The sun hung high in the sky, its golden rays filtering through the towering emerald canopy. Birds flitted between the branches, their songs blending with the rustling leaves. The scent of damp earth and wildflowers filled the air, a world brimming with life and adventure. It was the kind of day that made a man feel like anything was possible.
Except, perhaps, surviving a fight against a monster that very much wanted them dead.
The roar of the beast shattered the serene atmosphere, sending smaller creatures scurrying for cover. The ground trembled as it lunged forward, its obsidian-like hide reflecting the sunlight in jagged patterns. Fangs glistened with fresh saliva, claws like scythes carving through the air with every movement.
“Okay! This is not what the quest description said!” The woman flipped backward just as the monster’s tail slammed into the ground where she had just stood. The impact left a crater, dust rising in thick clouds. She landed effortlessly on a low branch, twin blades glinting in the dappled light. Her breath was steady, her golden eyes scanning for an opening.
“Less talking, more cutting!” A man in plated armor braced his shield as the monster swung a massive claw. The impact sent him sliding backward, boots digging trenches into the dirt. He gritted his teeth, locking his stance and forcing the creature’s strike to glance off.
“Cutting?” The woman scoffed. “You want to try poking this thing? Its hide is like stone !”
“Then we break the mountain,” another voice growled. A second woman, taller than the rest, hefted a great axe over one shoulder. Her arms flexed as she lunged forward, throwing her full weight into the swing. The impact sent a shockwave through the clearing as her blade met the beast’s forelimb. Black ichor sprayed as steel carved through hide, the creature howling in pain.
“Nice hit!” A fourth voice called from behind them. A man in deep violet robes, his dark hair swept back, stood apart from the others. His hands wove through the air in intricate motions, the space around him shimmering with unseen power. “Now hold it still—”
“Oh, of course,” the armored man grunted, locked in a desperate contest of strength with the beast. He shoved against its bulk, boots scraping against the dirt. “We’ll just politely ask the monster to - ”
The beast snarled and threw its weight forward, knocking him off his feet. He crashed to the ground with a muffled curse, his sword embedding into the dirt beside him.
“- stand still. Perfect.”
“Typical,” the woman with the daggers sighed. She darted forward in a blur of motion, slicing at the creature’s flank. Her blades barely left scratches, but her strikes were fast, precise, designed to distract, not wound. The monster twisted toward her, molten-gold eyes flashing with rage.
The robed man narrowed his eyes, the last syllables of his spell slipping past his lips. The air grew heavy, charged with unseen energy. A sudden chill crept into the humid summer heat. A sharp gust of wind howled through the clearing, and from the sky itself, jagged shards of ice formed, spearing downward.
The shards struck the beast’s legs, piercing its thick hide and pinning it momentarily in place. A guttural growl rumbled from its throat as it struggled against the frozen bonds.
“There!” the spellcaster shouted. “Hit it while it’s slowed!”
The armored man was already rising, sword in hand. The axe-wielder didn’t hesitate, a wicked grin stretching across her face as she barreled forward. She moved like a force of nature, her weapon an arc of steel and fury.
The woman with the daggers slipped between the beast’s thrashing limbs, her movements so fluid they seemed almost rehearsed. She was searching—feeling—for something. A weak point, an opening, anything.
The beast’s gaze snapped toward her, realizing the threat. It reared back, jaw opening wide, its throat glowing with dangerous golden light.
“Oh, that’s not good,” the robed man muttered, already forming a counterspell.
The armored man’s voice rang out. “Now!”
The axe-wielder grinned. “On it.”
With a mighty heave, she hurled her weapon, not at the beast’s head, but at its side. The impact sent the monster staggering just as the glow within its throat swelled, before bursting harmlessly into the sky, a pillar of golden fire scorching the treetops instead of incinerating them.
A second later, the spellcaster’s magic struck home. Vines erupted from the ground, wrapping around the beast’s limbs, reinforcing the ice and locking it further in place.
“Now!” the robed man called out.
The armored man surged forward, sword flashing as he brought it down. The enchanted steel carved deep into the creature’s neck—not enough to kill, but enough to wound, to send a message.
