It had been 332 years since Sael had last set foot in the duchy of Orlys.
Obviously, the city had greatly changed. More so than he'd imagined. Among their party of ten, each of them had a dedicated territory where people celebrated them more than others. Usually where they were born from. Bran was to Orlys what Sael was to Gatsby.
You could see it in the way the duchy had built itself around his memory. Street names. Taverns. A whole district called Branford that definitely hadn't existed three centuries ago.
The monument was still here though.
Sael stopped walking when he saw it. Just stood there in the middle of the square outside the station while people flowed around him. Ilsa and Orion had kept going for a few steps before they realized he wasn't with them anymore.
The monument hadn't moved, obviously. Monuments didn't do that. But it had changed. The metal had gone from golden to greenish. Patina, they called it. The result of copper oxidizing over centuries. It actually looked better now, in Sael's opinion. More dignified. Less like someone had melted down the royal treasury to make a monument. It was still tall. Heroic. Completely ridiculous if you'd actually known any of the people depicted.
Bran had hated this one. They'd made Sael taller than him. He was indeed taller—had a solid three inches on Bran—but the man had never wanted to admit it. Every time they'd passed through this place together, Bran would stop. Look up at the statue. Mutter something about "artistic liberties" and "historical inaccuracy." Then he'd buy Sael a drink and spend the next hour insisting that height didn't matter in a real fight.
It had mattered exactly once. When Sael had been able to reach a lever that Bran couldn't. Bran had never let him forget it, which was ironic considering he was the one who brought it up.
Sael looked at the party of heroes frozen in bronze and copper. All ten of them caught mid-battle against an enemy that wasn't there. Dramatic poses. Weapons raised. Expressions of determination that were probably meant to be inspiring but mostly just looked constipated.
Their names were on the golden plaque at the base. Still legible after all this time. Someone had been maintaining it. Polishing it, probably. Making sure the letters didn't fade.
The Heroes of Pointbreak: Bran the Brave. Sael the Great. Thyria Moonwhisper. Korath the Oathbound. Velindra the Gentle One. Draeven Shadowstep. Myrith the Terrible. Garrick the Simpleton. Lysara Windborne. Elden of the Deep March.
Ten names.
Out of the ten of them, after the final battle at Mount Yrsult, only four made it out alive.
Sael. Bran. Korath the dwarf, who'd lost an arm and most of his good humor. Thyria the elf, who'd stopped speaking for two years afterward.
Four people came out of Yrsult's battle. When an army of fifteen thousand allies had come to fight the Corrupted One and his army of twenty thousand.
It was romanticized now. Songs and stories and statues. Children played Corrupted One in the streets, taking turns being the hero who landed the final blow. There were at least three different popular versions of what actually happened, and none of them were accurate.
But looking at the casualties, it was also the deadliest battle in history to date.
Sael thought about it sometimes. Not often. But sometimes. Usually the moments right before. When they'd all known what was coming and had chosen to go anyway. The looks on their faces. The way Velindra had made a joke that wasn't funny but they'd all laughed at it anyway because what else were you supposed to do.
He knew Bran had changed after it. Something in his eyes had been different. Harder. More tired. He'd smiled less. Drank more. Spent a lot of time staring at nothing in particular.
They'd never talked about it. Not directly. That wasn't how Bran worked. But Sael had known.
It was the cost of the golden age, he supposed. Someone had to pay for all that peace and prosperity. Turned out the price was fifteen thousand and two lives plus whatever pieces of themselves the survivors had left behind on that mountain.
"Brings back memories?"
Sael turned. Ilsa had approached while he'd been staring at the statue. Orion was a few paces ahead of her, looking uncertain about whether he should intrude or give them space.
"Yes," Sael said. He looked back at the statue. At Bran's face, frozen in bronze with an expression of determination he'd probably never actually worn. "The last time I was here was to visit Bushy Brows's grave. After I'd learned of his passing. Two years later only."
There was a pause. The sort that happened when someone was trying to figure out what to say to something like that.
"He understood, you know," Ilsa said finally. Her voice was quieter than usual. Careful.
