In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
— William Blake, London
And so rode beneath a village empty and decrepit, by choice alone, B.B. Santvic, with no blade at her waist. Her companion answered to the name Mouse, a gray horse so gaunt it could never inspire the slightest respect. At his side followed the irritating ally, Daric Vanhallow, mounted on the strong Chestnut—orange-hued and ostentatiously healthy. It was only marginally more intelligent than the borrowed rider who led it.
They were both there for work, and by that point Santvic was already certain it wouldn't prove a particularly sound investment. She wouldn't trust a single Valet—much less her life—to the cavalier.
Even so, they rode together, for there was no escaping the job. What had kept them in harmony thus far was the rebellious nature of both horses, who seemed to hate one another as much as their riders, mirroring their exchanges of provocation that never led anywhere. Now, however, silence ruled the surroundings—for they had come upon something entirely unexpected, and curiosity stirred them more than they ever stirred each other.
They had not expected to find something so thoroughly dead. The village Santvic swore she remembered as full of voices, color, and the nostalgic smell of stew now lay with empty streets, shuttered doors, and the constant whistling of wind descending from the mountains. No bells at all. No hurried footsteps. No drunken singing.
The greatest problem was simple, if inconvenient: night was falling far too quickly, and they needed somewhere to rest.
"The sun set earlier than I expected," Hallow remarked, turning in his saddle, searching for any sign of life. "Just a moment ago it was six o'clock."
"The sun didn't set," Santvic corrected, without even looking at him, her patience already threadbare. "It's Catharsis. The mountain."
She paused briefly, then added—with the certainty that the man was doing it on purpose,
"Don't be a fool."
It is unknown at this day and age where the name came from, but the Mountains of Catharsis are celebrated as the fourth blessing of the lands of Doural—a rare consensus, considering how discrepant the naming scheme of Urbes tends to be. Their reach is lost across countless miles: three great stone peaks rise against the sky, catching the sunlight on bare rock and blinding travelers. Ever-present on the horizon, no matter where one stands.
Famous words of poets: "From its body spring dense forests, spilling down the slopes—its green hair left loose to the wind; waterfalls tear through the stone and plunge in long falls, as though the mountain itself were weeping." Catharsis dominates the landscape and steals prominence even from the beautiful skies of Doural, cutting across the horizon and blocking the sun, forcing it to set earlier, depending on the region.
"Satus might've attacked the village," Hallow theorized. "This isn't normal."
"…Don't be a fool," she repeated.
And embedded in its valleys and cliffs lives Satus: the verdant Urbe that, by its own decision, renounced the Antesystem. At the highest point, one can make out the dome that encloses the Urbe—a translucent layer that gleams like a soap bubble. From afar, its inhabitants are little more than dark specks moving through the stone towers, coming and going like ants from an orderly anthill. At the absolute summit, crowning the whole with zero subtlety and flaunting all the power it knows it holds, rises the marble castle—set upon the highest of the three peaks, home of the crown and a reminder of a long political history.
To restless minds, Catharsis is more than a natural monument: it is a dreadful omen of a frightening future. There are those who say—always in whispers disguised as jokes—that within the mountain sleep three titans of stone: ancestral colossi under the dominion of Satus who, one day, would awaken, destroy Catharsis itself, and march upon the Capital to crush it. The theory is entirely unfounded, built on fear, fertile imagination, and, most likely, seeded by the Capital itself to sow doubt and superstition against Satus. Even so—or precisely because of this—it is exceedingly profitable for the villages that circle the mountain.
Mystery fills pockets. After all, what traveler would not pay for an inn, if only to gaze upon the mountains from afar, feeding the distant dream of one day passing through their gates?
"If you knew the horrible things Satus hides…" Hallow lamented, lowering his voice as though the kingdom miles above might hear him. Santvic let out a short laugh. "Why do you think no one is allowed into the caverns of Catharsis? Hm?"
She sighed, visibly tired.
"You wouldn't believe me. It was Professor Schüssler who introduced me to Prince Maldevi IV." She paused, weighing how much was appropriate to reveal at that moment. She chose her words carefully. "Our highness became a historian of Doural after separating himself from the crown of Satus… said he was disgusted by the monarchy's administration. He betrayed it, essentially."
Hallow raised an eyebrow, poorly disguised interest surfacing in his gaze, which he tried to smother with a smug, false smile.