The monster shrieked, thrashing violently. The vines snapped, the ice shattered, but the damage had been done. It backed away, golden blood dripping onto the earth, molten and steaming.
It snarled once more, then turned and bounded into the forest, the underbrush rustling wildly as it disappeared.
Silence fell over the clearing. They stood there, catching their breath, the aftermath of battle settling around them. The scent of burnt wood and ozone lingered in the air, mixing with the earthiness of the forest.
“Ha! That’s what I call teamwork!” The tall woman grinned, resting her axe on her shoulder.
The dagger-wielding woman flicked some monster blood off her blade. “We should get paid extra for this.”
The armored man exhaled, rolling his sore shoulder. “Let’s just hope the guild doesn’t send us on another ‘small scouting mission’ that turns into a battle for our lives.”
The spellcaster dusted off his robes, his usual composed expression betrayed by the gleam of exhilaration in his eyes. “It was rather exciting, though.”
—-------------
The beast fled, its molten blood sizzling against the earth, leaving behind only the churned dirt and the scent of battle. The sounds of the forest returned slowly—hesitant, as though nature itself was uncertain if the threat had truly passed. The figures in the clearing did not give chase. They did not regroup, did not tend to themselves or call for reinforcements.
The entity watched.
He had seen battles before. He had seen the march of mortal armies, the disciplined ranks of soldiers, the way war was waged with purpose. There was always an order to it, a structure that could be measured and understood. Kingdoms clashed over land, over power, over survival. Even the most reckless of warbands fought for plunder, for spoils, for something.
But these ones. These humans.
There was no unifying standard, no chain of command. Their fighting was not a drilled formation, but a series of shifting, independent actions. They did not fall into precise roles like the phalanxes of old, nor did they fight with the singular will of an empire’s legion. And yet, despite the lack of structure, they did not falter. Their movements were chaotic, but not clumsy. Unrefined, but not ineffective.
Interesting.
Even now, as they stood in the aftermath, there was no immediate sign of urgency. No concern that more enemies might come. The one with the heavy weapon adjusted its grip, grinning as though pleased with the outcome. The swift one cleaned her blades with a flick of her wrist, expression more exasperated than wary. The armored figure rolled his shoulders, as if shaking off mere exertion rather than a near brush with death. And the one who bent the elements to his will simply muttered to himself, gaze distant, as if already lost in thought.
They fought not for land, not for survival, not for conquest. And it was clear they knew battle like most of the mortal warriors that inhabited the plains.
Then what, exactly, had been the purpose?
The entity did not understand. Not yet.
He had always been able to classify battle, to see its place in the larger workings of the world. Armies moved with intent, with direction, with a guiding will that dictated their purpose. Even those who fought alone—a wandering warrior, a desperate survivor, a bandit ambushing a traveler—had a reason. Hunger. Greed. Revenge. A desire to prove oneself.
But these creatures did not fit into any known pattern. They fought because they had chosen to, but that was not the strange part.
It was the way they carried themselves after.
No desperation. No relief. No solemn weight of duty completed.
They had fought, and now it was over.
As if this was merely another step in their path, something neither monumental nor inconsequential, just another moment in a life where battle was expected.
This was not war. Not in the way he understood it.
There had been no wars since the old age ended. No armies since the last banners fell. He had assumed that battle had faded with the passing of time, that the ones who came after had abandoned the way of war, either by choice or by necessity.
And yet—here they were.
They bore no banners. They followed no general’s orders.
Yet they knew battle.
Not in the way a soldier knew battle, where training had been drilled into bone, where discipline had taken precedence over instinct. No, they moved like hunters, like predators that thrived in combat, their actions honed through experience rather than decree.
This was not duty.
This was not survival.
This was something else entirely.
A practice, perhaps? A ritual of some kind? But to what end?
The entity considered this, unblinking, thoughts slow and methodical. He had seen the rise and fall of empires, had watched civilizations crumble into dust, only for others to take their place. Mortals fought because they had to. That was the way of the world. But this was the first time he had seen mortals fight because they wanted to. Because it was expected.
The thought intrigued him.
Perhaps he would watch longer.
