Dawn broke in a spill of amber and gold as the caravan crested the final hill. Soren's breath caught in his throat.
Elaris, the White City, spread below like something from a forgotten dream, vast and impossible and beautiful. Terraced districts of alabaster stone cascaded down the hillsides, connected by arching glass bridges that caught the morning light.
Streets spiraled inward toward the heart of the city where the Aetherion Spire rose, a needle of crystal and pale stone reaching toward the sky as if to pierce it.
Soren had seen cities before, the cramped, smoky sprawl of Nordhav, the decaying grandeur of abandoned settlements in the Wastes, but nothing like this.
This wasn't merely a place where people lived; it was a declaration, a statement of power carved in stone and glass.
'Remember everything,' he reminded himself, eyes already tracking the movement below with practiced precision.
