Fog clung to the ground as they followed Elhyra down the ridge and into the valley. The path curved between broken pillars and half-buried stones—remains of a kingdom swallowed by time, war, and its own arrogance. The air thickened with every step, as though the land exhaled a warning.
By midday, the world opened into the heart of Arechi.
Chaos sprawled before them like a wounded beast refusing to die. Stalls leaned against ruins where old towers once pierced the clouds; tents bloomed wild across cracked marble courtyards. Smoke slithered through the streets, carrying the scents of metal, sweat, and fermented fruit that had turned sour under the sun.
Reikika stopped short. "This… this is a city?"
Midarion didn't answer. His gaze wandered over everything—too sharp, too alive. After the sterile walls of HELION, the world felt enormous, loud, wrong, and yet painfully real. Keel shifted beneath his cloak, a soft ripple of warmth.
A merchant hammered open a crate nearby. The metal rang like a scream. People shouted over each other, striking deals in languages the children didn't know. Fires burned in barrels. Music—harsh and discordant—spilled from a tavern doorway.
And above it all hung the silence of towers that had collapsed centuries ago, their stone crowns shattered and scattered like teeth.
Arechi wasn't chaos. It was the memory of order set ablaze.
They moved carefully through the crowd. Reikika pressed closer, fingers gripping Midarion's sleeve as a pair of armored men dragged a cage across the street. Inside, a boy barely older than her stared with empty eyes. The slaver struck him when he sagged.
Reikika flinched. Midarion didn't look away.
"At least," he murmured, "here we choose what chains we carry."
She didn't understand, not fully. But she nodded anyway.
Further on, the crowd thickened around a weapons stall. Blades of every shape glinted—curved sickles, blood-slick cleavers, swords etched with glowing sigils. The merchant grinned when he saw Midarion staring.
"You look like you can swing steel," he said, leaning forward. "Want to earn a blade, boy? There's a pit fight in—"
"No," Elhyra said.
It wasn't a threat, or anger. Simply truth. The kind of truth no one dared ignore.
The merchant swallowed his next breath and stepped back.
They pushed deeper into Arechi. The noise grew stranger. A musician plucked a broken lute with strings made from something too sinewy to be wood. A woman sold charms shaped like eyes that blinked when touched. A preacher ranted atop rubble, his robes blackened with soot.
Reikika tugged harder on Midarion's cloak as a child approached her—a girl with dirt-streaked cheeks and a wooden bowl trembling in her hands. Reikika froze, breath catching. The girl's stare was hollow, hungry.
Midarion knelt and placed half his bread into the bowl.
The girl vanished into the crowd without a word.
"Do they ever say thank you here?" Reikika whispered.
"Sometimes," Midarion said. "But not when they're too busy surviving."
Elhyra watched them with an unreadable expression—something between sorrow and pride, as if she hoped the children would forget this place even while knowing they never could.
They passed into a quieter stretch of ruins. Chains hung from beams, clinking softly. Courtesans leaned in doorways carved from shattered marble, faces painted with resignation rather than seduction. A man stumbled from an alley, clutching a bleeding arm, muttering prayers to a god that no longer existed.
Reikika's shoulders tightened. Midarion instinctively stepped in front of her.
They reached a wide square where old banners fluttered in tatters, colors long washed to grey. A man stood atop a crate, shouting into the wind.
"Kings fell! Gods fled! But Arechi stands unbowed! Unbowed!"
No one listened. A guard kicked him to the ground, but he rose again, shouting through a mouthful of blood. Unbowed. Unbroken. Or simply too far gone to kneel.
Midarion didn't know why the words lodged in his chest.
Night crept quickly over the ruins, turning lantern smoke into ghostly trails. Elhyra led them to a tavern on the city's edge—its wooden sign carved with a star so faded it was nearly dust. The place looked half-dead, but alive enough to house them for a night.
They stepped inside. The warmth was thin, but real. The tavern keeper said nothing, only filled their bowls with a heavy stew and laid bread on the table. Reikika stared at the food as if it might disappear if she blinked too hard.
Midarion broke his bread in half and nudged a piece toward her.
"This time," he whispered, "no one decides for us."
Reikika blinked quickly, swallowing emotion with each bite. The taste wasn't good, but it wasn't pain. That was enough.
Elhyra watched them from across the table, her eyes tired but soft. "You endure well," she said. "But endurance is only the first form of strength."
Later, in the small room upstairs, Midarion lay awake. The bed creaked under his weight, the mattress uneven, but even this felt like luxury compared to the metal slabs of HELION. Reikika slept curled up, breath steady. Elhyra remained awake, eyes on the moonlit window as if expecting someone to appear.
Outside, the wind whistled through broken towers. Laughter drifted from distant alleys. Something older—the sigh of ancient stone—rose beneath it all.
Dawn bled slowly into the sky. Smoke curled above rooftops as the city stirred. Unseen bells tolled, low and mournful. Somewhere beyond the ruins, a horn sounded once—long, deep, unsettling.
Reikika rubbed her eyes. "What was that?"
"A reminder," Elhyra murmured. "That we should not linger."
They stepped outside. The street was quieter now, washed pale by morning light. Midarion drew his cloak tighter around Keel, whose warm breath tickled his ribs.
As they walked, he felt it—a prickle at the nape of his neck. He turned.
A figure stood at the far end of the street.
Cloaked in black. Motionless. Watching.
Before he could blink, the crowd swallowed the figure whole, replaced by merchants carrying crates and a dog dragging a stolen loaf.
Midarion frowned. He said nothing. But the air felt heavier, like the city had exhaled against his skin.
Elhyra placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do not fear shadows. Fear the things that cast them."
He didn't fully understand, but he nodded.
They left Arechi by midday, climbing the ridge that overlooked the sprawling ruin. The wind carried the smell of smoke and metal. Reikika looked back only once, jaw set, eyes strangely older.
Midarion looked longer.
He had seen cages, hunger, and men who carried pain like armor. He had seen a land built on bones—and people who survived anyway.
He wondered what kind of person Arechi would turn him into if he stayed.
He wondered what kind of person he needed to be to face what lay ahead.
The fog thickened as they neared the valley's edge. The world softened into silhouettes. Elhyra raised her hood.
"Come," she said. "Your teacher awaits beyond the ridge."
Midarion breathed in the dust and embers.
They had left behind ashes.
Ahead was fire.