CHAPTER 87: SECRETS

The pale stretch of earth beneath them rippled faintly with light, not quite reflection, but not quite shadow either as though the land itself remembered every step that had ever crossed it. Each hoofprint sank too deep, swallowed too quickly, leaving no trace behind.

The soldiers rode in silence now, their formation tighter than before. Even the wind had turned strange and hollowed. It whispered in tones that rose and fell like sighs, carrying words that were not words.

"Is it just me, or does the air sound like it’s breathing?" Maelon murmured behind them as he surveyed the birds on the tree branch. Their curious red eyes following the horses movement.

No one answered. Because they all heard it too.

Ilaria’s gaze flicked toward the expanse, and the shimmer there wavered again, warping into a mirage that almost looked like a figure. For a heartbeat, she could swear she saw someone standing in the distance. It was tall and motionless, arms raised as though in greeting.

Then it was gone.

She could feel the chills down her spine as she instinctively reached for Levan’s hand. "Husband..."

"I see it." His tone was calm, but his hand shifted subtly on the reins to reach hers. He lifted his other hand as a signal, and the knights closed rank without a word, forming a protective crescent around them.

The silence grew heavier, pressing against their ribs like a held breath. The air was colder now, and the faint metallic scent beneath it told her they had crossed some invisible boundary. It was still early in the morning and yet... the air was already this chilly.

And then, without warning, the ground changed.

What had once been soil turned into smooth, almost glass-like canvas, etched faintly with markings too old to be language. They glowed when the light touched them, dull gold and fading, pulsing in rhythm with their horses’ steps.

Levan surveyed the barren stretch before them. This was not the first time he had set foot here, but every time he did, the land seemed to remember. The air grew heavier, the wind stilled, and the silvered earth seemed to tighten beneath his gaze as if rejecting his presence.

It was as though the Expanse itself drew breath in quiet protest, unwilling to welcome him back. He could almost feel that subtle, pulsing resistance in the ground, like the land itself knew his name and wanted nothing to do with it.

"This place used to be a sanctuary," Levan said quietly, his gaze fixed on the endless silver stretch before them. "Where men once came to swear peace with the dragons."

Ilaria glanced at him, the words stirring a faint tremor of memory. She knew this history. In fact, everyone did, though few still spoke of it without reverence or fear.

Long before kingdoms and borders, before crowns and wars, there had been The Accord. A pact not of truce, but of unity. Man and dragon stood as one against The Devouring, the force that tore through realms and turned the skies to ash. And The Great War that followed nearly burned the world to its bones.

When the First Dragon fell, its blood carved a border through the human land — the very Expanse they now crossed — a wound that never healed. And from that dying flame, the Seven rose. Seven dragons who gave up their forms, merging their essence with seven human royals to save what little remained of both races.

Their descendants carried that inheritance still as the mark of two worlds bound in fragile balance.

"...It was here?" She asked. He nodded.

"Before corruption took root, what’s left of that vow still lingers here. And sometimes, it answers when it’s called."

A soft, eerie hum seemed to ripple beneath them. Faint and melodic, like the echo of a song buried deep underground. The horses shifted uneasily, and Ilaria felt her heartbeat stumble. The wind picked up again, carrying with it a distant cry that made her shiver.

She turned toward him, but Levan’s face was unreadable. His eyes, however, were fixed far ahead, toward a rise in the land where pale stones jutted from the earth like broken teeth.

"That’s where we’ll make camp," he ordered. "Before the light changes."

Something passed from the corner of her eyes, making her veer her head upon instinct, only for Levan to stop her before she could as much as move an inch.

"Don’t look back, Aria," he warned. "The Expanse doesn’t like to be watched."

She wanted to ask what that meant, but the words would not come. Because in that moment, the whispering wind seemed to shift and she thought... she thought... she heard her own name carried on it.

The horses quickened their pace. And somewhere in the far shimmer of the horizon, the land itself seemed alive, as if something ancient and patient had just opened its eyes.

Levan’s hand tightened again, grounding her. "Keep your eyes ahead. Whatever you see here, it’s only the beginning."

The air hummed once more. And the Deyliric Expanse, vast and glimmering and waiting, swallowed them whole.

~×~

Within moments, the once-silent expanse stirred with sound. The thud of stakes being driven into the earth, the low murmur of orders, the rustle of canvas being unfurled. Every movement was efficient, but even so, there was a heaviness in the air that made each sound feel too loud as if they were intruding upon something that preferred its solitude.

