The silence slams into us as we enter the abandoned city. No birdsong, no distant chatter, just the hollow echo of our boots on cracked pavement. Buildings, once proud giants of industry, now stand as skeletal husks, their windows vacant stares. Nature fights back, tendrils of vine snaking through shattered glass, weeds reclaiming sidewalks littered with rusted husks of cars.

Abeni jumps, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. A figure, materialized from a shadowed doorway, points a gun at our chests. My breath catches, a fist clenching around the hilt of my knife hidden beneath my cloak.

"Easy now," I rasp, voice tight. My hands slowly rise, empty and open for inspection. The figure, a gaunt man with eyes burning with desperation, keeps the gun trained on us.

"Food," he rasps, his voice a rusty hinge. "Give it."

Abeni's face pales, and I share her fear. We've been vigilant, eyes scanning every corner for threats, yet this specter emerged unseen. My hand creeps towards the pack strapped to my back, movements measured, deliberate. As I pull out the food pouch, I steal a glance at the gun. It twitches in the man's grip, his finger hovering too close to the trigger.

The pouch changes hands, the weight of his hunger a tangible thing. He hesitates, a flicker of indecision crossing his face. My lungs constrict. What now?

A sudden clatter from within the building jolts the man. In that split second, I lunge. The gun feels surprisingly heavy, my grip slipping. But the will to disarm him burns fierce. This is a fight for survival, and I won't give in.

The gun clatters to the ground, bouncing once before lying inert. The man's eyes bulge, a mix of terror and disbelief clouding his features. His hands scramble up, palms facing me in a desperate plea for mercy. The ragged gasps for air coming from his parched throat are the only sound that pierces the heavy silence.

For a fleeting moment, I see not a threat, but a reflection – a gaunt figure ravaged by hunger and desperation. Yet, the weight of the gun in my hand and the responsibility for Abeni's safety anchor me back to the harsh reality of our situation.

"Who are you?" My voice cuts through the stillness, laced with a steely edge.

The man shrinks under my gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat. A tremor runs through him as he speaks, his voice barely a whisper.

"I... I'm sorry," he stammers, the word hoarse on his cracked lips. "Didn't mean to hurt you. Just... so hungry. Thought maybe..." His voice trails off, shame flickering across his gaunt face.

My eyes narrow, suspicion lingering. "Doesn't excuse pointing a gun," I reply, my tone firm but not devoid of empathy. "Tell us who you are. What brings you here, truly."

A long pause stretches between us. The man seems to deflate further, as if the fight has drained out of him. Finally, he speaks, his voice barely audible.

"Rowan," he rasps, the name a whisper lost in the desolate city. "Raiders took my home. Everyone. Everything. Been on my own... food's scarce." The last words tumble out, a confession tinged with despair.

Abeni's gaze flicks between me and the stranger, a silent question hanging heavy. What now? My own answer remains elusive. This Rowan, a gaunt specter of hunger, can't be fully trusted. Not yet.

Cautiously, I lower the gun a fraction, keeping him covered. "Where are you headed?"

Abeni, her voice laced with suspicion, chimes in, "Tell us the truth. Where are you going?"

Rowan shifts, his eyes darting around like a cornered animal. "Just... trying to find my way," he mumbles, avoiding our gaze.

"Alone" My question hangs heavy in the air. Fear, I know, can curdle even the most honest voice. But Rowan's reply, though quick, holds a hint of defiance. "Yes, I'm alone."

His body language mirrors his words. A practiced liar would've flinched, a flicker of unease betraying the lie. But Rowan holds steady, his desperation a raw truth etched on his face.

"What about the raiders?" I press, gauging his reaction. "Any knowledge you can share?"

Rowan's foot taps a nervous rhythm against the cracked pavement. "Seen them," he mutters. "But I know how to stay hidden."

A part of me believes him. Another held onto a sliver of doubt. "Why should we trust you, Rowan?" I challenge. "You threatened us, stole our food."

Shame washes over him. His head dips, hands clasped in front of him. "Desperation," he rasps. "I'm sorry. I just... need to survive."

His sincerity is a tangible thing, yet caution remains my guide. I glance at Abeni, seeking her counsel. Her shrug mirrors my own uncertainty.

"Alright, Rowan," I say finally, my voice firm. "We'll take you with us. But any sign of trouble, any betrayal..." The unspoken threat hangs heavy in the air.

Relief floods Rowan's face. "Thank you!" he exclaims, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I won't cause you any trouble."

