muttered beside me.
“Yeah, and those kids are adorable,” Aran said. “We’re screwed.”
I had never seen the Wall before, but it wasn’t what I had imagined.
It wasn’t like the drawing in the history books.
It loomed ahead, massive, cold, unwelcoming.
Once white, now stained and gray, the stone worn down with time.
It stretched far in both directions, farther than I could see.
The only way around it now was by boat. But anyone in Vestance who had a boat was probably already long gone.
Or their boats were ashes on the shores.
I wondered how many people had made it across to Alevé. And how many had died trying.
Birds perched along the top of the Wall, and something in me ached.
Maybe I could soar again. Lift off the ground like before.
Drift above it all and cross to the other side.
But I didn’t know how I’d done it the first time, and I had no idea how to do it again.
Even if I could rise above that monstrous barrier, the guards would shoot me out of the sky before I ever made it across.
And I couldn’t leave Will and Aran behind.
There had to be another way.
The guards were nothing more than smudges at first, distant shapes on the horizon. But the closer we got, the more they sharpened. Men in black and gray. Helmets pulled low, rifles slung across their shoulders, standing in front of a wide wooden gate.
A family approached ahead of us. Their pace slowed as they neared the checkpoint.
The father stepped forward, shoulders tense, papers clutched in his hands.
His voice carried across the road, he was begging the guards to listen.
Said they had family waiting. That they belonged on the other side. Said they had every right to go home.
I watched the poor man plead.
One of the guards raised a hand, not in warning or threat, but to dismiss him. A lazy wave, like brushing off a gnat.
I turned from him before he hit the ground. I’d seen enough empty villages to know how that story ended.
“We have to find another way,” I murmured.
Aran glanced at me. “But… couldn’t you just do that thing?” he asked. “With the fire?”
“There’s too many of them,” Will said under his breath. “And they’re armed.”
“I don’t think I can—” I started.
Aran cut in, sharp. “So that’s a no? You won’t even try?”
“They’re innocent,” I said, breath catching. “They’re just following orders.”
Aran scoffed, sharp and bitter. “So were the Vultures.”
I flinched.
If he knew... If he really knew, he wouldn’t have said that. I opened my mouth, but closed it again. I wanted to yell, wanted to tear the words out of my chest and shove them in his face. But part of me didn’t want them to know. Not ever. Not that.
“We’ll find another way,” I said again, louder.
Aran raised a hand to his forehead in a loose, mocking salute.
“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.
I didn’t answer. Just stood there, staring at the Wall. Searching for cracks. For weakness. For a way through.
There had to be one. Because if there wasn’t—
I didn’t let myself finish the thought.
Then the wind changed.
It felt like a hand at my back. Not gentle, but insistent. Pushing me forward. Demanding. I didn’t think. I just started walking, guided by something unseen.
My legs carried me before my mind could catch up.
And maybe I was walking into a trap. Maybe the wind was leading me to my death.
But I was too tired to doubt it, and too desperate not to follow.
We hadn’t come that far just to turn back.
And Licia was still out there, waiting for us. For me. We needed a way through.
“Where are you going?” Will called after me, voice taut with worry.
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
Aran caught up quickly, murmuring my name, but I didn’t turn toward him. The path wound past an orchard of dying trees, the ground littered with rotting apples and bruised pears. Then the slope dipped gently downward. And I smelled it before I saw it.
Salt on the breeze. Damp wood, rust, and something sweet I couldn’t name.
A harbor emerged through the thinning trees.
At the far dock, a single ship lay moored.
Men moved across the deck with practiced ease, unloading crates and barrels into neat stacks along the shore.
Above them, snapping sharp in the wind, flew a flag I recognized instantly.
A golden deer, its antlers curling like branches, on a deep green field.
The sigil of Alevé.
Aran let out a short, joyless laugh, clearly coming to the same conclusion I had. “Even the Vulture can’t live without his wine.”
I’d heard of Alevi wine, everyone had. It was said to be the finest in the world. Sweet as honey, smooth as silk. Not that I’d ever tasted it.
“I thought the trade routes were cut,” I whispered.
“Well the King’s probably throwing a ball,” Will murmured. “Or hosting a lavish feast.”
It wasn’t the wine itself that lit the fire in my chest. Not the silk or the spices or the crates lined with citrus and sugar.
It was the sheer audacity. The borders were sealed, most trade was believed to be cut off.
The fields were burned and people were starving, and yet those ships still docked.
There were far better places to dock, closer to the castles in Sanire.
I didn’t have a map, but even without one, it didn’t add up.
Perhaps it was black market trade, slipping through, the rarer goods became, the more valuable it was.
Worth the detour. Worth the risk. A forgotten harbor, used only by those who didn’t want to be seen.
“Oh, thank the gods,” Aran said mock-sweet. “I was starting to worry the nobles would have to go without their oranges.”
The way the crew moved with quiet efficiency, the rise and fall of the sails, the neat stacks of cargo arranged along the shore like offerings.
Dark wines sealed in gold, bolts of silk and heavy sacks with foreign stamps.
Each crate, each barrel, each polished bottle pulled from the hold felt like betrayal.
Then new crates were brought forward, unloaded from a wagon I hadn’t seen at first. Furs, smoked meats, barrels of cider that could’ve lasted a winter. I recognized the markings, catching glimpses of familiar stamps between the ropes.
Our goods. But it wasn’t our flag flying above them. Not the white wolf beneath a pale moon, set against navy. Not the sigil I’d grown up with. It was different. A white banner, stretched taut. A single red eye at its center.
