The city emerged on the horizon like a living monolith, a tangle of iron, glass, and steam rising above the hills as if defying the very sky. From the tall chimneys, columns of smoke rose and blended with the low clouds, while the train tracks, hot and vibrant, snaked through the final slopes before plunging into the organized chaos of the capital. Valdharis. The name hovered in Khaled's mind like an ancient whisper, but what he saw there was not a sanctuary or a temple, but a colossal creature, breathing through its forges, pulsing with the incessant movement of machines and people.
First, what they saw were large farms and pastures, small houses scattered along the road, until they finally advanced towards the great walls.
Liandre rested her forehead against the window glass, watching in fascination the twisted metal towers, the cranes slowly rotating, the zeppelins anchored to the masts like iron birds at rest. There was beauty, yes, but also exhaustion, as if each structure had been violently torn from the earth, forged in haste and necessity.
She could still be surprised by how imposing the capital used to be. She had grown up on those streets, among those metallic structures; her parents used to take pride in the iron mansion they occupied until their last days.
Among the tangled constructions, paved squares emerged, the grand avenues stretching like arteries towards the center, where white marble columns still resisted—a pale memory of a monarchy that, although fallen, left its scars scattered through the corners and shadows.
The train slowed down, letting out a long, deep sigh, as if it too needed breath to enter that city made of steel, soot, and unfulfilled promises.
Khaled remained silent, his eyes fixed on the horizon line broken by walls and military towers. He knew that there, amid that machinery and newly imposed order, new alliances hid, new threats... and perhaps the chance to start over—or to finish what should never have been started.
He wondered if his former companions would prevent him from fully reclaiming his old power. He hadn't told Liandre, but he felt empty without the book to which he had dedicated so many years of writing, each line imbued with magic and knowledge.
The central station of Valdharis rose before them like a monumental arch, surrounded by metallic columns intertwined in arabesques of steel and copper, supporting the glass dome that seemed to imprison the very gray light of the day. The air was dense, saturated with the acrid smell of burnt oil, cold iron, and humid steam that escaped from every valve, hissing like impatient serpents hidden in the joints of the great machines. Men and women crossed the platform with hurried steps, some carrying suitcases, others pushing carts piled with goods wrapped in stained tarps. The gray uniforms of the workers blended with the dark coats of the officers, and among them, the occasional welding of a plate or adjustment of a track announced that nothing in that city remained static for long. Above all, the structure of the station seemed alive: gears turned in sync with the great central clock, whose long golden hands marked not just the time, but the cadence of that capital forged by steam and resolve.
Liandre exhaled slowly, as if even breathing there was too heavy. She admitted that she didn't want to return to this place; perhaps because she had lived a good part of her childhood there and witnessed the dry death of her parents, she preferred the bucolic and serene air of distant towns, especially those that served as granaries for the great metropolises. She stepped into Valdharis once again, after fifteen years.
Khaled, for his part, did not take his eyes off the rows of soldiers posted along the main entrance, immobile sentinels beneath the red flags of the Republic, which fluttered to the rhythm of a wind laden with coal and history.
And then, with the final hiss of the brakes and the pistons' creaking settling, the carriage doors opened. And before them, the city awaited—indifferent, colossal, insatiable.
— Is the Tower of the Dead Archives still there? — Khaled inquired as soon as they got off the train. The crowd of people intrigued him. Everything had changed. Humans had changed everything. Even though other races circulated among the predominant humans, it was still incredible how much could change in two hundred years. He didn't remember anything of what he saw. The station had the peculiar smell of oil and coal, unpleasant and unnatural; even so, it made him feel alive in the timeline. Not alien to temporal changes.
— Dead Archives? — Liandre had no idea. First, they needed to get out of the crowded place. She firmly grabbed the mage's hand, starting to push through the bodies ahead of them, bumping into some who only cursed them carelessly, but the mercenary didn't care; he knew how the disorderly rush to catch the train worked. And when they finally left the station, he could breathe the capital's degrading and inexorable air. — Let me check.
She walked toward the sign placed near the station square.
There was a rudimentary drawing of the districts.
The bronze plaque stood atop the dark stone pedestal, consumed by time, yet still as imposing as the city it represented.
The bronze plaque stood atop the dark stone pedestal, consumed by time, yet still as imposing as the city it represented. The metallic surface, stained by greenish patinas snaking through the grooves, displayed the map of Valdharis carved in fine, meticulous lines, like a silent machine dissected into all its parts. Seven sectors stood out on the plaque, each engraved with a name that seemed to have been etched not only into the metal but into the very history of the capital: Crystal Circle, Marble Quarter, Iron District, Timber Redoubt, Resting Garden, Steel Port, and Red Barrier.
The geometric divisions spread like veins of a body silently pulsing, while small ornamental gears, fused in the plaque's four corners, gave it that austere and inevitable air of things made to outlast the men who created them. Above, an elegant line followed the city's contour like a metallic embrace; below, engraved with the same relentless precision, the solemn inscription:
"Valdharis — United by Labor, Forged by Revolution."
And there, before that silent piece of art and function, visitors stopped, some out of respect, others merely to orient themselves by the neighborhoods that, on that cold piece of bronze, seemed so static... but that, outside, teemed with the relentless life of a city that never stopped moving.
And a map below indicated where they should go.
— If you're talking about the Cosmic Tower, where most of the archives are kept, it must be in the Crystal Circle. That's where the academies are, schools, and mainly all the knowledge humanity has access to — Liandre remembered going to the great halls of Farandhur to look for something that could lift her mother's curse. Actually, it was Linette who roamed the grand corridors searching for solutions amid the mold and dust of the abandoned scrolls. The sumptuousness of the Farandhur library had always been impressive, even more so when you were a small child among immense corridors.
— Cosmic Tower? Such a pretentious name for files abandoned aimlessly in that place. Old magics that the current tongue cannot comprehend and would be useless — Khaled observed the city map, memorizing the districts and neighborhoods; he was glad to have a good memory.
— Then why would you keep your grimoire in a place called the "Dead Archive," then? — The mercenary stared at the other with one eyebrow raised in absolute disbelief.
— Because, Liandre, no one would look for such a powerful item of immeasurable magic in a discard of unnecessary files. Simple illusion, complex magical runes, and voilà: you have the perfect hiding place! Few arcanists could uncover the secrets with which my old book was imbued. And if those had interest in searching through that heap of abandoned junk, as you yourself suggested, I don't think they would find it easily — Khaled had hidden the second grimoire there knowing the impossibility of search. He had spent hours in the Dead Archives; the Tower had always been welcoming, in a cold and simple way. So much history and magic abandoned, from times when humans were not yet settled in cities.
— It's gone. My grimoire is gone — Khaled couldn't believe someone had managed to bypass the magical defenses he had placed on his book; he was more perplexed than angry.
They arrived in an hour at the tall tower located in the magical studies district. They passed through places with common study academies, schools that taught reading and writing, accessible to peoples of different social hierarchies. In the elf's time, there was no accessibility. He could notice that technology was also present throughout the city: cable cars connected by train tracks were gradually replacing carriages and horses, although the mounted guard and some iron carts were still spread throughout the capital city. Besides other transport methods, there was something he found particularly dangerous: a kind of headless iron horse, with two large wheels, one in front and one behind, with a seat. The person needed to keep balance. Everything sounded like novelty, and he liked what he saw. The elves had universality of knowledge as their cultural principle, so everyone had access to reading, books, and stories. And seeing that humans could now experience knowledge made his admiration for the world outside the tower more evident in his bright eyes.
Only the old monarchical houses reminded a little of the past. He could not believe that every detail had changed. Time changed. He was certain the world didn't care. Even trapped in the Tower for so long, changes would always be inexorable. If he followed the human world's movements, surely he would feel less the impact of how much his life did not matter. His power. His feats. Everything had become stories told by minstrels, in which few would believe, just another fairy tale told by vague words. Songs had become just rehearsed music, symbols of lost stories that few could imagine. The world transforms. And new legends arise. And the old ones fade like flames that can no longer breathe air.
The Mage District. Incomparable.
The Crystal Circle rose like a petrified constellation in the heart of Valdharis, a district that seemed more a living organism than a common quarter. Through polished stone alleys, glass towers reflected the pale light of the sky and transformed it into spirals of soft colors, as if the buildings themselves silently cast spells each dawn. Experimental gardens spread across courtyards and suspended terraces, where metallic-leafed trees blossomed alongside greenhouses that housed species shaped by alchemy. There was a constant scent of wet earth, chemical reagents, and freshly conjured magic that hovered in the air like a warm mist. Through corridors and squares walked future arcanists in simple robes, carrying grimoires and arcane instruments, alongside masters in heavy vestments whose distant looks indicated minds always absorbed in theories few dared to understand.
Above all, dominating the horizon like the brightest star of the Circle, rose the Cosmic Tower. Formerly known as the Dead Archives, the Tower was much more than a repository of forgotten texts: it was now a monument to the very obsession with knowledge. Its body of black stone, with veins of silver and embedded crystal, seemed to pierce the sky, stabbing into the celestial plane like a spear of wisdom and ruin. Inside, in infinite spirals of stairways and floating platforms, rested thousands of silenced grimoires, banned treatises, and formulas that should never have been written. Those who dared to cross the Scholars' Gate, an arch carved with symbols so ancient no tongue could decipher them, knew they were entering not just an archive, but a labyrinth of failed intentions, of discoveries that had cost too much. Few came to the Cosmic Tower out of necessity; most came out of vanity, madness, or despair. Natural light barely entered — only the soft radiation of suspended crystals, floating through the corridors and maintaining a spectral, indifferent clarity. And at the Tower's core, protected by layers of defensive spells, was the Sidereal Vault, where the most dangerous documents and the darkest artifacts were kept under constant watch, guarded not by flesh-and-blood guards but by arcane sentinels who knew neither mercy nor sleep. For the ordinary citizens of Valdharis, the Crystal Circle was an admirable district, made of intellect and magic, but for those who knew the labyrinths of the Cosmic Tower, it was also a silent reminder that not all knowledge wishes to be found — much less touched.
When they finally entered, Khaled, even surprised that the Tower had a bigger prominence than in his time, knew the labyrinthine paths that awaited him. Liandre only needed to stay close until they reached the section. The mage knew he could not have left his grimoire in the Sidereal Vault, one of the best-guarded places in the entire cosmos, simply because it would be the place the old team would look for possible grimoires or artifacts that once belonged to him. They would never imagine that something of monumental importance would be kept in the magical cooking section. Who could want to know how to cook foods imbued with arcane magic or meat from creatures naturally made of magic?
— Haha — Khaled was stunned by the fact that his grimoire was not on the shelf. — How is this possible? Even a powerful mage would have difficulty unraveling the magical runes — he slightly furrowed his brow in disbelief. — And now? I can't afford to make another book. It would take months and I'd be vulnerable during that time.
Liandre thought a bit about the situation. Actually, everything in the city was usually recorded for security reasons, so he headed toward the Cosmic Tower's guardian.
Sza'Rhul-Navaak was more an echo of the Tower than a true inhabitant. His figure rose thin and elongated, limbs covered by a cloak of ash-gray feathers that, at the slightest movement, hissed like dry leaves being turned by an invisible wind. His face, spectral white, resembled the smooth, immobile disk of an ancient owl: black and spherical eyes, without pupils, stared at each visitor not with curiosity, but with the indifference of one who, for centuries, had catalogued everything that might matter. His arms, thin and bent at unsettling angles, ended in long black claws, although he never used them for violence — only to leaf through the fragile pages of grimoires that only he dared touch. Sza'Rhul-Navaak spoke all mortal tongues like an uncouth caw; his voice, when necessary, sounded like the scraping of feathers over parchment, a language few understood and fewer still answered. He inhabited the thirteenth ring of the Cosmic Tower, where the air was thin and the light of archaic crystals barely reached the corridors. Among shelves so tall they disappeared into the shadows, Sza'Rhul-Navaak hovered — he did not walk, only moved smoothly, with the silent beating of his wide and opaque wings, like fragments of night sewn by a blind artisan. It was said he was created — or perhaps summoned — by the founders of the Crystal Circle, not as a guardian, but as an eternal presence: the Librarian who would never age, never judge, only guard. And so he did, with mineral patience, noting on endless scrolls every name, every work, every disappearance... and occasionally every intruder who dared to step there without permission.
— Guardian — Liandre had no problem talking to mythical creatures, especially if it was to solve the issue of the grimoire. — Someone stole an important document from the Archives; their consultation must have been authorized, but they acted in bad faith and took it without the donor's consent. My friend donated his grimoire over two hundred years ago, a small time for the guardian, but a long time for us, humans.
Sza'Rhul-Navaak's role involved guarding, protecting, and cataloging. He let out a low, irritated growl. Had he failed to protect a document donated by a mage? He could not believe it.
The guardian passed by Liandre swiftly; the way he moved resembled that of an animal. His flight was almost perfect over the mercenary's head, gliding until he was finally beside the elf, incredulous at the circumstances. He glimpsed powerful arcane remnants on the shelf, deeply analyzed the space and the documentation, accessing in his own memories what could have happened.
— Indeed, there was magical movement of a donated artifact — Sza'Rhul-Navaak said with a voice almost incomprehensible due to the rasp of each word reverberating down the corridor. — We can retrieve the item. After all, the donor is standing before you. Khaled left the grimoire in times when humans were ruled by the ancient kings — Liandre was trying to find a solution, while the mage still seemed distracted by something he did not understand at the moment. He had never seen the other so absorbed in thought as at that moment. He imagined it must have been shocking to learn that someone had unraveled his magical secrets and runes or something like that. But he tried to be practical. If it had already happened, they should begin the search, find out who took it through the librarian's records. Most knowledge needed to be public in the New Republic, so he imagined they would have some access. The line of thought might have been simplistic, but he hoped that the current rulers were willing to uphold the rules they had idealized about the transparency of information.
— Jean D'Liora — the croak was almost incomprehensible. — Accessed the library 12 years ago, seeking to see atypical recipes.
The two finally left the Cosmic Tower with the name. And Liandre had no idea who it could be. Normally, powerful adventurers had their names written in history and legends. But Jean D'Liora? That didn't sound like anything he had ever heard. Then again, after focusing on his own curse, he had no interest in learning about new groups of adventurers or heroes who used their power and influence with the goal of saving the world, gaining fame and a few weights of gold.
— This woman must be famous. Can we look for information from some bard? — Khaled had already concluded that the one mentioned must be someone of enormous power.
— Yes, of course. But I have no idea who she is. I'm not a reference for knowledge; despite knowing some trivial information, I haven't looked for news. In fact, most of the heroes who are prominent nowadays became known because of the fall of the monarchy. They fought alongside the people, destroying the monsters or entities that the monarchs summoned to massacre opponents and even innocent people — the indifferent tone in the mercenary's voice was noticeable, not that he didn't care about those who died in the process of governmental change. The fights had lasted since before his birth; there had always been political pressure, the powder keg was just waiting for the spark, and that spark came in his early years of life. Sometimes he wondered if his parents had taken the right path, if they had realized that the King had completely lost his mind with his pathetic ideas, they could have had a different fate. Standing with those who needed help, rather than honoring their promises to the Crown, could have made them live, and Liandre wouldn't be suffering. But at the same time, he wouldn't have met Khaled, right? The elf was helping him to end this and finally free his family. Maybe this was the way he had to offer something to his deceased parents?
Before entering the inn, Khaled noticed that in the square, called the Square of Absolution, there was the statue of the former heroes. It remained imposing and, even if many didn't know who they were, it stood pertinent against time. And his heart closed a little more upon noticing that there was no homage to his deeds, only to those of the three companions.
In the Square of Absolution, where the worn marble steps met the pale light filtering through the imposing columns of the Marble District, stood the Statue of the Three Heroes — a monument that, more than stone and bronze, seemed forged in the very collective memory of the Republic. There they were, immortalized on a monumental scale, facing the center of the square like sentinels who would never rest.
Gilgrim, the dwarf, had been sculpted with an almost reverent precision: her strong arms rested crossed over her chest, wrapped in armor plates carved with runes that were already worn down by time and the city's acid rain. Her face, stony, displayed the same obstinate expression that once led battalions and tore down walls — a restrained half-smile and her gaze fixed on an invisible point, as if, even in bronze, she still calculated strategies.
Beside her, Laurent, the human, pointed his bow upwards, seeming to challenge the very sky. His stone cape billowed, as if the sculptor wanted to forever imprison the rebellious wind from the day they marched together for the last time. Laurent's gaze was resolute, but there was in the curve of his lips a discreet melancholy, the human trace that time couldn't erase — the reminder of everything they had to sacrifice to earn that place. And to the right, dominating part of the square with her impressive stature, was Randyr, the orcse, portrayed as a living wall. The bronze-darkened sculpted skin seemed to retain the strength of a thousand battles. She did not wield weapons; instead, her left hand rested on her closed fist, a silent symbol of contained strength, while the right held the broken banner of the last campaign they fought together — the iron-forged cloth eternally waving in the imaginary wind of the square. The base of the statue bore a simple inscription, engraved in deep letters: "To those who defended the world — not for glory, but for the burden."
And so, under the austere gaze of the three, passed daily hurried citizens, soldiers in march, wandering poets... some paused, staring at those sculpted faces with a mixture of reverence and fear, others just crossed the square, unaware that there, in those immense figures, still resided the weight of a story that would never cease to be told. But, little by little, it was being forgotten.
After contemplating, bitter, accompanied by the mercenary's watchful gaze, Khaled decided to turn his body toward the inn. By the end of the day, after crossing two districts, it was the most famous one Liandre could remember. Moreover, it wasn't difficult to find out that one of the most famous minstrels of Elderim was frequenting the place, despite her packed schedule. Luckily, he knew her and understood why they called her "the voice from the celestial planes."
— Does it still hurt? — Liandre asked carefully.
— Every day, since it happened. And seeing how their deeds were carved in stone and iron only makes me notice that mine were supplanted by unfounded narratives — said Khaled, his back to the square, feeling as if the gaze of the three was on his shoulder with the profound weight of betrayal.
Liandre held his shoulders firmly, squeezing them, and stood a little behind him, as if covering the elf's body. He tried to protect him from whatever had happened in the past, but he knew he couldn't; even so, Khaled appreciated the gesture. Feeling comforted, the most powerful being in Elderim had the sensation of protection coming from a man who looked more like a burly bear. Comforted by the gestures and his warmth. His heart beat erratically, he tried not to remember other times, even though they were engraved in his flesh in such a difficult way to ignore, even so, he had to admit that having the mercenary so close, leaning against his body, physically and emotionally by his side, brought relief to his fragmented heart. And perhaps because of that, the pain later would be even more overwhelming. For now, he preferred to let himself be enveloped by the superficial emotions that would be provided by the company he so needed from Liandre. Finally, he entered the inn at once.