—-
The battlefield was settling. The wind carried the scent of scorched grass and churned earth, mingling with the acrid stench of monster blood. The soil still steamed where the beast’s molten ichor had spilled, blackened and cracked from the unnatural heat. Yet, despite the lingering evidence of battle, the world around them was already returning to its usual rhythm.
Birds cautiously resumed their calls from the treetops, testing the air as if uncertain whether the danger had truly passed. Insects flitted through the tall grass, the rustling of their tiny wings blending with the sighing breeze. It was almost eerie, how quickly nature moved on.
Sylva exhaled sharply, flicking her wrist to rid her dagger of the last stubborn droplets of blood. “That was more trouble than it was worth.”
She crouched beside a shallow pool of golden ichor, watching it harden into a brittle crust. The beast’s blood had cooled unnaturally fast, like cooling lava turned to glass. She tapped a boot against it, watching as it cracked.
“You say that about every job.” Dain adjusted the straps of his shield, rolling his sore shoulder with a grimace. His armor bore fresh dents, dirt smeared across the polished steel.
“Because every job is more trouble than it’s worth,” Sylva muttered, sheathing her blades.
Kara barked out a laugh, hoisting her axe over her shoulder. “You’re just bitter because it took you longer than usual to find a weak spot.”
Sylva narrowed her eyes. “And you’re just pleased because you got to swing that oversized cleaver of yours without thinking.”
Kara smirked. “Exactly.”
Dain shook his head, but a hint of amusement softened his tired expression.
Elias, standing slightly apart from the others, barely heard their exchange. His fingers brushed against the inner lining of his sleeve, where a polished crystal lay hidden against his wrist. His violet eyes flickered with something unreadable as he turned his gaze toward the treeline.
Something was wrong.
He closed his eyes, drawing a slow breath. The air was thick with lingering energy, the remnants of magic spent in battle. But beneath it, beneath the natural hum of the world, something pulsed. Faint. But undeniable.
He focused, letting his awareness extend beyond the physical. The trees around them stood, their roots intertwined beneath the soil in a vast, unseen network. The land carried the echoes of a history that not even he knew fully. These were expected things, ripples in the fabric of the world that would soon fade.
But there was something else.
A distortion.
Not the aftershock of their fight, nor the residue of their own presence. It was older. Colder. Like a hand brushing against the edges of his perception, lingering just out of sight.
His fingers curled around the crystal. Its surface was Cold.
A whisper of wind stirred the tall grass. The sun had sunk lower now, its golden light stretching the shadows impossibly long. Elias opened his eyes, scanning the darkening landscape. The clearing should have felt empty, silent in the aftermath of battle. But it didn’t.
It felt watched.
The shadows beneath the trees seemed deeper than they should be, shifting in ways that did not match the swaying branches above. He could hear the wind, but something about it was wrong. As if another presence exhaled alongside it, just beyond his ability to perceive.
His heartbeat was steady, but his instincts prickled.
“…We’re not alone.”
The others turned to look at him.
Dain furrowed his brow, his grip tightening slightly around the hilt of his sword. “You sure? Maybe another arcane beast?” His voice was calm, measured, but there was an underlying wariness.
Elias exhaled slowly, his violet eyes flickering with the faintest trace of something unseen. He remained still, listening, not with his ears, but with that deeper sense that had guided them through countless dangers. The presence was there, lingering at the edges of his own perception, but it carried no weight of malice, no signs of an imminent attack.
"It’s not malicious or anything," he finally said. "No indication of it. Just… watching. There’s not much pressure either."
Kara shifted, the heavy ping of metal ringing out as she rested her weapon against the broad plate of her shoulder guard. “Well?” She tilted her head toward Elias, expectant. “Should we do something about it?”
Rilsd inhaled, considering. He could try to track it, push his senses further, maybe even find whatever it was, but why? Those who meant harm always carried a certain weight, a foul scent of intent. This was different. Subtle. Quiet.
“No,” he said at last, shaking his head. “Not worth the effort, honestly.”
“Phew,” Sylva let out a long sigh, rolling her shoulders. “Glad to hear that, because I am so damn tired.” She stretched, her daggers glinting under the shifting canopy as she turned away. “I’m taking a nap once we get to the guild.”