The king had changed our sigil.
I stared, and the sickness rose fast. It wasn’t just about power anymore. Or control. Or coin.
He was erasing us.
Our land. Our history. Our name.
But I knew where that ship was headed. And in that moment, that was all I needed to know.
So we waited. The sun dipped low, brushing gold across the horizon before slipping away.
Shadows stretched longer, spilling over crates and stone.
The harbor hushed, and lanterns flickered to life along the dock, soft and swaying, painting broken trails of light across the black water.
Only a few sailors remained on board, their shapes barely more than silhouettes.
“We need to time this perfectly,” Will whispered. “If we’re spotted—”
Aran glared at him, like it was an insult to even suggest he’d fail.
“We won’t be,” he said, and his voice didn’t waver.
I wanted to believe we could do it without getting caught, without being killed, without making things worse than they already were. But doubt was already curling through me, filling every hollow space inside my chest.
There was no turning back.
We moved quickly, staying low, slipping from shadow to shadow as the wind picked up around us, scattering leaves and cloaking our footsteps in its rush.
Still, every creak of the dock made my stomach twist, sharp and too loud in the quiet.
The gangplank groaned beneath us as we stepped onto it, and I hesitated when I caught sight of a figure slumped near a barrel.
A sailor. His head drooped forward, chin resting on his chest, arms limp around an empty mug. Asleep. Or drunk. Or both.
Aran lifted a hand, motioning for us to wait.
So we did. Breath held. Muscles tight. The man didn’t move at first, just sat there slumped, one hand still curled around his mug.
Then, slowly, he shifted. A yawn tore through him and he stood, wobbled, and wandered off toward the tavern.
The others were likely inside, loud with laughter, full of ale.
A strange thought rose in me. How did the tavern still have food? What could they possibly be serving, when the orchards had withered, and most of the villages we passed were stripped bare or burnt to the ground.
“Go,” Aran whispered. The moment my feet touched the deck, the wood rocked beneath me, subtle but disorienting.
Like the ground itself no longer knew how to hold me.
I had never been on a ship before, and I don’t even think I’d seen the ocean before.
It was just a vast, black canvas stretching further than light could reach.
The ship rose before us like a sleeping beast, groaning in its rest, ropes swaying gently in the cold, the sails pulled tight against the wind.
Aran pointed toward a narrow hatch near the bow and without a word, he opened it.
We slipped through and below deck, the world changed.
The air thickened, unmoving, and the walls seemed closer than they should be, like they were leaning in to listen.
Every step downward felt like sinking, like being buried.
We kept going, past the bunks and hanging hammocks, deeper than I thought the ship could go, until we reached the hold at the very bottom.
The place where daylight never reached. It smelled like mildew and piss, old salt and something rotting.
Something small skittered nearby, claws scratching through the dark.
We buried ourselves behind sacks of grain and kegs of cider and rum, but it didn’t take long before I lost sight of the boys.
The dark was thick enough to swallow everything.
I reached out for Will’s hand, needing to anchor myself to something, anything.
But all I found was splintered wood and rough canvas.
And in that drowning dark, time slipped away from me completely.
I didn’t know if it had been hours or days.
Just that every moment stretched too long, bloated with silence and the constant threat of footsteps overhead.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember waking up. But my body knew time had passed, even if my mind had lost track of it. I don’t want to go into detail about what we did down there. Some things are better left unsaid. But it probably helped that the hold already smelled revolting.
I think I drifted in and out of consciousness, with nausea creeping higher with every tilt of the ship.
I pressed my face into the canvas sack beside me and forced myself to breathe through my mouth.
Throwing up would only make it worse. They say when you lose one sense, the others sharpen.
Maybe that’s true. Or maybe I was just so desperate not to lose my mind that I clung to whatever I could.
I started listening like it was a game. Like I could build a whole world from the noise above me.
I remember laughter—loud and sudden—cracking through the boards.
Then a curse. The clink of glass rolling across the floor, bumping into something.
Someone started singing. Off-key. Too loud. Others joined in, slurring the words.
Something slammed against a table, cards, I thought.
I pictured the sailors sitting around it, boots kicked up, sleeves rolled back, laughing over bad hands and cheap rum.
They’d probably spent the day hauling ropes and shouting over the wind or whatever you did working on a ship.
I imagined they’d known each other for years.
Or met at sea and formed something close enough to friendship.
Some of them might’ve had wives. Families.
Stories they clung to in the dark, just to feel a little closer to home.
Did they live in Alevé? Or were they just headed there, like us?
What if I’d gotten it wrong—what if the ship wasn’t going to Alevé at all?
I focused on the sounds to stay anchored.
Footsteps, voices, the scrape of boots against old wood.
Anything to keep my mind from slipping. Feet moving across the deck.
Shouts. Laughter. The dragging rhythm of what might have been dancing.
The kind people only do when they’re drunk and full and know no one’s watching. Then came more footsteps. Closer.
A man muttered to himself as he came down the stairs. His lantern swung low, streaking the floor with gold. He bent to lift a keg, grunted with the weight, and disappeared again. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
The second time was worse. The lantern returned, swinging wider.
Brighter. Boots scraped close, near my knees.
I felt the warmth of the flame on my skin and heard the man’s breaths.
My heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else.
I bit down hard, tasting metal, trying to quiet the panic rising in my throat.
If I didn’t move, I didn’t exist. If I didn’t exist, he couldn’t see me.
But he did. He turned his head, slow as death, and looked straight at me.