"Are we under a silence contract?" Santvic asked.
"Of course," he assured her. "My mouth is a tomb."
Santvic snorted, without humor.
"A spoiled brat. A petty boy. Barely a man."
This time it was Hallow who laughed.
"Born into a golden cradle, and thinks himself a revolutionary just for frequenting the Agora. Of course they would raise him to the top." She tilted her head slightly. "So, you're right… I distrust his sources. Most of it must be steeped in bias."
She made a vague gesture with her hand, brushing the thoughts aside.
"Even so, he showed me some interesting facts. Satus is not as grand as it pretends to be."
"Yeah, you're right. I don't believe it."
"He's a famous man. They call him the Blade-Blind Highness."
"For the betrayal?"
Santvic shook her head.
"For the patchy beard."
B.B. Santvic would certainly loathe spending a single Valet in that filthy region. Her interest had never been in the stronghold of Satus itself, but in the origin of the rumor. The formation of the Urbe was born of a great historical confusion: the three peaks had originally housed three distinct kingdoms. They were united into one through a popular movement that sought—believe it or not—to overthrow the Capital, as so many other Districts had once dreamed of doing. It was in this context that the myth of the three titans took shape: not as monsters of stone, but as an allegory for the three kingdoms that would one day march out of Catharsis to destroy the Capital. They themselves, with no elegance whatsoever, had given themselves that name.
A response came swiftly, however, decreed by the central crown—which would shortly thereafter ensure it was the only one. "No blood shall ever be spilled beneath a vain blade," wrote King Maldevi I, in a text that soon would become famous. The decree arose as a direct reaction to the villages that began to sprout around Catharsis: the very same ones that now live off rumor, opportunistic trade, and the distant dream of one day belonging to the Urbe of Satus. To the Crown, however, these were not simple settlements seeking advantage, but potential nests of spies—covert troops of the Capital, ready to strike when least expected. There was no heroism in this decision; it was a cautious, almost desperate maneuver meant to postpone a conflict that seemed inevitable, and which in truth did not exist at all. The Capital had nothing to do with it. They were merely farmers seeking the mountains' shade.
Santvic considers all of this a monumental cowardice. Discovering the true history of such an imposing place was, at the very least, disappointing. The magic dissolved quickly: she lost any desire to visit the region, and what curiosity remained was confined to the arcane study of Satus's bubble—curiosity already tainted by the suspicion that, should she dig too deeply, she would only be disappointed again. The years spent in the Capital's Agora and in the company of its scholars had been enough to strip from her nearly all sense of wonder for Doural. The world, seen up close, proved invariably sad; each Urbe, in its own way, managed to irritate her.
"I don't believe that," Hallow said, frowning. "If they were just farmers, Satus would know. Now I'm going to start distrusting this village."
"You should believe it. The Capital is the only Urbe worth taking seriously."
"Don't say." He filled his voice with irony and looked at her with an uncomfortably refined seriousness. "Boss, you're not exactly a shining example… no offense, of course, but that scrawny horse—"
"…these things take time," she cut in, mildly offended. "This work exists precisely to usher them into a new era. To incite a revolution—perhaps even integrate them into the Capital… maybe other Urbes will follow."
"Mel-Purpura," he remarked offhandedly.
Santvic understood at once, replying as if she'd had the answer tucked away in her pocket.
"Yes. Rebels by nature. It will take time, certainly. That's why I say other Urbes' shouldn't be taken seriously. They're blinded by ancient rhetoric, closed off to new ideas…"
"Shaltar," he pressed. "Tell me, how you're going to convince the monks to even speak to you?"
"Certainly difficult…"
"Friggapluvia!" he exclaimed, now laughing. "They can't settle down in one place. How do you intend to convince those raving lunatics of—of anything?"
"…it will take time."
"So Satus is your only hope," he said with a crooked smile. "Ah, wait. You can't even get in there." He laughed, the tone turning malicious. "Good luck, boss."
Santvic decided not to continue the conversation.
Even so, the idea of visiting the villages around Catharsis struck her as genuinely amusing. She had no idea what they had become after so many years, and the occasions on which she had passed through were rare—almost always in transit toward Mel-Purpura. She did remember, however, surprisingly pleasant stays: obliging people, easy laughter, a tremendous hospitality that insisted on being noticed. The more visitors, the more Valets in circulation; in the end, that was how those villages survived.