Sael looked at her. She met his eyes steadily. No pity in her expression. Just something that might have been empathy.
"He knew you were still busy with things," she continued. "Rebuilding civilizations. Helping the kingdoms most touched by the wars and famine reemerge. He did not hold a grudge for you missing his death." She paused. "He wrote it in his journal."
Sael chuckled at that. Quiet and a little rough around the edges. "Yes. He was not the type to hold grudges."
That was true. Bran had been many things. Stubborn. Competitive. Absolutely insufferable when he thought he was right about something. But he'd never been one to hold grudges. He'd get angry, say his piece, then move on. It was one of the things Sael had appreciated most about him.
"He wrote about you often," Ilsa added. She shifted her weight slightly. "In the journals. About hoping you'd visit. About understanding why you couldn't and being proud of what you were doing even if it meant he wouldn't see you again."
Sael didn't say anything to that. Couldn't, really. There was something lodged in his throat that hadn't been there a moment ago.
Ilsa seemed to understand. She didn't push. Just stood there with him, looking up at the statue of people who'd been gone for centuries.
Orion had drifted closer. He was staring at the plaque now, reading the names.
"Which one's which?" he asked after a moment.
Sael blinked. Looked at him. "What?"
"The names." Orion gestured at the statue. "I know you and Bran. But which of the others is which?"
It was such a mundane question. So normal. Sael found himself smiling despite everything.
"Korath is the dwarf," he said, pointing. "With the axe. Thyria is the elf. The one with the staff." He went through the rest of them. Matched names to faces. Told Orion which ones had preferred close combat and which ones had hung back with magic. Small details that probably didn't matter to anyone but him.
Orion listened. Nodded. Asked a few questions that were surprisingly thoughtful for someone who'd been half-asleep an hour ago.
When Sael finished, Orion was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "They look brave."
Sael looked at the statue again. At the ten figures frozen in time. "They were," he said. "Stupid, most of the time. But brave."
Sael sighed. "We should go. Guide me to the academy so I may find the professor."
They left the square. The statue receded behind them as they entered the city proper.
People noticed Ilsa almost immediately.
"My lady!" A woman selling flowers from a cart dipped her head as they passed.
"Good morning, my lady," called a shopkeeper sweeping his doorstep.
"Lady Ilsa!" A group of children playing with wooden swords stopped mid-swing to wave.
Ilsa greeted them all back. A nod here. A wave there. A "good morning" to the shopkeeper. She seemed comfortable with it. Like she'd been doing it her whole life. Which, Sael supposed, she probably had.
The cobblestones were smooth and even, not the rough-cut stones he remembered. The buildings had glass windows, real glass, not just the ground floor shops but second and third stories too. There were streetlamps every twenty paces, their tops fitted with what looked like mana crystals instead of oil reservoirs.
Progress was on the move all over the world. Sael had seen it in his travels. But it hadn't spread as evenly as one might think. Most places still used swords and horses. Still lit their homes with candles and their streets with torches. Still traveled by foot or cart if they traveled at all.
Orlys was different. Orlys had always been different. Bran had made sure of that.
A vehicle rolled past them on the street. Sael stopped walking to stare at it.
It was a car. That's what they called them. Four wheels. A chassis made of dark metal. Windows on the sides. And no horses pulling it. It just... moved. By itself. Quietly, too. Lurching forward with a stuttering hum and the sound of wheels on stone.
"Powered by motors," Ilsa said, noticing his interest. "Fueled by processed mana. They've only been making them about a year — prototypes, really." the car coughed blue vapor. "Ashford Industries builds them here in Orlys. No one else's cracked the design yet. The ducal family has a few. The city guard too. Even the King was sent one."
Sael watched it turn a corner and disappear. "Interesting."
Weapons had always been imbued with mana to enchant them. That wasn't new. But using mana as fuel for transportation? He'd been the one to introduce that idea. Years ago. Decades ago, actually. He'd been inspired during his travels in the eastern continent of Gui'long, where people had long adopted flying swords as a means of transport.
There were hazards to that, of course. Falling was the obvious one. Losing control was another. Getting hit by birds at high speeds was apparently more common than you'd think. But it was faster than most other means, and the mages there had refined it to an art form.