"Maelon, Harken, form two circles of warding, north and south. Use salt and Hallowbloom; the glass soil won’t hold iron stakes for long." The two knights saluted at once before heading off to relay the command.

"Alonzo," Levan continued, dismounting with perfect ease a knight took the reins from him. "Set the fires inside the inner ring only. No smoke."

"Yes, Your Highness."

He turned then, helping Ilaria down with one hand on her waist. The moment her boots met the ground, the strange hum of the Expanse seemed to pulse beneath her feet like a heartbeat deep in the earth. Levan’s hand lingered a moment longer than necessary before he let go.

Ilaria adjusted the folds of her cloak, pulling the hood down from her head. The air brushed against her hair, cool and dry, carrying the faint scent of ozone. She watched as the camp took shape around them, soldiers moving with quiet precision, each man seeming to know his place.

Some worked with the unbothered rhythm of familiarity, their faces grim but steady; veterans of this crossing, perhaps. Others moved stiffly, their eyes darting toward the horizon as if expecting it to shift beneath their gaze. The silence between them was punctuated only by the scrape of boots and the soft hiss of the wind.

The wards were laid in practiced circles, lines of white ash and ground crystal drawn across the pale soil, glowing faintly once sealed with murmured words. The moment the first circle flared to life, Ilaria felt the air change. It was not relief exactly, more like the faint hum of a barrier pushing back against something unseen.

She turned to Levan. "They looked like they’ve done this before."

He gave a small nod, eyes still scanning the horizon. "Enough times to know not to linger once night falls."

There was a steadiness to his tone, but also the faintest edge of memory, as if the last time he had stood here had cost him something. His gaze lingered a moment longer on the southern ridge before returning to her. "Stay inside the inner circle tonight. No matter what you hear."

"I already told you I wasn’t planning to wander," she said, though the faint dryness in her voice betrayed her nerves.

Levan glanced down at her, noticing the quiet fear in her eyes. And so he reached out, caressing the back of her hair before settling on her shoulder. "Don’t worry too much, as long as you’re near me, nothing here will touch you. I know what listens here, and it won’t come close to me."

She clamped her lips, managing a sheepish smile. "That sounds... reassuring and unsettling at the same time."

"That’s about right."

Ilaria’s curiosity sparked despite the chill in the air. "But what do you mean it won’t come close to you? Because you’re—?"

"Because it doesn’t want to," he answered simply. The calmness of his tone made it sound less like mystery and more like fact.

She blinked confusedly. "You say that like it can feel."

He pulled her by the hand to draw her near him as he began to inspect the knights while saying, "Because it does have feelings, just not kind ones. You can say... this place remembers me, but it doesn’t remember kindly."

...Huh?

The moment passed, but it left warmth behind. Ilaria’s eyes followed the knights as they began to pitch the command tents, setting lanterns shielded in clear glass and tying the horses near the edge of the ward. The flicker of firelight against the pale ground gave everything a strange, mirrored glow.

When one soldier paused to mark the last ward line, she noticed his hand tremble slightly. "My prince," the man said uncertainly, "the ground... it’s warm."

Levan’s gaze flicked toward the mark. The faintest line of gold light pulsed beneath the soldier’s fingers before fading again. He exhaled in satisfaction. "Then we’ve chosen the right place."

Ilaria’s head tilted. "The right place for what?"

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he walked a few steps ahead, crouched, and touched the soil with his gloved hand. The faint shimmer flared again beneath his palm, tracing the outline. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "For the wards to hold."

The answer should have comforted her, but it did not. Because beneath the pale light of the dying sun, the soil seemed almost alive. Ilaria hesitated, her fingers twitching against her cloak. The stillness around them felt too eerie, the kind that made the hair on her arms rise.

She did not even realize she had moved until she was beside him, crouching down close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from his body.

He glanced at her, one brow lifting. "Cold?"

"Not exactly," she said, pulling the cloak around her like a blanket. "Just... don’t like how the ground hums."

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, a shade of fondness flickering there as if her unease was the only human thing left in a place that had forgotten warmth. Before he could speak, though, a voice cut through the stillness.

"Your Highness," one of the knights called, urgency threading through the wind. "You’ll want to see this."