The creak of wood stirred Erith’s senses. Linens were draped around him, yet an icy chill coursed through his body. Every bump sent a fresh ache through his muscles.

A carriage...

His eyes opened, unfocused, unable to take in the surroundings where he lay.

“Where am I?” The words scraped through his throat, feeble, unsure if anyone would answer.

“In the care of the Illuminary, on our way to Aldasi.” The carriage groaned as the man’s voice drew closer, followed by the pop of a cork.

“Here. This will help.” The cold glass of a vial grazed his hand. He pushed it away.

“I assure you there are no tricks. What your body has endured…” the man said with restrained awe, “it’s hard to imagine anyone could survive it. Take it. It will help.”

Erith tugged the linen tighter around him, rolling weakly to his side.

“So be it. If you choose to be sensible—simply ask.” The man stepped back and let out a sharp whistle.

The sway of the carriage slowed, then stilled. Beyond the canvas walls, the dull rhythm of hooves on dirt faded into silence. The world outside was far away, as if it belonged to another life.

Erith’s ears perched at the sound of boots clambering toward him.

Steps drew up beside him, a presence hovering close.

“Erith…” Maeric’s voice was stripped of its confidence, carrying that same sorrow of the Narrows, when he told of the grim fate of Erith’s friends.

Silence held Erith. Contempt, fear, guilt all tangled shapelessly within him.

“I feared I would lose you. Everything you went through… the chance I’d find what you needed, in time…” His voice caught, faltering with each word.

Maeric drew in a breath. Fear lingered in his tone, but beneath it rose a fragile confidence.

“I couldn’t lose you. I wouldn’t let that be. It’s not the path you envisioned, but it is a path we can both walk together. We can do something for this world, Erith… We can—”

“Stop.” It tore from him, ragged but final.

His head throbbed, too weak to tell if it was anger or fear that swelled inside him.

“Erith…” but Maeric’s words slipped away, his fleeting assurance collapsed back into silence, and before he could speak again, another voice pressed in.

“Ah. He is awake then?”

The caravan canvas rustled open.

“Estorath—please, stay.” Cerus’s voice shifted toward Erith.

“My healer informs me you are refusing medicine? There is no need to suffer. We did not bring you this far simply to poison you. Your body has survived a great deal. My healers know what it needs.”

“You know what I need,” Erith rasped, his voice frail and hoarse.

“I do.” Cerus let the certainty of his words settle before he added, “But I would be a fool to let you become a danger. What I offer is balance—to make you whole. Not more. Not less.”

A presence loomed over him, until something cool and delicate was pressed into his hand—the Murath.

“Live, Erith. Live as you are meant to. Walk with the Illuminary into the depths of this world, to the remnants of what came before. Together, perhaps, we will uncover the answers this age has long denied us.”

Floorboards bowed as Cerus rose to his feet.

“Decide if you want the Murath filled with the Mura your body craves. By dawn, we will have reached our destination.”

The thin glass slipped from Erith’s weak grip, clicking against the wooden floor as Cerus left the caravan.

Wood murmured under Maeric’s weight as he reached for it. “He can help you, Erith. He might—”

“Go.” Erith rasped, trembling as a tear slid down his cheek.

Maeric lingered for only a breath, then turned away in silence.

Erith buried his face in the linens, smothering the ache in his chest as the healer returned and the caravan jolted forward.

The hours dissolved away, the persistent shifts of the caravan carrying him in and out of an uneasy sleep, until a sharper voice pulled him awake.

“It is time for you to consider my offer, Erith,” called Cerus from nearby. “Before we reach Aldasi, I have somewhere I would like you to accompany me. Somewhere that is truly a wonder."

Erith opened his eyes to nothingness, shifting his gaze toward Cerus’s voice, and then he caught it. Faint, like the afterimage of lightning etched across the sky.

He dragged a hand across his eyes.

It flickered in and out, but it was there.

A town?

It wasn’t sight exactly—more like the echo of seeing pressed faintly across his mind. Vague outlines of buildings shimmered in the emptiness of his vision, until his focus found a structure rising above the rest.

“Where… where are we?” Erith murmured, struggling to sit, forcing his gaze back to Cerus.

“Esira,” Cerus replied. “The heart of the ancient city. Sifting routes would only have carried you along the outskirts. These ruins crawl with Murasi—ones far too dangerous for a sifting route.”

Erith’s heart fluttered. He blinked, straining to hold Cerus’s voice in focus, but the faint streaks still lingered in his vision.

“To have seen this city at its height…” Cerus’s voice grew with a yearning. “We believe those before us understood Kaida and Mura more deeply than we ever could—and perhaps that knowledge was also their undoing.”

He paused, his tone lowering, tempting. “What lies here is beyond anything we know. Come, Erith. See it for yourself.”

A small weight settled in his lap. The sense was unmistakable—the Murath, holding even the faintest fragment of Mura.

His fingers curled around it, and for a moment he held still. The blurred spires of a city shimmered, dissolving when he blinked, only to seep back vaguely into his view.

Is this real?

Slowly, trembling, he drew the Mura into himself from the glass vessel. Warmth flooded through his palm, smothering over him like a thick blanket.

The pain in his head began to ease, and amid the faint outlines, Cerus’s shadow began to take shape in his vision.

“A wise choice,” Cerus murmured, satisfaction swelling in his voice. “Let my healer tend to you. When you are able, we will set out.” Cerus’s voice drifted as he left the caravan.

The caravan shifted with the weight of someone stepping inside.

“Here. Grab my arm. How’s your vision?” The healer pressed his arm toward Erith’s hand.

With a lurch, Erith was pulled to his feet, slinging an arm over the healer’s shoulder as he was guided out of the caravan.

Shadows crowded near, but Erith tilted his gaze back.

The tower loomed—smooth, purposeful, grand—unlike anything he had ever glimpsed along the sifting routes near Esira.

Awe and exhaustion swirled together as the healer lowered him against a trunk. Heat from a nearby fire brushed his skin, and tinges of color returned as flames licked the air.

“Drink this. Don’t be a fool.”

A cup of warm liquid was pressed into his hand, herbs rising sharply against his nostrils. He sipped carefully as his vision wavered.

The outlines of the tower waned from Erith’s sight. In its place, dawn opened across the sky.

Beneath it, an ancient city lay shattered. Broken stone and ruin without end.

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