The grueling, exhausting flight from their pursuers - from the ashes of Fieri to the treacherous silt of the lower ravine - finally neared its end when the dense canopy of the borderwoods parted. The limestone ridge opened up to reveal the Sovereign City-State of Nadaran dominating the valley floor beneath the midday sun. Also known as the City of Magi.
For Shierra, the sight was nothing short of overwhelming. She had not been raised in a chaotic human border town as her entire life before these dark events had been spent within a proper, pristine elven village tucked deep inside the security of the elven kingdom. She was accustomed to the elegant, organic geometry of wood, leaf, and open sky. Even the rough pine logs of the Fieri stables had still retained a texturized taste of the woods.
But Nadaran was a completely different beast - a towering, unnatural mountain of human ambition. Massive defensive walls of interlocking granite blocks and dark basalt ringed the perimeter. Inside, hundreds of multi-storey buildings constructed from rigid volcanic stone and dark brick rose like an aggressive, unyielding stone forest. Rising high into the heavens like a menacing spear of solid black glass was the grand obsidian spire of the Magic Academy, its tip shimmering with laced leyline energy that cast faint, violet, iridescent hums across the shadowed sky.
“By the ancestors...” Shierra whispered, her voice barely carrying over the wind as she reined in the chestnut mare. “It’s all... stone. No trees, no roots. How does a sky-needle like that even stand without collapsing under its own weight?”
“Architectural geometry and heavy kinetic stabilisation vectors, my girl,” Dashiel muttered back, keeping his voice low as he adjusted his goggles. He slid his wood-bound graphite stick into his canvas pack, tapping the leather ledger safely tucked away. “The capital mages don't rely on luck or canopy-weaving. They calculate the gravity.”
Passing through the towering Sovereign Gates, the vanguard fell into a guarded silence. Reis had reached into one of the pouches of his saddlebag, and took a silver badge out. It was a crest of the Knight of the Order, but in the white-blue colours of the White City, where the Capital Chapterhouse of the Order is the home of the knighthood. Reis fastened the badge, with a triple-hook backing as a pennacular brooch for his white cloak.
The administrative shield worked flawlessly. The iron-clad city guards took one look at the polished crest of the Capital Chapterhouse - a brilliant beacon of white-shield decorum that popped starkly against the dark, light-absorbing backdrop of Nadaran's black masonry - and raised their halberds in a rigid salute. They waved the party through without a single question.
The moment the party hit the grand open market, the noise and sensory overload swallowed them whole. Rows of brightly canvas-roofed stalls stretched as far as the eye could see, packed with exotic fruits, bolts of shimmering southern silk, and shelf upon shelf of strange, enchanted clockwork baubles. The rich, savoury aroma of roasted meats sizzling over charcoal pits filled the air.
They kept their mounts tight, moving as a compact unit through the dizzying vortex of noise and colour. Morohtar’s deadpan expression didn't shift a fraction of an inch, though his silver eyes flicked automatically toward a weaponsmith's stall displaying rare, folded-steel daggers and finely ground mineral powders. He didn't linger. His hood stayed pulled low, his hand resting naturally near the quiet Crimson Sabre at his hip.
Reis led them toward a stone fountain at the secondary ring, guiding Sabre with a light touch. A local street merchant hurried past, catching sight of Reis’s tattered white cloak and noble bearing, bowing low. “Fresh dewberry pastries for the journey, m'lord? Just two copper pieces.”
Reis offered a curt, polite wave of his gauntleted hand to dismiss the vendor. Only when the merchant had melted back into the crowd did the knight lean down slightly from his saddle, his gravelly bass dropping into a tight, barely audible whisper meant only for the party's ears.
"Logistics first. We check into the Silver Spire Inn up in the Merchant Sector, stable the horses, and drop the heavy gear," Reis commanded quietly, his eyes scanning the surrounding balconies for watchers.
"Once the baseline is secured, we execute the split exactly as we discussed on the ridge. No unnecessary delays, and keep your eyes moving. A city of this scale has eyes in every alley."
Dashiel gave a short, sharp nod, his small fingers tightening around Shierra's leather vest to signal his readiness. Morohtar didn't speak - he simply shifted his gaze toward the dark, sloping stone arches that led toward the lower industrial districts, his silhouette already beginning to blend into the heavy shadows of the brickwork.
The vanguard split smoothly into the crowd, the weight of their lost harbour hanging heavy in their minds as the grand, dangerous machinery of Nadaran swallowed them whole.
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