All laughed as they turned with their gear. Talking among each other on the way.
The armored figure remained motionless for a moment longer, watching as the mortals disappeared beyond the rolling hills. The faint shimmer of divine energies still clung to the air, a lingering echo of the one who had sensed him. It had been a long time since anyone, not beast, not spirit, not even the faded remnants of gods, had noticed his presence. And yet, this group had.
Or at least, one of them had.
Interesting.
He slowly rose from his kneeling position, stepping forward as the shadows of the trees slithered away from his form. The afternoon sun cast a stark contrast against his darkened armor, the intricate engravings across its surface catching the light in strange, shifting patterns. A relic of an age long past. The weight of it had become a second skin, as much a part of him as the silent presence that lurked within his very being.
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The field stretched before him, vast and golden under the waning sun. The wind rolled through the grass in soft waves, small creatures darting between the grass. He paid them little mind, but they, in turn, regarded him with the cautious instinct of prey before scurrying into their burrows. Even the beasts of this land understood, he did not belong here.
And yet, here he stood.
His thoughts drifted back to what he had overheard. Guilds? The word was foreign to him. Empires, kingdoms, he knew, the shifting thrones of mortals rising and crumbling like the tides.
But guilds? Were they the remnants of something older? Or something entirely new?
He found himself asking why he even cared.
The weight of time pressed against him,, of gods that no longer spoke, of wars that had long since faded into pages of history. He had walked through ruins where names were worn from stone, where echoes of voices remained only in the wind. And now, a mere handful of mortals had drawn his attention with nothing more than idle conversation.
Still, he could feel it, the faintest trace of that magic, like an ember struggling to stay alight.
It had been a long time since he had last set foot in territory filled with humans..
And perhaps, it was time once more.
—----------------------------------
Velthis, the Jewel of the Golden Hills
Velthis stood defiant against time, its spires and banners rising within the colossal, ancient rib cage that stood in the middle of the city, like the remains of some forgotten god. The bones, vast and smooth as polished marble, arched high above, their surfaces streaked with timeworn veins of silver and gold, catching the light of the setting sun.
No one knew where they had come from, some claimed they were the remnants of a great giant, others whispered of celestial dragons who had perished before history began. Whatever the truth, they had become a part of Velthis itself, woven into its walls, its myths, its very soul.
The streets bustled with life, the hum of voices reverberating against the rib-bones like a chorus of the city itself. Lanterns, strung from the smaller spurs of bone, glowed like hanging stars, their light casting warm halos upon the cobblestone paths below. The air smelled of spice and roasting meat, of fresh parchment and burning incense from the temple districts.
Beneath the looming ribs, the people of Velthis thrived. Humans filled the avenues, their faces creased with either toil or the comforts of wealth. Dwarves stomped through the crowds in chainmail and armored boots, their deep voices carrying over the din as they haggled for fine ore and rare gems. A pair of elves glided past, their robes shimmering with enchantments, their luminous eyes scanning the marketplace with detached curiosity.
A group of gutterlings, ratfolk, as they were called, with quick fingers and sharper tongues, bartered fiercely at a merchant's stall, exchanging polished trinkets for bundles of rare herbs. An orcish mercenary leaned against a fruit stand, lazily peeling a citrus fruit with a knife the size of a shortsword. Overhead, a fairy darted between lanterns, leaving trails of soft, shimmering dust in her wake.
The city’s architecture reflected its history, built from stone, bone, and mystery alike. The oldest districts were built against the base of the ribs, their walls old and weathered. Some buildings incorporated the ancient remains into their design, homes carved into the hollows of ancient bone now harder than rock, watchtowers perched upon vertebrae the size of houses, spires stretching through the gaps between ribs like reaching fingers. Bridges and walkways wound through the city like veins, some suspended by thick ropes, others etched into the ribs themselves, forming natural pathways older than any kingdom.
At the city's heart stood the Adventurer’s Guild, its grand halls lined with banners and designs, its doors wide open to those seeking fortune or purpose, or the thrill of battle and hunt. The symbol above the entrance, a pair of crossed swords over an open book, stood proud against the backdrop of the ribcage, marking it as a place where legends were forged.
