The gates of the capital rose before them, towering high with the Empire's crest carved proudly into the stone.
Canis came to a slow halt. From his pocket, he pulled out a simple pair of dark sunglasses.
Without a word, he slipped them on before stepping forward.
Aron, walking beside him, blinked in confusion.
"Why, Master? Is the sunlight too strong?" he asked innocently.
Easton, catching the question, shot Canis a glance—an odd look that seemed to say, "I know the real reason, but it's not mine to tell."
A faint smile curled beneath the shadow of Canis's sunglasses.
"I'm just worried," he said lightly. "Some of the older folks might find my eyes a bit... unsettling."
Aron frowned, not fully grasping his meaning.
Easton quickly stepped in, nudging the conversation in a safer direction.
"Hey, Aron. Have you ever been to the capital before?" he asked, adopting a bright tone.
Aron nodded softly.
"Once. A long time ago, when Mother was still alive," he replied, his voice dipping into memory.
A soft spring breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the scent of stone, flowers, and the distant hum of the bustling city.
The capital awaited.
Easton lowered his head slightly, a hint of guilt crossing his face.
"Sorry," he said gently. "I didn't mean to bring up something painful."
But Aron only shook his head, offering a small, brave smile.
"There's no need to apologize, Mr. Easton. Mother's already in heaven."
He turned then, looking up at Canis.
"Isn't that right, Master?"
Canis paused, gazing down at Aron through the tinted lenses.
A breath of silence passed between them, the kind that seemed to stretch a little longer than it should.
Then, in that familiar calm, gruff voice of his, Canis answered,
"Heaven, huh? Yeah... that's where all mothers ought to be."
He gave a short, almost imperceptible sigh before adding,
"If they're not... well, I have another reason to complaints with God himself."
Aron laughed at that, the sound light and genuine, as if he'd been expecting no less.
The simple laughter washed away the lingering heaviness between them, leaving behind a softer, gentler air.
Above them, the sky stretched wide and clear, like a silent blessing.
Yet Easton, walking just behind them, watched Canis with quiet worry.
He knew better than anyone the kind of man Canis had become, forged by a world that gave no mercy.
And he knew, too, that words like those weren't spoken idly.
"Captain..." Easton murmured, low enough that only Canis could hear.
"Sometimes I fear... you're getting a little too bold when it comes to mocking God."
Canis turned his head lazily, the shadow of his glasses hiding his eyes.
"I'm not mocking anyone," he said simply. "I'm just... hoping. Hoping that the God we imagine truly exists."
Easton clenched his fists for a moment, then released them with a heavy breath.
In a voice that was almost a prayer, he said,
"God does exist, Captain. He must."
"Yeah, I know. My friend."
For a while, they walked in silence, their steps echoing faintly against the stone road.
Around them, the sounds of the city grew louder, the heartbeat of the capital welcoming them in.
Canis said nothing more.
But at the corner of his mouth, there was the faintest hint of a smile—or perhaps something far more complicated, born from years of hard-won faith and quiet rebellion.
Maybe, in that silence, a different kind of answer had already been given.
{Chapter 23}