The city of Al'Rahim unfolded to Kaelen not as a maze, but as a deliberate organism—a body with a logic he could dissect. Within hours, its anatomy became clear. It was organized around a central heart: the Miraj Oasis. From this nucleus, seven broad canals, known as the Seven Veins, radiated outward like arteries of stone and water, carrying life into the city's sandstone flesh.
Districts clustered around these waterways. To the east, pressed against the great outer wall, the structures grew cramped and uneven—the slums, where the air hung thicker with dust and desperation. The west held broader avenues and sturdy, clean-lined homes—the domain of the merchant and artisan classes. And in a tight, privileged ring around the oasis itself stood the villas and colonnades of the upper class, their whitewashed walls gleaming in the sun. Scattered throughout, like cultural grafts, were market patches flying the banners of the two distant superpowers, and quieter quarters where the native Al'Rahim people maintained their older ways.
It was a map of social order, written in stone and water. Kaelen, his legionary's eye for terrain adapting to urban sprawl, absorbed it all. His destination, however, was the heart. He followed the widest of the Veins inward, against the gentle flow of the water, toward the Miraj Oasis.
The archway marking the oasis circle was a masterpiece of sandstone engineering, sweeping and high enough for a procession of giants to pass under. Kaelen stepped through, and the city's noise fell away, replaced by a profound, liquid silence.
Before him lay a vast, circular lake, its water a shocking, crystalline blue against the omnipresent gold of the stone. At its very center, a lush island of date palms and flowering shrubs rose from the water—the true oasis. The air here was cooler, fragrant with blooming night-bloom and wet earth. But his eyes were drawn upward. From the highest spire of Luminael's Embrace, a line of gilt stone descended in a perfect, unwavering diagonal, pointing like a divine finger directly to the center of the island below. The geometry of it was awe-inspiring, a permanent celestial alignment frozen in architecture.
"It catches everyone the first time," a voice said, calm and friendly.
Kaelen turned. A man stood nearby, dressed in simple, sun-bleached white robes. His face was lined but kind, his eyes reflecting the oasis water.
"You must be new," the man continued, stepping closer. "This place… it is the heart. Not just of the city, but of the faith here. It's beautiful, yes. But it holds a secret." He lowered his voice, not conspiratorially, but with reverence. "In the middle of that island is the last remaining remnant of Luminael in the mortal realm. A shard of the first light, they say. That is why His Embrace"—he gestured to the cathedral—"reveres this spot. The spire doesn't just point to the sun; it guides the sun's gaze here, to its own forgotten fragment. It's just beautiful, isn't it?"
Kaelen nodded, his mind racing. A physical remnant of a Titan? Not just a symbol, but an artifact? The scientific and theological implications swarmed. "It is," he agreed quietly. "A perfect alignment."
The man smiled, seeming content to have shared the mystery, and drifted away on silent feet.
Kaelen stayed a while longer, watching the play of light on water, the unerring line from spire to island. Power, he thought. Concentrated, historical, divine power. Not chaotic like the Drowned King's well, but focused. Radiant. He filed the knowledge away, a potent piece in the puzzle of this city.
Practicality soon reasserted itself. He needed a base. Turning west, he chose one of the Seven Veins and followed it into the middle-class district. The architecture here was newer, the sandstone less weathered, the plans more regular. He walked past rows of well-proportioned homes, many showing signs of being unoccupied—clean, but empty of life.
He stopped before one that seemed right: two stories, a small shaded portico, a window that would catch the morning light. The door was ajar. Peering inside, he saw a man ambling through the empty rooms, inspecting the walls with a casual air.
"Hello?" Kaelen called.
The man turned, blinking slowly. "Yeah?"
"Where could I buy this place?"
The man shrugged, gesturing vaguely with his thumb. "Down this road. Second right. Fella named Brutus owns all these new builds." He resumed his idle inspection, already dismissing Kaelen.
"Thank you."
The office was a block over, a functional room attached to a stonecutter's yard. Kaelen stepped inside. "Could I buy a house? Anyone here?"
A burly man with rolled-up sleeves and forearms dusted in sandstone powder emerged from a back room. "Yeah, sure. If you can afford it."
Kaelen reached for his pouch. "Will Aethelian denariae suffice?"
The man's eyes, previously bored, sharpened with appraisal. "Sure. That's enough. The name's Brutus. I'm your landlord." He placed a simple contract and a heavy iron key on a table between them.
Kaelen counted out the coins, the silver Aethelian denariae ringing softly on the sandstone slab. Brutus scooped them up with a satisfied nod, pushed the key toward him, and that was that.
Minutes later, Kaelen stood in the quiet, sun-warmed interior of his new home. The emptiness echoed, but it was a clean, promising echo. He ran a hand along the smooth wall.
A home. A place of his own, for the first time since he'd left the legion's barracks. The journey from soldier, to fugitive, to caravan guard, had led here—to a quiet street in Al'Rahim, with a Titan's shard glowing at the city's heart and a drowned god whispering from the desert depths.
I've truly come far, he thought, a solid, unfamiliar feeling of accomplishment settling in his chest. This is ground. Stable ground. And from here, I will grow stronger.