Beyond the city's boundaries, the golden hills rolled endlessly, kissed by the last light of the sun. Yet within Velthis, beneath the shadow of the great bones whose history is unknown to all mortals, life surged, undaunted and ever-moving, bound together by the unknown past and the future ahead.
—--------------
As the adventurers passed beneath the towering gates of Velthis, a wave of noise and scent crashed over them, the unmistakable chaos of city life in full force. The streets beyond the threshold teemed with movement, packed with merchants, beggars, traders, and travelers from all across the land. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meats, spiced wines, and the ever-present tinge of metal and damp stone.
Towering above it all, like the ribs of a long-dead god, were the city’s namesake, the massive, pale bones that arched over Velthis, disappearing into the sky. Some had been carved into, forming towers and bridges, while others stood untouched, weathered by time but unbroken. No one knew their origins, only that they had been there for as long as history remembered.
Sylva let out a low whistle, her sharp eyes scanning the marketplace ahead. “I’ll say it again, this place never gets old.”
Kara stretched her arms behind her head, sighing. “Feels damn good to be back. I can practically hear the ale calling my name.”
“You can always hear ale calling your name,” Elias muttered, brushing past her as he stepped further into the city.
Dain adjusted the straps of his heavy armor and grunted as he took in their surroundings. “It’s busier than the last time we were here.”
“It’s the Festival of Silver,” Sylva said, nodding toward the banners fluttering from buildings and archways, each one embroidered with the sigil of the city, a great rib cage encircling a rising sun. “Merchants from all over come to Velthis to trade. That means more people, more coin, and more trouble.”
“And more drinks,” Kara added.
They moved forward, blending into the bustling crowd. The streets of Velthis stretched before them like a great maze, lined with timber-framed buildings and intricate stonework that spoke of centuries of craftsmanship. The ground beneath their boots was paved with aged cobblestone, worn smooth by thousands of steps. Bridges spanned above them, connecting different levels of the city like a web of stone and wood, many of them built directly into the bones themselves.
A group of armored knights strode past, their deep blue cloaks emblazoned with the insignia of the city’s elite guard. One of them gave the adventurers a brief glance before turning his attention elsewhere.
Kara caught his look and scoffed. “Still not used to these city folk acting like we’re about to start a bar brawl the moment we step inside.”
“Well,” Sylva smirked, “considering you did start a bar brawl the last time we were here…”
Kara waved a dismissive hand. “That was a misunderstanding. How was I supposed to know the guy was a noble?”
Elias sighed, rubbing his temples. “Because he told you.”
“And?”
Sylva laughed. “And then you broke his nose.”
“Still a misunderstanding,” Kara grinned.
The market square opened up before them, alive with energy. Stalls lined every available space, their canopies bright with dyed cloths and enchanted lanterns that cast a warm, flickering light over the goods on display. Merchants called out to passing travelers, eager to sell everything from weapons and armor to rare spices and magical trinkets.
“Fresh basilisk steaks! Guaranteed not to petrify your insides!” a dwarf bellowed from one of the stalls, waving a sizzling piece of meat over a smoking grill.
Dain hesitated, eyeing the meat with suspicion. “I thought basilisk meat was poisonous if not properly prepared.”
The dwarf grinned, his beard adorned with small bronze rings. “Only if you’re weak!”
Sylva grabbed Dain’s arm and pulled him along. “No. Absolutely not. No more exotic meats after last time.”
A group of ratfolk scurried between the stalls, their clawed fingers quick as they bartered for supplies. Their sharp, beady eyes darted from merchant to merchant, always searching for the best deal, or the best opportunity for a quick snatch. Nearby, a pair of elves stood in quiet conversation, their long ears twitching as they observed the market from beneath the hoods of their embroidered robes.
An orc leaned against a fruit stand, absently biting into a blood-orange, the juice staining his tusks. His armor, a patchwork of heavy plates and reinforced leather, bore the scars of many battles, yet his posture was one of ease. He exchanged a nod with a passing knight, who returned the gesture with a wary glance.