"And the gun stays with me," I add, my gaze unwavering.

As we set off, a new dynamic settles between us. Rowan, his eyes sharp and watchful, becomes our reluctant guide. He points out hidden paths, his knowledge of the treacherous landscape undeniable. Yet, a shadow of mystery clings to him. Where did he come from? What secrets does he hold? The journey ahead, it seems, will be fraught with not just external dangers, but the lingering question of who Rowan truly is.

"One time," Rowan says, his voice animated, "I stumbled upon this abandoned building. Looked like something straight out of those terrible stories of old! Curiosity, though..." He trails off, a playful glint in his eyes.

Abeni raises an eyebrow, skepticism lacing her features. "And what treasures did you find inside, Rowan?"

A wry chuckle escapes Rowan's lips. "Unfortunately, nothing too exciting. Just a dusty graveyard of forgotten things. But that's the thrill, isn't it? The unknown."

I nod, a flicker of agreement sparking in my chest. The unpredictable can hold a strange allure.

Abeni leans forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Alright, Rowan," she chirps, "tell us something truly awesome about yourself!"

Rowan's smile widens, a hint of mischief dancing in his gaze. "Well," he leans in conspiratorially, "let's just say I can see auras and... steal other people's talents."

Abeni erupts in laughter. "My aura? What color is it?"

Rowan adopts a mock-serious expression. "Readings require energy in return, you know."

"Right," I counter, a playful jab in my voice, "so the richer the compensation, the brighter my future, I presume?"

The laughter dies down. I turn to Rowan, my gaze turning serious. "Seriously though, you can see auras and siphon talents? How exactly does that work?"

"It's all about connection," he explains. "I focus on someone's aura, and if something sparks my interest, like when I see street performers juggling bottles... well, let's just say I can borrow their skill for a bit."

Abeni gasps, captivated. "You really can steal talent!

"Not steal," Rowan corrects, "more like a temporary transfer. Their abilities seemed to falter after that, while mine... well, mine suddenly blossomed."

Doubt creeps into my voice. "Sounds like confirmation bias to me. Maybe they were just getting tired."

Abeni throws me a playful glare. "Eden, come on! Maybe he really can do it."

"Think about it," I counter, turning back to Rowan. "Perhaps you subconsciously focused more on their 'fumbling' after you wanted their talent. Maybe you practiced juggling on your own and improved without realizing it. The mind can play tricks, you know."

Rowan narrows his eyes, a challenge flickering in their depths. "Fine," he says, a touch of defiance in his voice. "I can prove it. Right now."

A spark of curiosity ignites within me, despite my skepticism. We stop walking, and I watch with a mixture of amusement and wariness as Rowan turns to Abeni, who practically vibrates with anticipation.

"But first," Rowan says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I need a little fuel for my abilities. A token of your... energy, perhaps?"

Abeni, oblivious to my reservations, eagerly unclasps her bracelet and hands it to Rowan. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and stretches his hands out towards her. Abeni shivers with excitement.

"I sense a powerful aura," Rowan murmurs, his eyes still closed. Abeni's face breaks into a wide grin. "Lots of red and orange. Passionate, positive..." He opens his eyes, a touch of theatricality in his voice.

"People always say I'm full of energy," Abeni chimes in, practically bouncing on her toes. "This society we met... they talked about destiny and soul connections..." Her voice trembles with a mix of awe and anticipation.

Rowan nods sagely. "Yes, yes," he says, his voice smooth as silk. "The moment I saw you, I knew you were destined for great things, Aby."

"My turn," I challenge, a spark of defiance igniting within me.

Rowan hesitates, a sigh escaping his lips. "Readings take a lot out of me," he murmurs. "Like, a lot. That's why compensation is customary. Gotta replenish my energy before another one."

"Really?" I counter, skepticism lacing my voice. "Didn't seem like you exerted much effort with Aby."

A flicker of annoyance crosses Rowan's face. "Energy work is subtle," he explains. "It may look easy, but it drains you on an invisible level."

"Then why the physical token?" I press. "If you lose energy, wouldn't a psychic recharge be more appropriate? Why the bracelet?"

Rowan stares at me, his eyes hardening. He opens his mouth to speak, but a sharp intake of breath cuts him short. "Excuse me," he gasps, clutching his chest. "Need a moment to recover from the reading."

Abeni shoots me a pleading look. "Eden," she whispers, "give him a break."

With a sigh, I relent, letting the matter drop for now.

