Chapter 211 – Floor 34: Part 1

  Floor 34: The Dark Sovereign

  In the realm of Alaris, society is starkly divided between two classes, each inhabiting a section of the continent. The Kelestrians, an elite caste of humans, wield formidable magic drawn from ancient traditions and arcane knowledge.

  Their magic has the power to change the world around them to their will by using language, runes and techniques passed down through generations. It is unique to them and is unable to be taught outside of their bloodline.

  They harness this magic through rigorous study, allowing their people to live extravagantly and without hardship. Their bloodline has made them long-lived, celebrated for their ethereal beauty. They reside in majestic cities of unparalleled exquisiteness, where their magical prowess allows them to manipulate elements, bend reality and indulge in luxury.

  In stark contrast, the Harboured are condemned to a life of squalor, their faces branded with enchanted tattoos that symbolize their sin of being born. Unlike the Kelestrians, the Harboured’s magic is suppressed and rendered powerless for personal use. It only manifests in the creation of artifacts.

  These artifacts, forged by the Harboured, once held significant value and magical properties for the Kelestrians, until their own civilization moved beyond the need for the Harboured labour. They were cast aside to a small section of desolate land to eek out an existence, the valuable materials needed for their artifacts denied to them by strict embargos.

  The disparity between the glittering world of the Kelestrians and the artifact-driven, harsh existence of the Harboured underscores the deep-seated inequalities of Alaris.

  Considered evil, sinful and corrupt, the Harboured will never be able to rise without a leader. You have been chosen to be their Monarch.

  A Dark Sovereign.

  Reward: The first verse of a Celestial Magical Spell.

  Making use of the Celestial Language as a base, The Celestials used their language to create magic that would change the fabric of the universe.

  The Words of Power are only the first step on the path of a Speaker. They were never meant to be used separately.

  Even the gods feared the Celestials when they spoke.

  In the heart of a rugged stone cave, where the walls are stark and bare, shadows dance from the light of a single, flickering torch made of petrified wood and scrub grass. This is the workshop of Hilo, an experienced Artisan of the Harboured.

  Hilo’s weathered hands, gnarled and calloused from decades of toil, deftly manipulated simple items:

  A shard of polished obsidian collected from the foot of Ashen Peak, the only mountain in the flat land inhabited by the Harboured. It spewed volcanic ash and magma periodically, with the valuable obsidian dug from the ground for use in their relics.

  A twisted length of withered vine from a hardy plant that grew in the crevices where scants amount of morning dew would gather.

  And finally, a small, rainbow coloured pebbled worn smooth by an ocean that had retreated ages, leaving only a few remnants behind as evidence of its passing. It still contained a trace of the sea inside it, enough for an Artisan to use.

  Hilo’s face was etched with deep lines, each a testament to the trails he had faced in this harsh world. His long, grey hair fell around his shoulders in a matted and tangled mess. His emerald-green eyes, clouded by hardship and age, still held a glimmer of determination as he doggedly placed the items on a stone table.

  His ragged clothing barely gave him protection from the cold that permeated the cave; the garments hung loosely from his frail frame. There was never enough food for the Harboured to keep them healthy, never enough cloth for everyone to be dressed for the elements.

  Only the hard work of the Artisans kept their people alive. They scrounge for materials wherever they could, digging through the hard earth for stones or fighting with animals for scraps in order to have enough to make a Relic.

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  Even then, the chance of failure while constructing them was high. One in ten failed. Hilo was more skilled than most; he succeeded on every fifth attempt.

  Weaving the vine around the small chunk of obsidian, Hilo murmured words to the ancient incantation that had been passed down through the generations. The pebble began to glow a faint blue, and he could hear the sound of dripping water from the stone.

  Symbols appeared in the air around him, faint runes that channelled magic into the items before him. He kept his thoughts clear, his focus on imbuing the objects with his desired enchantment. There was a final flash of light that settled onto the obsidian piece and its vine wrapping.

  The rainbow pebble crumbled to ash as it was consumed by the ritual.

  Hilo let out the breath he had been holding as he saw that he had been successful. The enchantment held, its power contained within the small objects resting on his table. He was exhausted, but there was still one final step.

