Date: March 22, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Dur first saw Ligra as a long, dark line on the horizon, cutting through the green hills. As he approached, the line transformed into a wall—not the cyclopean rock of the Order's citadel, but a high, neat, and incredibly long fence of gray hewn stone, encircling unseen expanses. The wall spoke not of fear of an external enemy, but of a confident delineation of borders. "Here begins Ours," its even rows of masonry seemed to proclaim.
Entering through the bustling southern gates, past vigilant but non-aggressive guards in cuirasses bearing a stamped emblem—a crossed sickle and hammer—Dur stopped, overwhelmed.
He had expected to see subjugation. Dreary, measured movement under supervision. The "urban cage" Torm had spoken of in the forest with disapproval.
Instead, noise crashed over him. The hum of dozens, hundreds of voices, merging into a powerful, continuous roar of life. Narrow but clean streets radiated like rays from the gates. They weren't teeming, but seething. Children with wooden swords chased each other, squealing with delight, while their mothers, standing on the thresholds of houses with neat front gardens, called across the street, discussing the price of wool. Wagons laden with barrels, bales, and cages of birds slowly made their way along the cobblestones, drivers shouting at their horses and each other, but without malice—just to clear the way.
And the smells! The warm, hearty smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery mixed with the sharp tang of a tannery, the smoke of a forge, and a thousand spices from the main market, whose stalls Dur could see ahead.
"So this is what the big world is like," Dur thought, and his heart beat faster—not from fear, but from excitement. It was crowded here, noisy, and smelled different than the forest, but here life was teeming. And no one looked downtrodden. On the contrary, in the movement of the people, one could read purposefulness, in their eyes—not emptiness, but busyness.
He moved on, merging with the crowd. His gaze picked out details. On the wall of a house—a neat poster stating the "Order Tax" for the past month: 2 silver per household. Nearby, another with a schedule for free soup distribution for the needy at the eastern gates on Wednesdays. Order wasn't just in cleanliness, but in the system.
His stomach reminded him with a growl. Dur found a bakery. Through the open door, a mouthwatering aroma wafted.
"Two loaves of bread, please," he said, trying to sound confident.
The baker, a broad-shouldered man in a grimy apron, gave him an appraising look, taking in his simple but serviceable bow slung over his back.
"From a hunt, lad? Fresh, from this morning. One alum each."
Dur nodded, pulled a small leather pouch Torm had given him before his departure from a hidden pocket in his pack. He carefully counted out two light, square aluminum plates with a matte sheen. The baker took them, tossed them into an iron box with a characteristic clink, and handed him two hefty, browned rounds of bread.
"So, bread—1 alum. Fair enough," Dur noted mentally.
Moving towards the market, he continued to observe and assess. A craftsman at his stall boasted to a neighbor about a new tool, bought "for a good half-gold, but it's worth it!" A woman haggled over a piece of linen: "Oh, come on, 8 coppers for such a scrap? I'll give you 5!" Nearby, a young hawker shouted: "Charcoal! Clean charcoal! A copper a measure!"
The economy of the vast, unfamiliar world began to take on understandable outlines for him in numbers and metal. Alum, copper, silver, gold. Square, practical. He remembered the prices he'd heard from Torm: a good hunting knife—a silver or two. A bow like his—a few silver pieces. And a house... A house cost a fortune in gold. But from snatches of conversation, you could earn, too. By working. Every day. Like these people.
He came to the central square. And here, amidst all this free bustle, he felt the presence of authority for the first time in full measure. Above the town hall, a solid stone building, flew the huge banner of Agrim. Nearby, at the entrance, stood a pair of guards—not mere militiamen, but people in excellent armor, with straight backs and calm, attentive faces. They didn't scan the crowd, didn't look for violations. They simply were. An unshakeable rock in the seething stream. Their presence didn't paralyze life, but, strangely enough, set its rhythm. Like the city walls—not a cage, but a frame.
"They rule with an iron hand," Dur recalled Torm's words. "But under that hand... you are safe. If you play by their rules."
The rules were simple: work, pay taxes, don't break the law, and your bread, your home, and your children's lives will be in order. No more, no less. It was a contract. Harsh, devoid of sentiment, but understandable.
Dur finished his bread, washing it down with water from a public well. He felt like a tiny particle in this finely tuned giant mechanism. A particle that didn't yet know its place. But he was no longer afraid. The forest had taught him to listen. Ligra was teaching him to see. And somewhere here, in this ordered human anthill, a new mystery, a new trial, and who knows what it would bring, lay hidden.
Having spent his last coppers on dried meat and rusks, Dur decided to lose himself in the market, to listen to conversations and find a place to sleep. His adventure in the "big world" was just beginning, and its first lesson was clear: even the most solid order has its cracks. And often, it's in those cracks that the most interesting things are hidden.