The dusty road stretches before us, finally giving way to the dusty outline of a small town. Quaint rustic buildings, weathered but charming, huddle together. The air hangs heavy with the aroma of spices, and the distant calls of vendors paint a picture of bustling life.

But our hopeful approach gets interrupted. A tall, muscular figure materializes from the crowd, a glint of metal catching the sunlight – a gun. His gaze falls on Rowan, who steps forward for a tense, whispered exchange. Unease prickles Abeni's skin as Rowan returns, his face grim.

"You two need to cover up," he announces, his voice tight.

Abeni glances down at her outfit – a practical combination of blue trousers and a light, airy shirt. I sport a similar look, red trousers and a breathable cotton shirt. Stylish, perhaps, but hardly concealing.

"A loose dress, and cover your hair," Rowan elaborates.

Abeni rummages in her bag, pulling out a blue robe. "I have this," she offers.

"This is ridiculous," I scoff. "We look fine the way we are."

Abeni shoots me a wary look. "Eden," she murmurs, a hint of fear in her voice, "the man has a gun."

The weight of her words sinks in. Grumbling, I retrieve my own robe. Heat radiates from the sun, but the unspoken threat is undeniable.

"And your heads," Rowan adds, his voice clipped. We both glare at him, frustration simmering beneath the oppressive heat. "Look," he sighs, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone, "we're running low on supplies. Food, water... who knows when we'll find another town? And where are we even going? Wandering aimlessly won't get us anywhere."

Abeni's jaw clenches. "Well, I'm not settling down in a town ruled by gun-wielding fashion police."

"Neither am I," I echo, my voice firm.

Just then, the stern-faced man approaches, a surprising smile gracing his lips. He introduces himself as Mola, his demeanor a stark contrast to his initial threat. He inquires about our travels, and upon learning we are wanderers with nowhere to stay, offers us shelter in his home.

We follow Mola into the town, the dusty road giving way to cobblestones slick with wear. Weathered wooden buildings huddle close, their paint peeling like sunburnt skin. Shops spill out onto the street, a riot of color and sound. Baskets overflowing with plump tomatoes and ruby red pomegranates jostle for attention with stalls displaying hand-woven tapestries and leather sandals. The air thrums with the melodic shouts of vendors hawking their wares, their voices punctuated by the rhythmic clinking of coins.

Locals weave through the throng, their clothing a stark contrast to ours. Women swathed in flowing robes and headscarves glide past, their faces framed by intricate silver jewelry. Men, their dark trousers tucked into knee-high boots, puff on long pipes, their faces etched with the lines of a life lived under the harsh desert sun.

As we delve deeper, grander structures emerge – houses of brick and mortared stone hinting at a wealthier class. A lone prayer tower pierces the azure sky, its melodious bells tolling the hour.

He guides us through an unassuming wooden gate, ushering us into a sun-drenched courtyard. A low wall of reddish-brown brick circles the space, a small fountain tinkling merrily at its center. The midday sun bathes everything in a warm glow.

His house, a sturdy construction of sun-baked mudbrick, boasts a flat roof and walls adorned with intricate carvings that whisper tales of nature – a gazelle leaping across a field, a hawk soaring on thermals. The entrance, a heavy wooden door painted a deep, inviting red, stands ajar, beckoning us inside.

Stepping through the doorway, we're met with a welcome wave of cool air and a dimmer light. Plaster walls, painted a calming shade of cream, surround us, cool red clay tiles cushioning our steps. Lush carpets in vibrant hues swathe the floor, while colorful pillows beckon us to sink in. Dark wood furniture, intricately carved with swirling patterns, graces the room. Low tables topped with gleaming brass trays stand sentinel beside comfortable chairs and divans piled high with plush cushions. Sunlight filters through woven curtains, casting a soft, inviting glow across the space.

Mola's wife, a woman with a warm smile and crinkling eyes, greets us in their native tongue. Mola introduces her as Janina, his voice soft and melodic. Janina ushers us to a room at the back of the house. The low ceiling presses down comfortably, and the walls are adorned with vibrant tapestries and paintings depicting scenes of desert life. Sweet tendrils of incense smoke curl through the air, filling the room with an exotic fragrance.

We are invited to sit on a low couch piled with plush cushions. A feast, a symphony of colors and aromas, is presented before us. After satiating our hunger, Janina shows us to separate rooms to freshen up.

"Such a lovely home," Abeni sighs after emerging from her room, fanning herself despite the concealing layers that drape her form.

"Indeed," I agree, "though the heat trapped beneath these robes is almost unbearable."