Even more exotic figures moved through the city’s streets. A hooded being, its skin made of living crystal, walked beside a hulking reptilian merchant draped in layers of silk, his claws clicking against the stone as he maneuvered through the crowd. Overhead, a fairy courier zipped past, her wings leaving a faint shimmer of stardust in her wake as she struggled to carry a scroll nearly twice her size.
The city itself was a marvel, built to accommodate creatures of all shapes and sizes. Some buildings had massive arched doorways to allow for the larger races, while others had narrow entrances suited for smaller beings like goblins or gnomes. The streets, though winding and sometimes chaotic, had an unspoken order to them, the result of generations of careful city planning mixed with a dash of haphazard expansion.
As they passed through a high archway, a great plaza came before them. At its center stood a massive fountain, carved with runes that gave the structure eternal flowing liquid. Water cascaded down its intricate carvings, shimmering with faint magical energy. Lanterns hung from posts around the plaza, their glow casting warm golden light as the sun set.
A bard stood atop the fountain’s edge, playing a lively tune on his lute. His voice carried over the crowd, spinning tales of legendary warriors and lost empires. A small audience had gathered, tossing silver coins into his open case.
Dain exhaled, shaking his head. “Every time we come back, it’s like stepping into another world.”
Elias glanced up at the towering ribs above, then at the thriving city below. He could feel the currents of magic woven into Velthis itself, old enchantments, residual energy clinging to the ancient bones, the hum of a thousand whispered incantations used in daily life. The city was alive in ways most people could never comprehend.
Kara nudged him. “What’s got you all quiet?”
“Just… listening,” Elias murmured.
“To what?”
“Everything.”
She gave him a long look, then shrugged. “Well, listen to this, I’m getting a drink before we get anywhere near that guildhall.”
Sylva groaned. “Of course you are.”
—----------------------------
He stood motionless upon the mountain’s peak, his armor gleaming under the waning sunlight, a relic of a time before this world had names for its cities. Before the mortals discovered the idea of divine energies.
He stood far from the gargantuan city, yet its existence was undeniable. A monument of countless mortals, sprawling far beyond the confines of what he had seen since the dawn of these mortal creatures.. The city stretched like a great beast sprawled beneath the ribs of a forgotten god, its streets and towers interwoven with the ancient remains.
How long had it taken them to build such a place? Decades? Centuries? It had been no more than a blink in his own ageless rest.
His gaze swept over the city, taking in the sight. Spires of marble and glass jutted into the heavens, their peaks adorned with banners that fluttered in the wind. Bridges stretched between the immense rib bones, forming pathways high above the bustling streets below. Great avenues wound through the city like veins, pulsing with the movement of mortals, merchants hawking wares, warriors clad in steel, scholars pouring over tomes. And among them, creatures that should have been at odds, elves beside orcs, dwarves haggled with scaled traders, and beings of magic drifted freely without fear of the torches and pitchforks that had once driven them into exile.
A city built upon the corpse of the divine, inhabited by those who had long forsaken the gods.
How fitting.
He stared silently for minutes, both in awe and wonder. He had known mortals when they were mere tribes, clinging to the fire for warmth, offering prayers to the stars that were hesitant to answer them. He had walked among them when they feared the dark, when the world itself was young and wild. And now, here they were, thriving, reaching for the sky, pretending the echoes of eternity did not move beneath their feet.
And yet, something moved at the edges of his thoughts.
He had seen many mortal cities in ages past, kingdoms that rose and fell like the tide. He had witnessed their wars, their betrayals, their desperate bids for immortality through stone and steel. But this place… this city felt different.
It was alive, yes, but it was built upon something ancient, something that even he had not felt in eons.
The bones of gods did not rest easy. And neither did those who had once walked alongside them.
And so, he would move towards the great city.
—-------------
Upon the towering walls of Velthis, the guards stood vigilant, a multitude of species standing side by side, their stature clad in ornate yet practical armor, designed not only for protection but to inspire both fear in their enemies and confidence in those they swore to protect.