  Standing from the small stool he had crafted from stone and scraps, Hilo shuffled his way across the cave to a shelf that contained several vases and pots. His body ached as he reached up and grabbed a clay pot from the very top of the shelf.

  Studying it for a moment, he blew on the container to remove the layer of dust that had gathered inside before walking back to his table and setting it on top. Picking up the piece of obsidian, he dropped it into the clay pot. It hit the bottom with a small sound.

  He could feel the air change as the enchantment began its work, drawing in moisture from its surroundings and depositing it into the pot. Hilo saw condensation already gathering on the surface of the obsidian, small drops that slid down its sides.

  Picking up the pot, he carried it outside of his cave residence, where someone would be waiting to collect it. Stepping outside into the harsh light of the sun, he blinked his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the sudden brightness.

  Before him stretched a barren land, a vast expanse of cracked earth that seemed to shimmer in the heat, it was a world devoid of life, where the ground lay hardened and desolate, with fissures spidering across its surface like the scars of an ancient battlefield.

  Dust stirred at Hilo’s feet, swirling in small eddies, but the landscape was otherwise still. No one would be outside at this time of day unless needed; the heat would be unbearable while the caves beneath the ground could be freezing.

  The land of the Harboured was a strange place of contradictions. Boiling hot during the day, freezing at night. Their people had all the freedom to do whatever they wanted within the confines of this prison. Hilo let out a sigh as despair gripped him.

  In the distance, The Ashen Peak rose majestically, a solitary giant piercing the sky. Its slopes were steep and jagged, draped in shades of grey that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Wisps of cloud hung around its summit, not nearly enough to send rain to this deserted land.

  Hilo felt an inexplicable pull toward it as if the mountain were calling him closer. All the Harboured felt the mountain was a source of protection for the cursed. When the Kelestrians cast them out, the Harboured had fled to the east following the call.

  The Kelestrians were more than happy to allow these wretched people to inhabited the blighted lands around it. They sealed off the passes, blocked all access for trade or travel and let the Harboured rot within.

  All for the sin of having a different kind of magic. One that was physical rather than spiritual.

  Hilo shook off his melancholy thoughts when he saw the person who was waiting for the pot. The exchange went swiftly, with the older woman handing over a bundle of food and other supplies in exchange.

  Making his way up the path back to his cave, Hilo licked his dry and chapped lips. The absence of water was palpable, the air so arid that the wind blowing on his skin offered no comfort or relief. With a last look at the Ashen Peak in the distance, Hilo was about to return to the coolness of his cave when the ground began to shake.

  The earth trembled, and a low rumble echoed through the barren landscape. Hilo staggered and instinctively tried to reach the cave’s entrance. The land convulsed violently, cracks widened, and fissures split the surface as if the very land were coming alive.

  The Ashen Peak erupted with a deafening roar. A plume of ash and smoke shot skyward, darkening the sun and casting eerie shadows over the desolate terrain. The mountain’s jagged slopes cracked open, revealing glowing veins of molten rock that bubbled and churned.

  The sound was overwhelming, a cacophony of rumbling and roaring that drowned out all thought. As Hilo watched, mesmerized and terrified, fiery fragments cascaded down the mountain like shooting stars, igniting the dry earth around Ashen Peak. The air thickened with ask, swirling in dark clouds that choked the sky and blocked the sun.

  Panic surged through Hilo, and he stumbled backward, desperate to escape the chaos. The ground continued to shake, each tremor sending shockwaves through his bones as if the mountain were shaking off centuries of silence.

  Before he could reach the cave, a blinding white light shot up from the top of the mountain and struck the clouds. They swirled around the pillar of light like a vortex. The shaking stopped, and the mountain calmed in an instant.

  Relieved and confused, Hilo fell to the ground and looked up into the sky. All around him, other Harboured emerged to stare at the mountain with him. An oppressive force descended, pushing down on their bodies and driving those who remained on their feet to their knees.

  Burning words appeared in the sky above the mountain, as bright as the sun.

  A Harboured Sovereign has arrived to right the wrongs of the past.

  Hilo wept as he read those words, the precious moisture wasted as it slid down his dry and ash-caked cheeks.

  It was their time. His people would finally be free.

  Chapter 273 – Floor 60: Part 3