Sael had mentioned it to Bran once. Described the principle. The way mana could be channeled to create propulsion. Bran had been fascinated. Started sketching designs on napkins in the tavern they'd been drinking at. Going on about "engines" and "fuel efficiency" and "mass production."
Sael was glad to see it being applied. Even better than what he'd imagined when he'd first mentioned it to Bran.
Another car passed. Then another. Children ran alongside one of them, laughing and trying to keep pace before falling behind. A street vendor was selling roasted nuts from a cart that had been modified with wheels that looked suspiciously like they'd come from a car. An older woman was arguing with a young man about the price of something Sael couldn't see.
Normal city things. Life happening around him.
He noticed Orion had gone quiet. The young man was walking a half-step behind Ilsa, hands shoved in his pockets, looking at everything except the academy that was slowly growing larger on the hill ahead of them.
Sael considered this. Orion had been talkative on the train. Enthusiastic. A little awkward but friendly. Now he looked like someone walking toward an execution.
Should he ask about it?
That felt invasive. They'd only known each other for a day. Less than a day, technically. Orion didn't owe him an explanation for his mood. Maybe he was just nervous about being back in the city. Or tired from the journey. Or had personal business that was none of Sael's concern.
But he also looked genuinely anxious. Like whatever was bothering him was more than just general nerves.
Then again, some people didn't like being asked about things like that. They preferred to work through it themselves. Sael could respect that. He was like that himself, usually.
Although if it was something that might affect their ability to find the professor, maybe it was worth knowing?
No, that was making assumptions. Orion was a student. He probably knew the academy better than either Sael or Ilsa. He'd be fine.
But he really did look anxious.
Sael's brain felt overwhelmed by the internal debate. He gave up on subtlety.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Orion jerked slightly, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. "Oh. Well. It's uh..." He laughed. It sounded forced. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
Sael was ready to leave it at that. He'd asked. Orion had declined to answer. That was fine. Case closed.
"What do you mean nothing?" Ilsa said, stopping in the middle of the street to stare at Orion.
Orion's eyes went wide. "Ilsa—"
"He's anxious about coming back here," Ilsa told Sael. "He was expelled from the academy."
"Ilsa!" Orion's voice went up an octave.
"Just ask him," Ilsa said, gesturing at Sael. "He's right there."
"Ask me what?"
"Nothing," Orion said quickly. "Nothing at all, sir."
Ilsa sighed deeply. It seemed she'd had this exact conversation before and was tired of it. "If you don't do it, I will." She looked at Sael, then back at Orion. "See? He's friendly."
Orion looked at Sael with something close to panic.
What were they doing? They'd clearly been talking about something. Before now. Without him. About him, apparently, if the way they were acting was any indication. Which was fine. People talked. That's what people did. But the dynamic here was strange. Ilsa was pushing Orion to do something. Ask something. And Orion was resisting like his life depended on it.
Sael nodded slowly. "I am indeed friendly. Thank you for saying that."
"Of course you are," Ilsa said. Satisfied. Like she'd just proven an obvious point.
It was oddly comforting, actually. He'd been worried about how he came across to people. Too formal. Too distant. Too much like someone who'd been alive for centuries and had forgotten how to interact with normal humans. But if young Ilsa thought he was friendly, that was good. That meant the projection was working, he was successfully appearing approachable.
Something small hit him on the head.
It wasn't painful. Barely noticeable, really. Like a pebble dropped from a height. Just a tiny tink against his skull.
He looked down. A small metal object had bounced off him and landed on the cobblestones.
Both Ilsa and Orion looked at it. Their expressions changed immediately. Ilsa's hand went to her sword. Orion took a step back.
They understood what it was before Sael did.
He picked it up. Turned it over in his fingers. It was a bullet. One of those things that came out of rifles. Deformed on one end where it had struck something hard.
Him, apparently.
Ding!
A rare sound came, followed by his status window.
CON: 5,738,943 (+1)
It had gone up. Again. One more point.
"Hmm."
Not a happy hmm.