The road bent one last time, and the gates of Arnathe came into full view.

  Maruzan changed pace without meaning to. His boots kept moving, but his mind surged ahead, racing past the present and into the days waiting beyond the walls. The gates were just stone and wooden plank, worn smooth by centuries of traffic, but to him they marked something else entirely. An ending. A beginning. A return.

  He had walked through these gates many times before. This time felt different.

  The walls rose high, patched in places where old damage had been repaired with newer stone. The scars were visible if you looked closely. Arnathe had been wounded before, just like every city that survived long enough to matter.

  Maruzan felt the familiar tightening in his chest that always came when he thought of Velthur. His son was somewhere beyond those walls, probably hunched over a desk, lost in a book, unaware of how much the world had shifted in his absence. The thought made Maruzan smile, then ache.

  So much to tell him. So much to explain. And so much he would not yet understand.

  Azandra walked beside him, her pace steady but her eyes alert. She recognized the city, but she was not seeing it the way she once had. That older version of herself passed through these streets as a guest, a noble’s daughter visiting friends, peering in from the outside.

  Now, she felt something settle inside her as the gates drew closer.

  This is where I stay, she thought. Not just where I visit.

  The sounds reached her first. Merchants calling prices, wheels rattling over stone, voices layered together in argument and laughter. The city did not greet her. It simply existed, loud and unconcerned, and that made it feel honest.

  Her father’s study felt far away now. The obsidian clasp rested safely in her pack, heavier in meaning than weight. She thought of the conversation she had left behind, of her father’s careful words and her mother’s quiet smile.

  I will not waste this, she promised herself.

  Xonya passed under the gates last, lingering just long enough to look up.

  The carved stone above showed scenes of old victories. Armored figures. Raised blades. Crowds frozen forever in celebration. She studied them with a practiced eye, noting the exaggeration in the poses, the clean lines that never matched real fights.

  She snorted softly.

  “Funny,” she muttered. “Every story ends with cheering. Never with the cleanup.”

  Winnum walked beside her, hands folded inside his sleeves. He did not look up at the carvings. He had seen enough stone saints and heroic reliefs to last him a lifetime.

  “The city does not know what we bring with us,” he said.

  “No,” Xonya replied. “And that’s probably for the best.”

  Inside the gates, the guards barely glanced their way. No parade. No ceremony. Just another group of travelers among hundreds. Xonya found she preferred it that way. Being unnoticed had kept her alive more than once.

  They moved deeper into the city, the wide road splitting into narrower streets. The smells changed. Less dust and travel sweat, more food and tanned leather. Somewhere a hammer rang against metal. Somewhere else, bells marked the hour.

  At a busy crossing, Xonya slowed.

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  “Tannery district,” she said. “Morning. Don’t be late.”

  “I never am,” Winnum replied.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely are.”

  He gave a faint smile and turned down a side street, already drifting toward the direction of a small temple he had not visited in too long. Not to pray. Just to sit.

  Ennett stopped a few steps later. She adjusted her swordbelt, checking the fit the way she always did when entering a city.

  “I’ll report in,” she said. “City Watch will want a report as it pertains to city defense.”

  Maruzan met her gaze. There was unspoken understanding there. She nodded once to him, once to Nethira, then set off toward a watchtower that rose above the nearby rooftops.

  That left three.

  Maruzan, Nethira, and Azandra turned north, toward the college.

  The change was gradual but clear. Market stalls gave way to scrollshops. Shouted prices softened into debates. Apprentices hurried past carrying stacks of parchment, nearly colliding with one another as they argued over theory and notation.

  Azandra slowed again, her steps lighter now, almost hesitant.

  So this is it, she thought. No turning back.

  She wondered where Phoebe was. Probably somewhere important. Or somewhere she should not be.

  Maruzan felt the shift too. The college quarter could make him uneasy. Too many sharp minds. Too many people who could see straight through you if they wished. He rolled his shoulders, suddenly aware of how road-worn he must look.

  Nethira walked calmly between them, her attention divided between the stone underfoot and something deeper. Cities were harder for her to read than forests, but even here, life pulsed. Roots cracked stone. Birds nested in eaves. The green always found a way.

  The college gates rose ahead, tall and orderly.

  Maruzan’s heart began to pound.

  Velthur is here, he thought. Somewhere behind those walls.

  He stepped forward without thinking, catching the attention of a magister descending the steps.

  “My son,” Maruzan said. “Velthur. Is he here?”

  The magister paused only long enough to nod. “Within. Come. We have much to discuss.”

  Then he was gone, vanishing back through the archway.

  Maruzan stood frozen for a breath, pulse hammering.

  That was not a normal answer.

  Before he could follow, another figure emerged.

  Justinius.

  He moved with the same calm confidence Maruzan remembered, staff in hand, beard neatly kept, eyes sharp and kind all at once.

  “Maruzan,” Justinius said, as if they had parted yesterday. “You chose an interesting time to return.”

  Maruzan let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. “That seems to be a habit.”

  Justinius turned to Nethira first, clasping her forearm with genuine warmth. “The green has not let you rest, I see.”

  “It rarely does,” she replied.

  Then his gaze shifted to Azandra.

  Recognition flickered, followed by a knowing smile.

  “Azandra of House Sofine,” he said. “Phoebe has spoken of you. Often.”

  Azandra flushed. “I hope not poorly.”

  Justinius laughed softly. “She said you ask too many questions.”

  “That sounds like her,” Azandra admitted.

  “And that,” Justinius said gently, “is exactly why you will do well here.”

  He gestured toward the doors. “Phoebe will see you this evening. She insisted. Said she would not trust anyone else with preparing your room.”

  Azandra felt something loosen in her chest. “Thank you.”

  Justinius nodded, then turned to Maruzan.

  “Velthur had a breakthrough,” he said simply.

  Maruzan stiffened. “A what?”

  “A beginning,” Justinius replied. “We will speak more soon. For now, know this. Your son is not lost. But the road ahead will not be gentle.”

  Maruzan absorbed that in silence. He had expected nothing less.

  Justinius stepped aside, opening the way. “Come. The city has welcomed you quietly. That is how the most important work always begins.”

  As they passed through the gates of the college, Azandra felt a thrill run through her. Not fear. Not excitement exactly.

  Purpose.

  Behind them, Arnathe went on as it always had. Ahead, everything waited.

  And none of them could pretend anymore that the days of simple choices were still theirs.