And now, of course, it was completely empty.
Not a soul in sight.
It was only when she spotted, in the distance, what appeared to be the village leader's house—the only one with more than a single floor—its windows shattered, that concern truly set in.
"…in the end, you were right. Something happened here," she murmured. "They fled in a hurry. Or they were looted…"
"I'll take a look."
Before she could stop him, Hallow was already rudely pulling his horse to a halt in the middle of the road, forcing Santvic to do the same. She dismounted from Mouse and took hold of both sets of reins, leading the mounts aside while she watched the man approach the manor, knocking uselessly at the door as though anyone might answer.
"Fool. Foolish man," she remarked to the horse, expecting no reply.
The door opened on its own. The village's silence was cut by the long, suffering groan of wood. Inside the house, absolute blackness—not a single thread of light. Santvic watched as Hallow was swallowed by the shadow, step by step.
"…foolish man."
She turned her gaze back to the horses. Completely still, calm, oblivious to the situation. Not one of them even considered moving, both staring at the horizon, pondering deep existential questions. Santvic could never imagine what went on inside their equine heads—though she tried. Were they hungry? Confused? She certainly was. They couldn't be all that different.
She let out a deep sigh and took stock of her surroundings: the wind hissing, flies drifting through the air, the night breeze, distant smoke from campfires on the horizon, a frog. Ribbit.
It would be extremely convenient if someone were to appear right now—anyone at all, even the weakest thief. Right now, her foolish rider vanished inside an abandoned manor.
"He left me alone… in an empty village," she said, looking at Chestnut in disbelief. "And I'm not even carrying a blade. Not a knife. A dagger. Even a stick."
The horse did not look back at her.
"Would you protect me, Chestnut? Defend me from a robbery?"
Most likely not, Santvic thought. The horse was as loyal as its rider.
Santvic realized she was being overtaken by fear, trying to fill the silence by talking to horses. She anxiously rubbed her fingers together, feeling the green gloves on the verge of fraying. How could her hands be cold, so well protected? She shoved them into her greatcoat, a wave of comfort rising through her body. For a moment, she felt safe.
What a foolish man, leaving her alone. Disappearing into the darkness. Santvic could never do this work alone—but if he didn't return soon, she would take Mouse and get back on the road. The more time passed, the more dangerous it became.
The manor door flew open. An object was hurled outward and came to rest at Santvic's feet; she sprang back with a feline reflex, nearly knocking the glasses from her face. When she recovered and looked more closely, it was only a cloth doll—its colors faded, its button eyes missing, tufts of hair torn away. Santvic bent to pick it up at the exact moment Hallow reappeared, respectfully closing the door behind him.
"No Valets, no supplies, nothing worth looting," he reported flatly. "They even took the mattresses."
Santvic walked over to Mouse and loosened the buckle that secured the case to the saddle. She set it down carefully as Hallow approached, curious.
"You're really taking that?" he teased. "There were other toys in there, in case you want a bigger collection."
Santvic ignored him. She fitted the doll between folded clothes and small glass vials, closed the case, fastened it back to the saddle, and mounted in one smooth motion.
"Seriously… what for?"
"To investigate," she replied with a snort. "We'll head to the next village. If there's nothing there, we rest in some house. The problem started here—and it certainly moved on."
"I didn't see any slime. I'd say the problem's solved. You did your job, congratulations."
"Don't be cynical."
Santvic pressed her legs to Mouse's flank, and the horse began to trot out of the village. Hallow followed on Chestnut. The houses grew sparse, shrinking into the darkness, until the tall forests of Catharsis reclaimed everything and fireflies once again lit the path.
"There are three villages around the mountain," she explained, resuming her professorial tone. "They form a triangle on the map. In the past, there was a small assembly a few minutes from here, in a more remote area, near a set of rapids."
Hallow cast a glance toward the distant waterfalls, now moving shadows against the mountain's nocturnal body. They still ran, splitting into rivers that slid down Catharsis's flanks, wetting the stone. It truly was a living wall.
"That makes me think," Hallow said, struck by a rare doubt. "You're the learned one, boss—you must know: why three villages?"
The rider admired how Santvic naturally made him question the world around him. He was not a man who usually thought much; he preferred, more often than not, to simply enjoy the view.