Janina finds us lounging in the courtyard. With a gentle smile and a wave of her hand, she indicates that we can remove your excessive coverings. Relief washes over us, and we express our gratitude with genuine smiles. However, a flicker of concern crosses her face as she informs us, through gestures and a few broken words of our shared language, that venturing beyond the back room requires covering up again.

"Eden," Abeni whispers, a tremor of apprehension in her voice, "do you think this is one of the Lux colonies?"

"It certainly seems that way," I reply, a knot of unease forming in my stomach.

"What will they do to us?" Abeni asks, her voice rising a notch.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," I reassure her, forcing a calm I don't entirely feel. "So far, they've been hospitable. We have no reason to believe they intend harm."

"But where's Rowan?" she counters, her eyes darting around the courtyard. "He wouldn't just disappear."

"You're right," I concede. "But this does appear to be a section for women. Perhaps he's being housed elsewhere."

We remain in the secluded area, Janina returning periodically to check on us. On one such visit, she presents us with a collection of intricately carved wooden board games, a welcome distraction.

The peace is further broken by the arrival of two young girls who enter the courtyard, their faces alight with curiosity. The younger, Ruby, has a cascade of dark curls that frame large, inquisitive brown eyes. A playful pink dress with white polka dots adorns her lithe figure, and white sandals peek out from under the hem. Beside her stands Jade, the elder sister. Her long black hair cascades down her back in intricate braids, and her brown eyes hold a quieter depth. She wears a flowing yellow dress dotted with delicate blue flowers, paired with brown sandals. Despite their limited grasp of our common tongue, the girls' enthusiasm is infectious. They keep us entertained with stories and games until the call for the evening meal resonates through the house.

Mola's words hang heavy in the air during the meal. "I understand your apprehension," he says, his gaze flickering between us. "The Luxian government brought peace, a welcome change from the turmoil we faced before."

We remain silent, careful not to offend our gracious host but a sense of unease settles on the table.

"My grandfather fought valiantly against the Luxian invasion decades ago," Mola continues, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "But sadly, peace didn't usher in prosperity. The government's corruption deepened – bribes flowed freely to line the pockets of officials, politicians, and law enforcement. Only the wealthy received proper services. Even when Lux offered a bribe to build their church, they accepted."

"That's awful," Abeni murmurs, glancing at me with a worried expression.

Mola nods grimly. "It was. Land grabs became rampant, and my family's ancestral land wasn't spared. My father protested, and..." his voice trails off, a shadow crossing his face.

"He was killed?" Abeni asks sympathetically.

"There was no justice," Mola replies, his voice hardening. "The corrupt officials wouldn't listen. The Luxians, however, offered a solution."

"The Luxians?" Rowan cuts in, a skeptical edge to his voice. "They invaded your land."

"True, but with my father gone, our land lost, and my mother frail, I had to ensure our family's survival. The Luxians, to my surprise, honored their word and retrieved our stolen land from the government."

"But at what cost?" I press, the weight of his words unsettling me. "What about your freedom?"

Mola leans back, a steely glint in his eyes. "We have peace now. Before Lux, inter-tribal wars were constant. But now, there's no bloodshed, no corruption. So many died protesting the old regime that even bribes couldn't hide the bodies."

I push further, the tension in the room palpable. "And what happens to those who speak out against Lux now?"

Mola's smile tightens. "There's no need to protest. Lux represents peace."

Janina chimes in, her voice unwavering, "Indeed. To deny Lux is to deny peace itself."

Mola's gaze lingers on Janina with approval, leaving me with a disquieting feeling.

I counter cautiously, "peace is valuable, but wouldn't some consider the restrictions placed on us a lack of freedom?"

Mola's brow furrows. "Restrictions? What restrictions? You're free to move about, express yourselves..." His voice trails off, perhaps sensing the accusation hanging in the air.

"We were required to cover ourselves before entering the city," I point out.

"Requested, not required," Mola corrects, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. "Lux doesn't force compliance, we simply ask nicely. It's for your own good, you understand. An unveiled woman invites harm, not just to herself, but to her family's honor."

Abeni cuts in before I can retort, "Eden, would you pass the salt, please?" I hand it to her, her message clear.

The next few days are spent enjoying Mola's warm hospitality. As we explore the town, we curiously ask the children, eager to learn the common language, their thoughts on Lux. Their responses are a chorus of gratitude – Lux brought peace and a moral compass, they say. It's a perspective I hadn't considered, a stark contrast to the stories I've heard. Perhaps Lux offers a different kind of freedom, one that allows for security through these volatile societies. But Mola's insistence on 'nicely' enforced rules and the children's unquestioning acceptance leave an unsettling aftertaste.

