Towards the Heart of the Beast (Part 1/2)

Sleep, for the first time, had been a refuge. The years he spent locked away were unbearable; day after day, he went to rest as if a part of him were lost. Though his soul was a little broken now, the truth was that the feeling was minimal. Aiden was able to rest... for a short time.

He awoke exhausted, his eyes tired and a distant dizziness lingering. It wasn't the sun or the murmur of the camp that did it, but the imposing figure of Angellon standing by his cot, already dressed in her dark military uniform.

"Get up," she ordered, her voice devoid of the slightest trace of compassion. "We're leaving."

Aiden stood, and as he did, every muscle in his body protested with a sharp ache. A voracious hunger, which he hadn't felt before, twisted in his stomach like a rousing beast, letting out a low, guttural sound. Angellon noticed his weakness and couldn't help but grimace at the annoyance of having to deal with him. She pointed with her chin outside the canvas. Fixing his gaze, Aiden could discern a campfire with several tents around it, and over the fire, a pot.

"Eat something. I don't want you fainting halfway there. I've dealt with that enough already."

Aiden didn't need to be told twice. Reaching the campfire, he served himself a bowl of a thick stew with meat and tore off a piece of hard bread from a nearby loaf. He ate erratically, quickly, without even savoring the food, just ingesting the necessary fuel while Angellon watched him with her arms crossed. 

As soon as he finished, they made their way to Xhandor. The journey back was just as tense and silent. The morning sun barely managed to warm the air of the moor, its pale rays stretching over the dry, cracked earth. Aiden walked behind Angellon, watching the distant silhouette of the Citadel's walls grow on the horizon. He saw no way of forming a friendly bond with her, not that he wanted to; after all, she was not his savior, but a different kind of jailer who, just like Veilon, sought to use him.

As they drew closer, the sheer scale of the Citadel struck him anew. Its dark stone walls rose to the sky, and from them hung the banners of Zhailon—the crown and the seven stars representing the kingdoms' domains—rippling in the wind. The main entrance was a monumental arch, a stone maw guarded by soldiers of the royal army. Their polished steel armor glinted faintly with its dark blue hues, their faces impassive.

The guards recognized Angellon immediately, saluting her with a motion of their arms across their chests and stepping aside. But when Aiden tried to follow her, two spears crossed in front of him, blocking his path with a metallic clang.

"Halt," one of the guards said in an authoritarian tone. He scanned Aiden from head to toe, his gaze lingering on his bruised face and worn clothes with evident repulsion. "What clan do you belong to?"

Aiden felt the familiar bile of resentment rise in his throat. They never tired of creating obstacles for him.

"The Thalmyr clan," he lied.

The other guard let out a short, mocking laugh. 

"We've seen so many people come and go, you think we don't know what your kind looks like? Your hair, your skin tone, and those rags you're wearing give you away. You're one of the Svalthren dogs."

Aiden clenched his fists at his sides, despising the contemptuous way they used his clan's sigil to insult him.

"You must be quite stupid not to know the difference between a wolf and a dog," he snapped with disdain.

"What did you say?" the guard retorted, brandishing his spear.

Angellon, who had stopped a few paces ahead, turned with exasperated slowness. 

"Let us pass. He's with me."

"Officer Norvel," the first guard replied, not moving his spear. "Our orders are clear. We are to stop anyone we consider a danger to the Citadel."

Angellon's patience snapped. She took a step toward them, her voice now a low, dangerous whisper. "Listen to me, both of you." The irises of her eyes turned red, and the guards' expressions shifted to one of concern, instinctively pointing their spears at her. "If I tell you this man is with me, it's because he is important. I don't care about whatever vague dispute you have. I am your Officer, and you will obey me." For a moment, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a scroll. "This man is Aiden Svalthren, the one named in this scroll. Are you going to let us be, or should I fetch His Majesty right now and make this a much bigger problem?"

The guards exchanged nervous glances. The arrogance on their faces vanished, replaced by the palpable fear of a much higher authority. After a few seconds of tense hesitation, the spears were withdrawn.

"Our apologies, Officer Norvel," they said, bowing in unison.

"Yes, yes, whatever. Now get out of the way."

