The forest just beyond Dema still smelled of smoke. It clung to their clothes, to the scraps of canvas they used for tents, to the weapons they sharpened even when no bishops stalked the trees. Four months had passed since the Tower, since the red curtain fell, since Clancy had… changed. And still, no one slept easy.

Josh had been sat by the fire with his mask in his hands for what felt like a decade, turning it over and over like the weight of it could answer for him.

His shoulders ached under the weight of everything he refused to say aloud. He kept seeing it—Clancy’s hand dragging the red curtain across himself, the hollowness in his eyes. That curtain had closed on the man they trusted, but in Josh’s mind, it had also split the world in two: the Clancy who had fought beside them, and whatever dark thing wore his skin now.

The hill was steep, more rubble than earth, its surface scattered with blackened stones and half-buried bones of past battles. The Banditos climbed in silence, their breaths shallow, their torches strapped tight to their backs to keep from clattering against the rocks. Josh was the first to crest the top.

From up there, the whole of Dema stretched before them—walls jagged like broken teeth, towers stabbing skyward, the faint shimmer of its twisted light seeping into the haze above. It looked unchanged, as if the events of the tower had never happened. But Torchbearer knew better. Somewhere in there, behind those walls, a false Clancy now wore Nico’s robe.

The others settled around him, crouched low. No one spoke. Their eyes scanned the walls, the gravestones, the narrow slits of windows carved into Dema’s stone. They weren’t looking for armies or bishops this time. They were looking for someone smaller, quieter—someone with that spark in their eyes, the one every Clancy before had carried.

One of the Banditos, older and scarred across the jaw, leaned close to Josh, “How will we know?” he whispered.

Josh’s gaze lingered on the city, hard and unblinking. “We’ll know,” he said, though inside, the words wavered. He wasn’t sure if he believed them, but he needed the others to.

The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of a bell tolling deep within Dema. A ritual, a warning, or maybe just the bishops’ way of reminding the world they were still in control. The Banditos tensed at the sound, hands brushing instinctively against the hilts of their blades.

Josh raised a hand, steady and calm. “Wait,” he murmured. “Patience. A Clancy will reveal themselves. Always.”

So they stayed there, perched like shadows on the hill, their hearts caught between dread and hope. Watching. Waiting. Believing that somewhere inside those walls, someone was already dreaming of escape.