Life in Mola's town settles into a strange rhythm. The afternoons offer a glimpse of a peaceful existence. Vendors leave their stalls unattended for prayer, a testament to the community's trust. Doors remain unlocked, and food is shared freely. Yet, this tranquility is punctuated by Mola's daily patrols. He walks the streets, his gun a constant reminder of the rules, particularly focused on young girls who dare to let a rebellious strand of hair escape their head coverings. Ruby, especially, pushes boundaries, occasionally wearing makeup and dresses that flirt with revealing ankles, much to Janina's dismay.

Abeni, ever adaptable, seems to be thriving. She delves into the local religion, even joining them in prayer, to the family's obvious delight. It seems she can find comfort anywhere.

One day, as we head to the market with Abeni, Rowan accompanies Mola on his duties. Suddenly, the tranquility shatters. A commotion erupts in the streets. A platform is built, drawing a crowd. We can't understand the rapid-fire language, but the growing tension is palpable. A boy, no older than fifteen, is escorted onto the platform by three men. One, draped in religious garb, opens a holy book and begins to read aloud. Chants rise in a deafening crescendo. Then, one of the men draws a machete, raises it high, and brings it down in a sickening arc. Abeni screams. I react instinctively, pulling her away before she can attract unwanted attention.

We rush back to Mola's house, locking ourselves in our room. Abeni trembles in my arms as I try to process the horrific scene. When Mola and Rowan return, their faces etched with a mixture of neutrality and shock, I have to ask.

"What happened?" The question bursts from me.

Mola's response is chilling. "Such matters are not discussed during the meal."

The meal comes and goes, a tense affair. Afterwards, I usually seek solace in the back with Janina and the girls. But tonight, the afternoon's events weigh heavily on me. I can't rest until I understand.

Mola sits in the courtyard, a plume of smoke curling from his cigar. I approach him, the image of the beheaded boy seared into my mind.

"Why?" I demand, my voice tight. "What did the boy do?"

Mola's eyes narrow. "He corrupted the earth," he answers curtly.

"Corrupted?" I press. "What does that even mean?"

He puffs on his cigar, irritation flickering across his face. "He was found dancing in the streets," he finally says, a forced calmness in his voice. His shoulders then curl inwards and he hangs his head in contemplation, he then raises his head and his upper body openly blossoms as he sighs, "to deny Lux is to deny peace."

"Peace?" I scoff. "We've followed your rules, Abeni and I. But how can we know what's a sin and what's not? How can we live in constant fear?"

Mola leans back, his gaze unwavering. "You know the rules. And Lux doesn't force compliance, we ask nicely. But if you break a rule..." He trails off, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.

Abeni is waiting in our room, her face pale. "We can't stay here," she whispers.

The weight of her words settles on me. "I know," I reply, clutching the knowledge stones. This truth, this horrifying reality, needs to be shared.

The next day, a heavy silence hangs over the house. The girls, usually so vibrant, meticulously tuck their hair away before their classes. Rowan, his face etched with worry, excuses himself from Mola's duties. Aiko cleans with a fervor unseen before. Even the marketplace buzzes with a different kind of energy – hushed voices and nervous glances replacing the usual camaraderie. The afternoon call to prayer finds the streets completely deserted, a stark contrast to the previous days' lazy conversations.

We wait, the tension thick enough to cut. Finally, after a few agonizing days, we inform Mola of our decision. We need to leave.

Our last day with Mola is bittersweet. He provides us with supplies for the journey, escorting us as far as his duties allow. We express our gratitude for his hospitality, a sentiment laced with a newfound complexity. As we walk, the weight of our experiences hangs heavy in the air.

Reaching a tranquil stream, Rowan suggests a rest. We dip our toes in the cool water, a small act of normalcy amidst the chaos. Abeni, gazing at the red earth lining the streambed, speaks up.

"In my Scorpus tradition," she says, her voice soft, "we paint..... painted our faces for special occasions. Red represents bravery, you know?"

Rowan nods, his own culture weaving a similar thread. "Red for passion," he muses.

"Not so different, are they?" Abeni replies, a flicker of a smile gracing her lips.

A heavy silence descends. "I miss home," Rowan finally confesses.

Abeni's voice turns gentle. "Tell us about it."

