Chapter 132: Entry into the capital

Chapter 132: Chapter 132: Entry into the capital

....also Pronoia."

The girl tilted her head further. The name was strange to hear from someone else—as though her mother were speaking about a stranger, not about her. The syllables felt both familiar and distant, like a reflection in water that refused to stay still.

"She had the power to see the future and many other things."

"Just like mine?" little pronoia asked.

"Yes." her mother replied.

Pronoia became curious. The questions piled up behind her teeth, each one pressing for release. She held most of them back, but one slipped free.

"What happened to her?"

Her mother’s voice became quiet. The sound was like a door closing somewhere deep in the house, soft but final.

"She died."

Pronoia was shocked. The word was a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through everything she had just heard. "How? Wasn’t she a saint?"

Her mother nodded. "Indeed, she was."

She paused. The pause was long, heavy with things unsaid. The city’s noise tried to fill the silence and failed.

"But even saints have their limits."

"The royal household and the nobles had exhausted her abilities. They constantly demanded that she see the future—their future, the kingdom’s future, the future of their enemies. They wanted her to help them with wars, to tell them where to strike and when to retreat, which roads would be safe and which would lead to ambush. They wanted her to help them through droughts, to find water where there was none, to tell them which wells would still run and which fields might yet be saved. And they used her to become rich, to find gold and silver and jewels beneath the earth, to reveal the hidden stores of rival houses and the secret routes of merchant caravans. Day after day the demands came. Night after night she was summoned. There was always one more question, one more crisis, one more opportunity that required her sight."

And Pronoia had never been the type of person to refuse someone who needed help. She was good. She was kind. She was everything the world should have been but wasn’t. She listened to every plea. She opened her mind to every vision they requested. She gave until there was nothing left to give.

So she kept helping.

And helping.

And helping.

Until her ability drained the life from her and the visions became too much for her mortal body to contain. then the future itself seemed to pour through her like a river through a broken dam, sweeping away strength and breath and the small reserves of vitality that even a saint required. Until she collapsed, exhausted, spent, empty.

And she died."

Pronoia listened in silence. The story settled over her like a shroud. She understood the lesson her mother was trying to teach—that power came with a price, that generosity could be exploited, that even saints could be broken by the weight of the world’s demands. The knowledge did not frighten her in the way it might have frightened another child. It settled instead as a quiet, sober recognition, as if some part of her had already known.

Her mother crouched down in front of her. Their faces were level now. The mother’s knees pressed into the dusty ground at the edge of the road. The city’s noise continued around them, but it no longer seemed to matter.

"The reason we named you Pronoia wasn’t because of your ability."

Pronoia listened carefully. The sounds of the city seemed distant now, muffled by the intensity of the moment. She could feel the warmth of her mother’s breath, the slight tremor that still lived in her voice.

"We named you that because we wanted you."

Her mother gently touched her daughter’s face. Her fingers traced the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the soft skin beneath the blindfold. The touch was slow, almost ceremonial, as if she were mapping something precious that might one day be taken from her.

"We wanted people to know that you are from this kingdom."

She paused. Her voice became softer still, barely louder than the wind that moved between the high walls.

"You’ve always been different. Even from me and your father."

Her mother looked carefully at her. The blindfold, the hair, the face that had never quite belonged to the ordinary shapes of the village. The differences were not faults. They were simply facts, noted with the same careful attention she once gave to the weather or the soil.

"Your skin is brighter than anyone else in this kingdom."

She touched Pronoia’s hair. The strands slipped through her fingers like water, fine and soft and strangely luminous even beneath the dust of the road.

"And your eyes... the color of your eyes are extremely rare and different, even though you cannot see."

Pronoia reached toward her mother. Her fingers found her mother’s face, traced the same paths that her mother had traced on her—the cheekbone, the jaw, the place where the skin had grown thinner from years of labor and worry. She hugged her tightly. The embrace was sudden and complete, arms wrapping around the mother’s neck with a strength that surprised them both.

"Nothing will happen to us."

Her mother embraced her. The hug was fierce, desperate, a declaration of love that words could never contain. She held the small body against her own as if the contact itself could ward off every future that threatened them. For a long moment neither of them moved. The city continued its indifferent flow around the quiet island they had made.

"We’ll be fine."

Her mother sighed. The sound was tired but content. The weight of the journey, the betrayal, the flight, the long days of walking—all of it remained, yet something lighter had settled alongside it.

"I know, my angel."

They continued toward the capital. Both covered their heads as they approached the entrance—rough cloth wrapped around their hair, their faces shadowed against the curious eyes of strangers and the sharper eyes of the guards. The cloth smelled of dust and the faint metallic scent of the road. A long line of people waited to enter. Farmers with carts that creaked under meager loads, merchants with packs strapped tightly to their backs, travelers whose faces had been worn thin by distance and uncertainty—all of them seeking something the city promised but rarely delivered.

When their turn came, the guards stopped them.

"What is your purpose for entry?"

Pronoia’s mother kept her head lowered. "We just want to start a new life here."

The guard looked toward Pronoia. Then he noticed the white cloth covering her eyes. The blindfold was familiar to him—he had seen it before, in the city. It marked her as one of the unfortunate and blessed, one of the many who lived in the kingdom’s shadows.

"Why does she have that cloth over her eyes?"

Her mother immediately answered. "She’s a blind little girl."

She lowered her head further. "Please."

The guard’s expression softened. Upon hearing that the child was blind, sympathy appeared in his eyes—a flicker of humanity in a profession that demanded its suppression.

He waved them through.

"You may enter."

Pronoia’s mother bowed. "Thank you."

She took Pronoia’s hand. Together, they entered the capital. The streets were crowded, the buildings tall, the smells overwhelming—food and waste and perfume and sweat, all mingled together in a single, overwhelming assault on the senses.

They knew they couldn’t attract attention. They had already escaped one town. They couldn’t risk another situation like that happening again.

So they quickly moved toward the swamp area near the port. The buildings here were different—lower, older, more damaged. The people were different too—poorer, more desperate, more dangerous. But it was also more anonymous. People here didn’t ask questions and wouldn’t want to know anything about them.

There, they found an old, abandoned building. It was damaged and barely suitable for living—the roof had holes, the walls had cracks, the floor was uneven. But it was enough for a shelter for survival.

Then They sneaked inside.