"Of course." With a dry gesture, they allowed him to pass, though their gazes remained filled with hatred.

The heavy iron gate creaked shut behind them. Angellon broke the silence, her voice a hiss of irritation. "Idiots. They think they can do as they please just because they wear a uniform. I bet they don't even know how to use those spears." Her eyes returned to their characteristic purple hue.

Once inside, Aiden looked around at the people of the First Circle: artisans with stained hands, refugees from the north with desperation etched on their faces, and his own people, the few Svalthren he recognized by their ragged clothes and the hopeless look of the adults. The children, however, ran barefoot over the dirty flagstones without a care. They didn't yet know the suffering that awaited them.

It was always the same story. The arrogance of those who wore the insignia of Zhailon, believing themselves superior.

"We don't need to fraternize if you don't want to," he said. "The only thing I care about is that you keep your end of the deal."

Angellon stopped abruptly and turned to face him, her violet eyes flashing. "You will have your revenge, Svalthren. I promised you that," she said in a calm tone that made her seem all the more intimidating. "But all in due time. So don't get desperate. Understood?"

Aiden held her gaze, a silent duel in the midst of the market's chaos. There was no need to create unnecessary disputes, and he knew he would get nowhere with it, but he disliked her demanding attitude. It's not worth it...

He nodded reluctantly. For now, his revenge would have to wait. She seemed satisfied with his response, for without another word, she resumed her pace, parting the crowd with a natural air of authority that made people instinctively move out of her way.

They plunged into the bustling arteries of the First Circle. For Aiden, it was like walking through a melancholic memory. Every corner, every building was a reminder of his youth. The air was permeated with the scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery, the clang of a blacksmith's workshop, and the dull color of innumerable cook-fires where cheap food was being prepared for the workers. As one went deeper into the First Circle, the streets became narrower and more crowded, eventually teeming with the chaotic and vibrant energy of its inhabitants.

He wondered what had become of his friends, those with whom he had shared training and dreams in the courtyards of Eilhart Academy. He remembered Bram, with his ambition to join the army, obsessed with honor. And Elara, who always talked about the ships of Aetheris and the surrounding continents she wanted to visit, yearning for a freedom that Aiden had never understood until now. Fifteen years was an eternity. He didn't want to be more pessimistic than he already was, but he had to be realistic. Maybe Bram had died in some meaningless skirmish, maybe Elara was anywhere in the world, or maybe she never managed to leave Zhailon. No... I have to believe they're alright.

As he walked among the people, seeing the diverse faces and clothing, he couldn't help but think about the official history of Zhailon, the one that spoke of a unification achieved by the ancestors of Thareon Zephandor. According to the tomes, the clans and domains lived in constant conflict, slaughtering one another, until they were invaded by the border kingdoms. It was then that the Zephandors decided to act and unite the others, not by conquest, but out of mutual need: to protect themselves from the hostile kingdoms beyond their borders. The result was an unprecedented alliance: the proud clan leaders bent the knee, becoming archons, their territories domains, and all unified under the insignia and authority of a single kingdom, that of Zhailon. A history propagated under the concept of unity and progress.

A false history, Aiden thought. An elegant way of saying that the most powerful clans ceded their sovereignty in exchange for precarious security, all so that a single family, the Zephandors, could sit on the throne. It was true they had achieved a measure of peace; the kingdoms of Zaerhast had to halt their plans of conquest, and Monte Paraíso became a kingdom that desired trade instead of war, but at what cost? The Svalthren were now considered the enemy, an enmity born not from the invasion but from disputes among the clans deep within Zaerhast. Zhailon just needed a clan to blame and abuse, and who better than the Svalthren? After all, they had started the dispute at the Frozen Fort.

The walk through the First Circle ended before a more elaborate stone arch, flanked by guards whose armor was cleaner and more polished than those at the Citadel's entrance. It was the inner gate, the border between the common folk and the districts of power, a place not just anyone could enter. Aiden saw the soldiers step forward to stop them and felt his muscles tense, anticipating the same conflict as before.

But Angellon, this time, was prepared. She didn't wait for them to challenge her. Before the guards could even open their mouths to halt them, she had already produced the scroll from Veilon and another document from her cloak.