Rowan paints a picture of his agrarian life - close-knit, peaceful, until the drought struck. He describes the fateful decision to raid their neighbors, a desperate attempt to secure resources. But they were met with fierce resistance, a testament to their miscalculation.

"My grandfather warned against it," Rowan says, his voice low. "But we were arrogant, shortsighted."

Abeni offers a comforting murmur. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"At least we're alive," Rowan says, a hint of defiance in his voice.

"And now we're helping you avoid raiders." I say.

Abeni shoots me a glare. "Eden, be nice."

"Just stating the truth," I reply with a shrug.

Rowan nods in agreement. "We were arrogant. We paid the price. But hey, I'm happy to help people whenever I can. Besides, it gets lonely out here."

Abeni shares her own story - a life in the bustling city, a yearning for adventure that remained unfulfilled. Fate, as she calls it, had other plans. Then came Lux, their destruction swift and brutal.

"So, where are you two headed?" Rowan asks, a hopeful note in his voice.

Abeni glances at me, a silent question hanging in the air. "We're searching for a new home," she replies.

Rowan proposes a surprising solution - the pilgrimage sects. He explains how these diverse societies, hubs of life on the Luxian periphery, might offer us a perfect place to hide in plain sight.

"But how would we survive?" I ask, practicality ever-present in my mind.

Rowan hesitates, then reveals a necklace – a beautiful pendant glinting in the sunlight. "I could trade this," he murmurs.

Abeni's eyes widen in protest. "Rowan, no! It's precious."

I watch the exchange, a jolt running through me. The intricate design of the pendant is unmistakable. It's the same one I gave to my mother years ago.

The revelation hits me like a physical blow. As Rowan pulls out the necklace, my heart stutters in my chest. The intricate design is unmistakable – the very same pendant I gave my mother years ago. Dread coils in my gut. How did this cherished memento end up in his possession?

My voice trembles as I force the words out. "Rowan, where did you get that necklace?"

He hesitates, then explains that his brother found it years earlier while scavenging in a nearby society. Fury ignites within me. Whoever took this necklace participated in the destruction of a community, and the weight of that knowledge is suffocating.

"Tell me about the scavenge," I demand, my voice tight with barely controlled anger. "Tell me about your brother."

Abeni senses the shift in the atmosphere, her gaze flitting nervously between us. Rowan stares back, confusion clouding his features.

"You're from Valdia, aren't you?" I blurt out, the accusation hanging heavy in the air.

"How did you know?" he asks, bewildered.

Taking a deep breath, I search for a way to explain the horrifying truth. "Just a guess," I mutter. "Your description of your home... agrarian, peaceful... Valdia fit the picture."

A flicker of pride mingles with sorrow in Rowan's eyes. "We were one of the largest agrarian societies in Fringera," he confirms. "And then..." he trails off, his voice laced with bitterness. "That cursed society that brought the whole drought upon us. They deserved what they got, destroyed. Now maybe the drought will finally end."

Abeni's eyes widen in disbelief. "What... what society?"

"A terrible place," Rowan explains, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. "They sinned against the heavens, brought down the drought. Lux was offering a hefty reward for anyone who could dismantle them, and... well, rumors say the job is done."

"Sinned?" Abeni presses, her confusion deepening. "What kind of sin?"

Rowan shakes his head. "Heathens, that's all I know. They did horrible things, unspeakable things. Everyone knows they caused the drought."

"But how?" Abeni persists, her brow furrowed. "How can a single society be responsible for something like that?"

Rowan shrugs. "Magic, maybe? I don't know the details, just the rumors."

My gaze stays fixed on the necklace, a tangible link to my past and a symbol of the devastation Rowan unwittingly reveals. "How do you even know they're gone?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Just whispers," he replies.

The revelation about Valdia cuts deep. My two homes, Viridis and Arcane, destroyed. Revenge flares, a primal urge to make someone pay. This is it, my chance to get revenge. But what will that accomplish? And Arismae's words echo - justice and education intertwined. Seems like killing Rowan will be a waste of life, but he hasn't learned, he doesn't understand the magnitude of his actions. Abeni learned and she was spared by Riven, but he hasn't learned. My entire life, I have been looking for an excuse to kill someone and now I have one, so why am I debating this?

The weight of this choice presses down on me as we reach a point of rest. I stand guard for the night. Unease creeps in as I steal glances at Rowan. Lost in thought, a sudden rustle explodes the silence. Before I can react, a brutal tackle slams me to the ground. Raiders surround us, their eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger.