—Can I go with you? I know some people. It would be useful for someone connected to the government to accompany you. — Jean said as he served the steaming dishes. In the center of the black porcelain plate rested the carefully seared meat of a Cave Basilisk — a legendary, rare, and feared creature, whose flesh, if poorly prepared, exudes a lethal poison. But there, before them, transformed by Jean's alchemical mastery, it was pure art.
The cut, thick and tender, presented itself with a deep ruby hue, edges gilded by controlled fire, while the internal fibers shredded at the slightest touch of the fork, releasing an intense and earthy aroma, with subtle notes of sulfur and moss — natural traits of the creature, now tamed and elevated to an almost supernatural sophistication.
—Oh, I love your food. — Tilka was the first to serve herself. Liandre stared at her hesitantly, especially after hearing about her stomach problem. But he decided not to comment on it. He didn't know if they should partake of the food after seeing the sign in front of the restaurant.
—You don't need... to worry about the sign. Actually, it's a bureaucratic inconvenience from people who don't understand the culinary arts. Monsters are also creatures that can be served in beautiful dishes if handled with due care. Remove the poison, the diseases, and eliminate any kind of toxin. — Jean explained carefully, noticing the mercenary's mood of dismay as he gazed at the food in question.
—In short: the powerful making a fuss because they don't understand or, rather, can't control a particular art and end up trying through legal means. — Tilka explained, moving her fork from side to side. — Not everyone likes what's different and they do that, but soon they'll take the sign down!
Jean merely nodded, perfectly understanding how the internal bureaucracy of that place worked — a cold and relentless machine, often manipulated by hidden interests, used not to protect, but to suffocate and embargo inconvenient businesses.
And that's what corroded her the most: her food could no longer be appreciated, nor admired. The tables, once always full, brimming with customers fascinated by alchemical flavors and magical delicacies, now lay empty, immersed in an oppressive silence.
Everything had crumbled because of a single and unfortunate incident.
A military officer, drunk on authority, had tried to negotiate — or rather, extort — her kitchen, her space, her art. Jean refused, with the firmness and coldness that had always guided her life. But she didn't expect such swift and treacherous retaliation: the next day, officers showed up at her door, invading the kitchen like predators, rummaging through every shelf, every vial, as if searching for traces of a crime they knew did not exist.
They found nothing — no evidence, no flaw, no legitimate pretext. And even so, they shut the place down, wielding the closure seal like a silent and irrefutable sentence.
Jean remained firm, but deep down, felt the bitterness set in: it wasn't just the loss of the physical space, but a direct blow against her freedom, her art, and her identity.
—I don't know if it would be wise. — Khaled softened the conversation. — But your help could change the course of the discussion.
Tilka raised her eyes toward the mage, thoughtful.
—I want to go too. — The bard commented quickly. — It's the payment for the favor of bringing you here!
—No, you owe me, Tilka. I saved your ass a couple of times, remember? — Liandre frowned, knowing that any important conversation they had with the leadership of the Republic could simply be spread through every alley.
—You think I'm an idiot, huh? Liandre, Liandre. I owe you, right? But who gave you the information about the mage in the tower? Who dug through the depths of the records for the knowledge that could help you, big guy? So, did you really think I wouldn't know who the so-called tower mage is? Especially after Jean found a grimoire full of power hidden in the Cosmic Tower? Patience, right? And there's more... You can be sure I know much more than that, so if you don't want all of Vhaldaris to know about it now... — Tilka huffed, crossing her arms as if she had made the greatest discovery of the era.
Khaled could simply alter Tilka's memories, or kill her. But why do something so reckless? He needed the bard. Many underestimate bards. Information travels faster when minstrels sing about their deeds. Heroes want their legends to reach remote peoples. Villages forgotten by the gods sing chants of old thanks to those who carry information. And he undoubtedly needed the Halfling before him. He merely placed his hand on Liandre's shoulder, squeezing gently before the mercenary could raise any objection.
—I fully agree with your participation, more than a favor for helping me recover my grimoire, it would be an honor for you to come with us and be part of this small endeavor, Tilka. — The mage smiled softly.
The bard had always been cunning. She had survived the relentless streets of Vhaldaris thanks to the sharp shrewdness and intelligence she had learned to cultivate as both defense and weapon. She knew where to probe for information, how to extract secrets from the shadows, and she recognized, without a shred of doubt, when she encountered a living story.
And that mage... was pure history.
She perceived clearly — and perhaps with an instinctive spark that ignited her senses like a brazier — that something grand was unfolding there, before her eyes, and she could not allow herself to be left out. The legend was not dormant in old tomes or forgotten ballads: it breathed, spoke, shaped itself at that moment.
She also knew that the mage wanted her fame, her sharp tongue, her ability to transform deeds into immortal songs and tales. And she, perceptive, was willing to fulfill that role — they would help each other: she would give voice to the legend, and he would return life to the legend itself.
She felt the palm of her hand tingle, her blood pulsing faster, as if her very skin sensed the historic moment... although, pragmatically, she thought the tingling could very well be the effect of the alchemical spices in Jean's food — as intense as the latent excitement that dominated that environment.
—Relax, big guy. You know I keep more secrets than my loudmouth can sing on the streets, right? — Tilka chuckled as if telling a funny joke, while beginning to feel her stomach churn once again. — I need to go to the bathroom. If you'll excuse me!
The bard left with the same cunning lightness with which she had arrived, carrying the tray of meat as one carries a trophy. Liandre frowned, disconcerted by the silent audacity, but held back any comment — he had already realized, quite clearly, what Khaled's true objective was.
Notoriously, the mage needed someone to narrate his version, to breathe life and glory into his story before the cold, bureaucratic press of the Republic shaped it at its pleasure. And, without a doubt, the little bard would do that job with much sharper competence than any official scribe.
Liandre exhaled slowly, resigned; there were things that not even the sword could resolve — and, in that arena, it was her word that would triumph.
—Jean... do you know the Leader of the Republic well? — Khaled inquired, his voice laden with an almost imperceptible caution, while, under the table, his fingers sought Liandre's hand.
He squeezed it softly, a discreet but firm gesture, offering silent support, aware that that name, that memory, would always provoke in the mercenary an unease difficult to tame.
Khaled did not take his eyes off Jean, but his touch remained, like a discreet anchorage in the maelstrom that that conversation could provoke.
— Better than I'd like... — replied the sorceress in a monotone voice, without raising her eyes, keeping them fixed on the meal before her, as if the intertwined fibers of the meat told a silent story. The strong scent of moon pepper seemed to ensnare her, not only through smell but also through sight, pulling her into a memory that weighed more than any dish.
— My brother, Héctor... — she began, her voice firm but devoid of embellishment — fought alongside the rebels, twenty years ago. He was among the leaders, shoulder to shoulder with the Phantom... and with others, like our current Leader. He was considered a hero, consecrated by the victory that turned the tide in favor of the Republic.
She paused briefly, her fingers lightly gripping the utensil, as if holding something more than just cutlery.
— My brother raised the flag, in the name of those who cried out for justice... but died defending those who stormed the palace. The day became known as the Golden Day. The Phantom... cut off the old monarch's head before everyone and dedicated the death... to my older brother.
She gently placed the utensil on the plate, as one who ends a rite.
— Because of him, I maintain a certain... respect. They feel... as if they owe me a debt. — Finally, she raised her gaze, one corner of her mouth arching in a faint, almost ironic expression. — You know? So... I can help. A little.
— I'm sorry about your brother... — said Liandre, his voice deep and contained, surprising even Khaled, who watched him sideways.
He imagined that Liandre would feel pleased, at least in silence, to see a republican — part of the group that had annihilated his family — also lose his life to the war. But no. The man before him was more complex than any simplistic judgment would allow.
The feelings fermenting in his chest since the uprising — anger, hurt, resentment — had, little by little, been buried under the curse that now gnawed at his soul. He had always been in conflict with the Republic and the coalition that sustained it. But deep down, he recognized: the rebels did what they had to do, so the people wouldn't starve, so epidemics wouldn't keep decimating innocents abandoned by the crown's neglect.
He didn't want to get involved with politics — he never did. But he knew it wasn't just that: he avoided looking at that past because it hurt too much. The resentment he carried wasn't against the rebels... it was against his own parents. They could have chosen differently, they could have abandoned their blind faith, they could have joined those who truly fought for the people... but they didn't.
And that choice... was what weighed most heavily on his chest.
— Thank you... — murmured Jean softly, breaking the dense silence, her eyes shining with contained gratitude, while the aroma of moon pepper continued to linger in the air, as a reminder that, despite everything, they were alive.
After they ate — and after Tilka survived a vigorous visit to the bathroom — they finally headed towards the Marble District: the political heart of the city, the pulsating vein of Vhaldaris' bureaucracy.
There, the largest number of public servants were concentrated, allocated no longer by social status but according to their competencies. Hierarchical mobility, once rigidly controlled by the aristocracy, had become more flexible after the fall of the crown. Now, common people could join the council, and citizens participated more actively in political life, represented in communes that encompassed the various segments of the population.
The district, once a symbol of monarchical privilege, was gradually transforming into the nerve center of the new republican order — a space where everyone, at least in theory, could collaborate to move the city and shape its young reality, still under construction.
The Solar of the New Order rose in the heart of the capital as a monument to time and rupture. Its white marble columns, still marked by the sculpted crests of the old monarchy, now supported red and gold banners, symbols of the nascent republic, which, with only twenty years, was still striving to establish its roots.
The long, cold corridors, once reserved for nobility, had been opened to the people — or at least to those who represented their interests. Where once dukes and marquises paraded in brocades, now marched republican soldiers and elected leaders, dressed in sober uniforms of austere cut.
In the grand hall, crystal chandeliers still hung from the vaulted ceiling, refracting light like ghosts of the opulence of yesteryear, but the throne had been removed; in its place, a circular table, a deliberate symbol of equality and debate, though not everyone was fooled by the illusion.
The stones of the facade bore visible scars — cracks, impacts, erased inscriptions — memories of the bloody uprising that ended the regime of kings. With every step, the Solar seemed to whisper the weight of two eras: the decadent glory of the monarchy and the rough, unfinished hope of the republic.
Young, this new order was only two decades old... and yet, it already stood as a colossus, trying to convince the world — and itself — that it would be eternal.
— Not much has changed... only the red has become more intense. The throne had a horrible aesthetic... it looks better this way — muttered Khaled, evoking memories he thought buried. He had met there more than once with kings and queens of old — his team, celebrated as a gift of an era that did not last.
— This place was always ugly... and too big — commented Liandre, though now he felt the opposite: it seemed diminutive, as if the space had shrunk or its essence had become less grand. In truth, he was only twelve when he ran through those corridors, and everything, once sublime and austere, seemed infinite. Now, as an adult, he clearly perceived the singular, clean, imposing architecture — but also small, finite.
The traces of ancient battles still marked the walls: deep scratches, blackened cracks, scars that the rebels kept as symbols of victory — fissures opened by magic and swords. Liandre extended his hand, touching one of the pillars, whose stone had darkened, burned by a fireball conjured by some skilled mage. He couldn't exactly remember that day, only the flames and the chaos.
His parents had already foreseen the invasion: they took him, along with his sister, to a safe shelter — the family status had guaranteed them that protection. But the most vivid memory was the confusion: soldiers running, rulers bewildered, aristocrats desperate as the people broke down the palace doors, which once bore the name Fist of Justice.
The leader awaited them. Adreele Abraha'am wore simple clothes, but of visibly expensive fabric — white and red, deliberately evoking the colors of the Republic, as if she silently and solemnly wished to convey a message to the visitors.
— Welcome — she greeted, with the natural austerity of one long accustomed to command. Her gaze settled on Jean, with a discreet smile. — I'm glad to see you again, Jean. It's been a while since you visited the palace... despite all my invitations.
— I don't like parties, Adreele... but I can come for a private tea — replied Jean, with the same frankness she always carried.
The last time she had been there was at the Republic's Commemorative Ball — and she had felt exhausted, emotionally drained by the need to interact with so many people, with so many glances and empty greetings. Since then, she avoided social approaches: she preferred the isolation of her kitchen, the meticulous alchemy of potions, the cauldrons boiling under her silent command... while the invisible servants took care of serving the tables and interacting with the world she gladly dispensed with.
— Come with me — ordered the leader, taking the lead and guiding the four through the central staircases of what was once the palace of the monarchy.
Many moved hurriedly through the corridors, absorbed in the city's complex politics, oblivious to the presence of the newcomers. Some, upon noticing the imposing figure leading them, made a point of greeting Adreele with a discreet bow; others, immersed in urgent documents, simply moved on, without interrupting their own pace.
Adreele, for her part, was already accustomed to that frenetic environment that dominated the political heart of Vhaldaris.
Without saying a word, she entered the office and indicated, with a subtle gesture, that the guests should settle into the wide, cushioned armchairs. Finally, she thought, she had rid herself of the old and uncomfortable monarchical chairs.
— Let's get straight to the point. — Adreele then noticed Tilka's presence and immediately paused. — Is it really okay for a private conversation to have Vhaldaris' biggest gossip around? No offense.
— Oh, come on? I'm a citizen like any other. Besides, you can consider me the assistant of Khal and Liandre, I'm here for the good of my clients! — The halfling straightened up, as serious as a seasoned lawyer.
— Tilka is a loyal friend, you can be sure that nothing will leave this room without my permission. — The mage assured, firmly.
Adreele nodded, still suspicious of the sudden alliance. According to the reports, the mage's only companion was supposed to be Liandre, but there were two unexpected additions. However, there was no reason to doubt a mythical being.
— First... I will tell you what really happened, from my memories. I want you to know the truth — said Khaled, his voice immersed in a dangerous serenity as he muttered arcane, incomprehensible, and ancient words.
Adreele hesitated for a brief moment — not out of a lack of courage, but due to the inevitable fear of the unknown. She knew, however, that if the elf dared to attempt against her life, the Phantom, always vigilant, would emerge from the shadows to cut off his head without hesitation.
She took a deep breath, trying to quell the chill running down her spine, and allowed herself to relax — or at least pretend. She knew that from then on, she would dive into a unique experience: she would witness the ancient legends — long distorted and molded to suit convenience — being unraveled from the dark and living perspective of the one who had lived them.
The stone hall echoed with exalted voices, reverberating between columns adorned with faded banners from ancient campaigns. Khaled remained at the center, his posture firm, but his eyes carried the weariness of someone who needed to explain, once again, the urgency of his decision.
— You don't understand... — the elf's voice sounded, dense like mist at dawn. — If I take the position of Thirteenth God, I can be an instrument of change. For the first time, divine power could fully serve humanity and communities, not merely hover above them like an unattainable ornament!
But the words met resistance. Gilgrim, the dwarven paladin, crossed her arms over her polished armor, her eyes flashing like sharpened blades.
— It is through me that Everyn, goddess of Justice, touches and aids this world! — she proclaimed, her voice like the striking of a hammer on an anvil. — The gods are not accessories, Khaled! They live through the actions of those who carry out their will!
Randyr, the orcse warrior, remained silent, her tusks clenched and her gaze torn between respect and fear. Laurent, the human archer, merely adjusted the bow on his back, his fingers drumming restlessly on the quiver of arrows.
The discussion advanced like a storm, lightning bolts of reason and thunderclaps of emotion exploding among old companions. Khaled's idealism seemed like an abyss impossible to cross.
And then, it cut to the day of the battle.
The sky, gray and heavy, heralded the end of an era. Gilgrim positioned herself at the front, Everyn's banner unfurled on her back, her expression stony and solemn.
— Your sins... will not be forgiven — she said, her voice icy, carrying the force of an irrevocable sentence. — And, if necessary, we will stop you.
Khaled looked at them — those he had once called friends — and, for an instant, time seemed to fold upon itself.
Randyr and Laurent hesitated, the weight of the choice crushing their chests. But the pact with Everyn had already been sealed. The goddess had given them the fragment of the rune, forged by Farandhur, the god of magic and Artisan of the End — the only artifact capable of fragmenting a divine power into seven parts.
And so they did.
In the midst of battle, the three companions, with trembling but determined hands, activated the seal. Khaled's essence, once resplendent, was torn into seven fragments, scattered like extinguished stars into the void.
And they spread the news, cold and calculated: that Khaled, once beloved, adored, celebrated as the Arcanist of the Dawn, had tried to destroy the pantheon and turn against humanity.
The legend born from that betrayal survived the ages.
But only they — the four — knew the true story.
Tilka was excited. Her whole body bubbled with that latent and uncontrollable sensation, her blood pulsing rapidly through her veins, as if each heartbeat whispered: you are standing before the true story.
She had always suspected, it was true. She wasn't a fool — she knew that Khaled, the enigmatic elven mage of the tower, couldn't be just any recluse, a hermit lost among books and dust. No... there was within him that dense and immutable aura of those who had witnessed time shaping kingdoms and who had survived the ruin of empires. Now, with confirmation before her, she couldn't contain the whirlwind of emotions — fierce curiosity, silent reverence, and a burning desire to know more, much more.
It was him. The arcane component of the most powerful team in the mortal realms: The Defenders of the Realm.
Tilka smiled, almost childlike, remembering when she visited the Oasis of Laurent years ago, and how it was... like drinking directly from the source of myths, as if the sacred stories gained flesh, breath, dust between their feet. And now she was there... facing the "traitor". The one who, according to the bards, had mercilessly stabbed humanity in the back.
But no... Tilka knew — knew deeply — that something was wrong with that narrative. How could someone so loved, so followed, especially by arcanists of all nations, have succumbed to the same desire as Morvath, the Devastator of Worlds? That vile, inexorable creature that everyone had learned to fear since childhood, whose name was a forbidden whisper in ancient libraries?
It didn't make sense.
And Tilka needed to find out the truth.
Even if that meant going beyond the versions told in public squares... and risking her own soul to uncover what was hidden beneath layers of time, sorrow, and legend.
— Oh, heavens. — Adreele abruptly broke the silence, worried. She knew that the Defenders of the Realm had power levels considered epic. The only ones who had reached almost divine heights, but she hadn't imagined it could be beyond that.
— In the end, what I want is to reclaim my former status, for everyone to hear the truth about the past, concealed by a divine plot, to recover what was taken from me. And to help those who need me once more, now that I am relatively free. — Khaled kept his hand over Liandre's, as if unconsciously seeking his support, the thread that connected him to the external reality beyond the tower. The mercenary gave him silent support, even though he was tense due to the environment; he also wanted the mage to recover what had been taken from him.
— And what agreement do you wish to make? — Adreele asked cautiously, knowing she was dealing with someone, even with fragments of his own power, far more powerful than anyone under her personal guard or in the service of the republic.
Khaled stood up calmly, adjusted his posture, and looked directly at Adreele, his voice firm yet measured, as if he had weighed each word before speaking.
— It's simple, Leader... and at the same time, profoundly complex.
"I do not come here asking for forgiveness, nor for clemency. I come offering something that, I believe, few can offer the young Republic at this crucial moment: stability, strength, and vision. I understand the fear my name evokes. For years, I was the symbol of a power that many considered threatening, a legend that divided hearts and opinions. But the time of legends has given way to the concrete reality of a Republic that, though vibrant and full of promise, is still fragile. The scars of the monarchy are recent. Autocratic groups still hide in the shadows, conspiring to restore a past that the people have already rejected."
A soft pause, staring at all the faces present, and someone else hiding in the shadows.
"That is where my proposal is grounded.
No one knows these groups better than I do: their methods, their codes, their hidden alliances. I have lived long enough to identify each move before it becomes a concrete threat. I offer myself as the shield of this Republic, to dismantle these reactionary forces before they bloom into violence. But not only that. The people today fear symbols of the past — and I am one of them. Transforming that fear into trust will be a political act as powerful as any decree or law. The one who was called a 'traitor' can now be known as the defender of the Republic. A clear sign to all, inside and outside these borders: the power of the new order is capable of taming even the most indomitable spirits and putting them at the service of the common good."
"Moreover, it is undeniable that the Republic, to be respected in the political arena of the realms, needs more than ideals: it needs strength and strategic allies. A mage of my caliber, acting under the republican banner, would reinforce alliances and deter external threats that still look at Vhaldaris with suspicion, waiting for the moment to exploit its political youth."
"My presence will not be limited to military security.
I offer my services in social reconstruction: with magic and knowledge, I can help develop infrastructure, protect vulnerable populations, establish transportation and communication networks that consolidate the Republic's unity. I can train and empower new arcanists who do not serve crowns or thrones, but the people. I want magic to finally be a public tool, no longer a privilege for the few. As you know, few talents are born because of Farandhur, and I can overcome this obstacle. And for those who still doubt... I do not ask for everything back immediately. I propose a gradual reintegration, under the scrutiny of this Government. Let my actions be evaluated not by my intentions, but by my deeds. The time of crowns is over. The time of secret pacts and veiled alliances as well. Let it begin, here and now, the time of responsibility, justice, and true protection. And I will not do this alone."
Khaled finished by sitting back down.
— And who will be with you? — Adreele asked breathlessly after what she had heard. How could she refuse such a proposal? They needed power and a symbol of strength.
— They are before you, Leader. The future team that will defend the republican banner.