They say this is a war.

Lines drawn. Names called. Blood primed to spill.

But I don’t feel like a soldier.

I feel like a question.

Something unspoken. Unwanted. Whispered behind locked doors and guarded gates, hoping no one hears.

Because if they do…

If someone asks it out loud…

Arcadia starts to unravel.

That’s what this is about, isn’t it?

Not the Seeker versus the Preservationist. Not who gets to rule or what laws get written. It’s about the ones who are brave enough to ask: “What’s beyond the door?”

We didn’t come to burn anything down. We came to see.

To know.

To understand the shape of our cage.

And the Hounds, oh, the Hounds bark so loud.

Jasper roars like he’s already won. Narcissa whispers riddles in the dark, afraid of the silence between them.

Graves preaches, Gravedigger digs, and Hatchet laughs like the war’s already over.

But none of them answer us.

None of them.

Because if they could — if they knew what waited beyond the walls — they’d say it.

They’d say, “There’s nothing. There’s no sky. No stars. No truth.” And we’d all go home.

But they don’t.

They chain the door. Snarl and snap at anyone who gets too close.

Not because there’s nothing there. But because they’re terrified there is.

You can dress up fear in tradition. You can wrap silence in sermons. You can crown a lie with power and call it protection.

But a question doesn’t care.

It waits.

And when someone finally dares to speak it into the world, it spreads like wildfire.

We are that wildfire.

They call us Seekers like it’s an insult. As if yearning is weakness. As if wanting more makes us dangerous.

But of course it does.

Because a person content with their cage won’t rattle the bars. But a Seeker?

We rattle.

We scratch.

We dig.

We ask.

We ask what’s on the other side. We ask what they’re hiding. We ask why our skies never change and our streets never forget.

And when the door answers — because it will — it won’t speak in words.

It’ll speak in wind. In light. In the kind of silence that makes even the gods shiver.

That’s what scares them most.

Not our weapons. Not our names.

But our questions.

Because they can kill a person, but they can’t kill a question.

They can chain a door.

But not a whisper.

They can send their Hounds to bleed us dry.

But the door doesn’t care.

It waits.

And so do we.

Not with patience or peace.

But with purpose.

Because war isn’t the sound of violence. It’s the sound of a question refusing to go away.

And in the heart of Hades, where the Hounds wait with bared teeth and their backs turned to the truth—We will ask it again.

We will ask it louder.

We will ask it together.

And no matter how many times they try to drown us in silence, no matter how many times they call us mad, foolish, or wrong—

We’ll ask it again.

Because we are the question.

And this time?

There will be an answer.