Each armor was masterfully crafted, etched with the insignias of the city and reinforced with enchantments that shimmered faintly in the light. Their weapons, polished and well-maintained, reflected the last golden hues of the setting sun.
They stood at ease, but never lax.
They had fought against things far more dangerous than mere men, beasts that wandered too close, massive dragons that descended upon the city’s defenses, and entire hordes of monstrous creatures that migrated without pattern.
Time and time again, they had held the line. Each battle had only sharpened their skills, making them stronger, more disciplined.
The people of Velthis looked up to these protectors, their faith in the walls forged not by blind hope but by the sheer force of those who stood upon them.
—
A guard, which was an orc, leaning on his halberd let out a low whistle as his eyes fell on the armored figure walking towards the gates. "Damn. He’s a big one, isn’t he?"
The older watchman followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes at the approaching figure. "Heavens… You’re not wrong. He’s got at least a foot on most men."
"Maybe more," added the archer, an elf, shifting her weight. "Look at the way he moves. His armor alone must weigh as much as a full-grown man, yet he carries it like it's light.”
Upon the walls of the city, the guards stood clad in ornate armor, both practical and ceremonial, designed to be as intimidating as it was inspiring. Some bore heavy plate with gilded trim, while others wore reinforced robes woven with protective enchantments. These were not simple sentries, they were warriors, swordmasters, mages, and battle-hardened veterans. They had held these walls against everything from wandering beasts to full-scale sieges. Each had earned their place.
Even so, the presence of an unknown, heavily armed warrior always warranted attention.
One of the older guards who had been quietly observing, finally spoke. "We’ve had tall folk come through before. Orc-bloods, highlanders, even some of those northern raiders. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone that size outside of an actual giant."
The veteran guard scratched at his mustache. "Aye, rare, but not unheard of. You ever seen The Strongman of the north? That bastard was a walking wall, and he still had enough skill to gut a man like he was carving a chicken. And what about that brute with a scar from the Pit Fights? He was just as tall, built like an ox, and he damn near took the champion’s head off before the match was called."
"Yeah, but those two were famous," another guard countered. "This guy? No one’s heard of him, I think. A warrior that size should have some kind of reputation."
“You think, huh.” The younger, recruit adjusted his grip on his spear. "Or maybe he's been out in the wilds too long. Could be some mountain recluse finally stepping back into civilization."
"Could be," the older guard admitted. "Or he could be something else entirely. Either way, it’s not our job to guess, just to make sure he doesn’t bring trouble through the gates."
Another guard, his helm tucked under his arm, studied the distant armored form walking towards the gates with a discerning eye. "Look at his armor. That’s no common mercenary’s kit. It’s old… or foreign. Either way, not something you see every day."
The archer kept her bow lowered, her eyes never leaving the towering armored figure as he walked slowly towards the gates of the city. "You think he's just another sellsword?"
The older guard chuckled. "If I had a coin for every oversized brute that limped and walked up to these walls thinking he’d carve his legend in Velthis, I’d be drinking in a noble’s parlor instead of standing on this wall." He shook his head. "Doesn’t matter how big they are. Everyone who steps through those gates is just another name until they prove otherwise."
"Still," the archer replied, her sharp eyes flickering with curiosity, "a warrior that size, walking alone, wearing armor like that… must feel nice being that intimidating huh?”
The mustached veteran crossed his arms. "Maybe. Though, you’d be a big fat target. Either way, he’s coming this way. We gotta know what he wants before coming in."
—-----------------------
The descent had been long, the weight of his armor pressing against his shoulders, but he was used to it. The mountains behind him stretched high into the sky, jagged and ancient, their peaks lost within the clouds. He moved with a slow, steady pace, each step deliberate, his massive frame an imposing silhouette against the golden fields that stretched before him.
The mace wrapped in cloth upon his back did little to hide its presence. It was too large, too heavy, and the fabric barely contained its bulk. He had thought to discard it, to avoid drawing attention, but the thought left his mind as quickly as it came. He had never gone unarmed before, and he would not start now.