"Good question." Even the horses seemed to slow to listen. "Catharsis divides its streams and torrents into three distinct rivers, due to the mountain's geography. When the first farmers arrived, they created the Assembly to organize work, and the most sensible conclusion was to split along the three rivers. Something similar likely played a role in the formation of Satus—remember the three kingdoms?" She continued evenly. "Over time, each group followed its own path. They called them Prima-village, Secunda-village, and Tertiary. We're leaving Prima now, heading toward Secunda."
"It looks big."
"It was an important residential center. I imagine Satus comes down to trade. They may already have found the village in this state."
"All the more reason for you to change those clothes."
Santvic shifted in the saddle, uncomfortable with how right he was. If she were recognized, trouble would be inevitable—and the job, already bordering on impossible, would implode into disaster.
"We can steal some rags from those houses and dress you up," he suggested. Santvic offered no response beyond a look of disapproval so sharp that, even in the dark, he saw it perfectly. "What's the problem?" he pressed. "They abandoned everything anyway."
The night grew cold as they rode along the roads that circled the mountain, until at last they reached a river and began to follow its bank.
"We go this way," Santvic warned. "Secunda follows the river."
They moved on in silence. Drowsiness and the weariness of a long journey weighed on their bodies, and after three full days of snapping at one another with jabs and provocations, that muteness was perhaps the only mercy they could still offer each other now that their destination drew near.
Hallow was certain the job would not last another three days. He saw Santvic as a fragile woman, however well concealed beneath her investigative coldness. He would never deny her intelligence—far from it—but theory alone sustains no one in the real world. Her dreams and convictions seemed far too distant from practice, and Hallow could already see himself not only proving her wrong, but having to shield her from the world until they could return to the Capital.
Not that he was indifferent to what Santvic stood for, or to the almost desperate struggle to save her work. After all, she presented herself as the last Anthemic and Miracular Analyst and Inspector of Ecological Impact. It sounded important. A title so pompous that hearing her pronounce it exhausted his ears. Santvic herself summarized it more decently: Arcane Curator—and then had to clarify, with visible irritation, that she was not a "healer." Yes, the work was probably important, Hallow thought. It might even be beautiful if it worked. But the very idea of the Capital telling villages and Urbes that they must cease their Grinding activities already conjured dreadful images of war.
The naked truth was just as harsh: Santvic would hardly make it past the first village. He felt sorry for her. The enthusiasm with which the woman laid out her knowledge filled him with the same melancholy as denying a child a sweet. Under normal circumstances, he would have refused such a thankless and exhausting job. But there he was—and not for Santvic. The little honor he still carried was entirely pledged to Professor Schüssler; and when she had ceremonially requested the "supreme protection of Barbela Santvic Babalon," Hallow had had no choice but to bow.
By the time he noticed, Santvic was no longer riding at his side. Hallow turned in the saddle and spotted Mouse a few meters behind, completely still. He guided Chestnut back, alert to the reason for the halt.
The gray horse kept its head lowered, intent on something sprouting from the ground. A flower—deep blue in color, its petals drooping, giving it the shape of a bell. The horse tilted its muzzle, sniffing it, utterly focused. Its world seemed to have vanished for a moment, leaving only that flower behind.
"What is that?" Daric murmured, frowning. He had never seen a horse behave like that, and Santvic seemed just as absorbed as the animal itself.
"I don't know," she replied distantly. "He's never done this before."
"Don't tell me I'm going to have to sacrifice the horse."
Before any conclusion could form, Mouse opened its mouth and, in a single decisive motion, tore the entire flower from the ground. Not even the stem remained.
"…you don't feed the poor thing, do you?" Hallow remarked dryly.
Santvic adjusted her glasses as the horse chewed.
"How many blue flowers do you see around here?"
"Look, if I'm being honest, I don't go around counting flowers. You tell me."
"Blue flowers don't grow around Catharsis. Not on Catharsis. Not in Satus."
She lifted her gaze to the mountain's summit. The translucent dome of Satus gleamed in the darkness, enclosing structures of marble and stone; small orange points of torches and lanterns traced bridges and passages, forming artificial constellations along the horizon. There were dozens of possible explanations for what she had seen, and Santvic was absolutely certain Satus was not one of them.
She came back from her reverie when she noticed Hallow stifling a laugh, wearing that look he had come equipped with.
"Let's move on," she ordered, pressing her heels into Mouse's flanks and setting it into a trot. "Secunda should be just ahead."
Santvic would not forget the flower anytime soon.