All throughout his march, his gaze remained locked on the city. It was massive, larger than any he had seen before. From a distance, it almost seemed like it had been built atop the bones of gods themselves, the gargantuan ribcage stretching into the clouds. Time had softened its once-bleached bones, age and the elements having melded them into the architecture of civilization. It was a strange sight—familiar and yet entirely foreign.
How long had it been? How much time had passed for society to build atop the remnants of the divine, to claim them as nothing more than foundation stones?
As he walked, he passed a few traders and travelers, but none dared to meet his gaze. They did not flee, nor did they panic, but there was an unmistakable shift in their presence whenever they drew near. They stepped aside instinctively, their conversations growing hushed, as if their very souls knew something walked beside them that did not belong. He had suppressed his presence, smothered the aura of decay that clung to him like a second skin, and yet still, they avoided him.
Ahead, movement caught his eye.
A group of armored figures on horseback rode toward him, their approach measured, unhurried. Their steeds were clad in ornate barding, the polished steel catching the last light of the setting sun, while the knights themselves bore armor that was unlike anything he had seen before. It was not the crude, brutal iron of the warriors he had once known, nor the hastily forged steel of desperate soldiers. No, this was craftsmanship refined over centuries, polished to a mirror sheen, adorned with sigils and filigree that spoke of station and discipline.
They were not rushing to confront him, nor did they lower their lances in challenge. They rode with a quiet certainty, the kind that only came from absolute confidence in one’s own strength.
He stopped as they drew close, watching in silence.
The lead knight pulled on his reins, his warhorse huffing as it came to a stop mere paces away. A helmet adorned with a golden crest obscured his face, but his posture was at ease, his shoulders squared, his tone measured when he finally spoke.
"Traveler," the knight called, his voice steady. "You approach the gates of Velthis. State your name and your purpose."
The armored figure regarded him for a moment. His helmeted gaze fixed upon the knight, unreadable. He did not move, did not shift his stance. The weight of his presence hung in the air, as if he were carved from the very stone of the mountain he had descended from. The wind rolled over the plains, rustling the banners atop the knights' spears, but he remained still.
The silence stretched. The knight, seasoned as he was, did not falter. He merely let out a quiet breath, his gauntleted fingers tapping idly against the reins of his steed.
"Hm," the knight finally uttered. "Do you not speak?"
Still, there was no answer.
A few of the younger knights exchanged glances, shifting in their saddles. One of them, a lean rider with an easy smirk, let out a small chuckle. "You don’t need to pull up a strong, silent—"
"I travel."
The voice came suddenly, deep and rumbling like thunder rolling through distant mountains. It was not raised, not shouted, but it carried with it a weight, an undeniable presence that pressed upon the air itself.
Some of the knights instinctively reached for their weapons, not to draw them, not yet, but their hands moved on instinct, a reaction as old as war itself. The way he spoke, the way his voice resonated, was unnatural. It was a voice that belonged to something far older than the men who sat upon their horses.
The younger knight retained his stance, though he quickly masked it with a scoff. "Right. You travel." He exhaled, adjusting his grip on his reins. "Not exactly the most enlightening response, is it?"
The lead knight remained silent for a moment longer, watching the traveler with a measured gaze. He did not reach for his sword, nor did he shift in unease. If anything, his expression was unreadable behind his visor, his mind working through the situation with a patience that spoke of years on the battlefield.
"You travel," he repeated, as if testing the words. Then he tilted his head slightly. "To where?"
The armored figure did not hesitate. "Where men have settled."
A simple answer. And yet, it carried something beneath it, something unspoken.
The lead knight studied him for a long moment. His men were waiting, watching, expecting him to act, to press further. But he did not.
Instead, he let out a quiet exhale and gave the smallest nod. "Then you will find much ahead of you."
With a small motion of his hand, he gestured to his men. The tension did not vanish, but it lessened. Weapons were released, reins were adjusted, and after another beat of silence, the knights began turning their horses.
One of them, a grizzled veteran who had said nothing thus far, cast a final glance at the towering figure before them. He narrowed his eyes slightly, then shook his head.
"Strange one," he murmured under his breath.
The traveler did not acknowledge it. He simply remained standing, watching as the knights rode forward, their ornate armor gleaming under the last light of the setting sun.