"He is with me, by order of the king," she said, displaying the contents of the scroll, holding it out with an extended arm alongside a document—a report with Aiden's personal information, including a sketch of his appearance in prison.

One of the guards stepped forward to review them and after comparing Aiden's appearance with that of the sketch, he addressed Angellon. "You may pass," he said.

And both he and his partner stepped aside, lowering their heads as a sign of respect—not for them, but for the symbol of power they carried.

They left the chaotic bustle of the Common Circle behind. The transition to the Second Circle—the Ring of Districts—was as abrupt as crossing an invisible border into another world. The streets widened with perfect geometry, the flagstones were so aligned and clean they reflected the sky, and the air, though still charged with the pulse of a metropolis, lost its coarse edge. Here, the smell of sweat and cheap food was replaced by the scent of expensive woods, perfumed oils, and the faint smell of polished metal emanating from the luxury workshops. This was the guild district, the headquarters of the kingdom's finest artisans. Aiden watched through the large, crystalline windows of the establishments: goldsmiths working with delicate tools on silver filigree that looked like threads of moonlight, weavers operating monumental looms that produced silks of vibrant colors, and carpenters carving intricate designs into dark, exotic woods. The sound here was not the clang of a forge. It was a world of opulence, a display of the immense wealth Zhailon possessed, a wealth from which his people and he would only see scraps.

Leaving the guilds behind, the atmosphere changed again. They came upon a monolith of power—the royal army headquarters. The building was a fortress of black stone, functional and unadorned, from whose battlements hung the banners of Zhailon. Surrounding it were the barracks of the royal guard and the elite units. Aiden remembered the former commander of this domain from his academy years, a stoic survivor of the Frozen Fort who had worked alongside the old king Thareon Zephandor. He wondered if a pillar of the old regime like him would still be in charge, or if Veilon had already replaced him with someone else.

Continuing forward, the urban landscape opened up to reveal a breathtaking sight: the great central market. While the market of the First Circle was a place for anyone who wished to sell anything, the one in the Second Circle was a more limited venue, reserved only for the most important merchants in the lands of Erdas. It had a plaza so vast it was hard to see the other end, where caravans from all domains converged at a single point. Aiden saw the sturdy carts of the Solvayne unloading ingots of metal that gleamed under the sun, the stalls of Aetheris selling exotic spices and marine artifacts, and the dazzling colors of the silks and tapestries from the merchants of Mount Paradise. It was the economic heart of the kingdom, a place of power as formidable as the army, and for Aiden, another face of the same beast that had devoured him.

Leaving the market's din behind, the atmosphere turned more solemn. They reached the District of Knowledge. This was territory Aiden knew better than any other. To his left rose the headquarters of the Royal Eilhart Academy, with its tall limestone towers and windows that still seemed to hold the light of his student days. A lump formed in his throat. He remembered the echo of his own footsteps in the great halls, the weight of the ancient books, the whispers in the corridors, and even his first love. He remembered hope. A feeling so distant it seemed to belong to another life, but it quickly vanished, returning him to harsh reality.

On the other side of the street stood an even more imposing and much more sinister structure: the headquarters of the Arcane Directory. It was a windowless building of polished obsidian. There resided the Custodians of the Terum, the guardians and regulators of the vital energy, figures of immense power and unquestionable authority. Aiden had always regarded them with a mixture of respect and fear; now, he only felt resentment. They, too, had played a part in his condemnation.

Further on, the district forked. One path led to the administrative district, with the austere gray buildings of the ministries and, in the background, the main courts. Aiden tried to look away, but it was too late. The image of the courtroom, the impassive faces of the judges, and the weight of the royal seal on his sentence flooded his mind. He had no choice but to look the other way, where a road of golden stones that shone with an almost unnatural light stretched out: the Golden District. It was the location of the largest temples of the state faith, structures of white marble and gold domes that stood as monuments to opulence.

Aiden and Angellon did not delay, and finally, after crossing the Golden District, they found themselves before the last and most breathtaking barrier of all: the great wall of the inner circle. It was not mere architecture; it was a declaration of divinity. The enormous stones of an immaculate white that seemed to radiate their own light were veined with quartz inlays that shimmered with different colors under the sunlight—red, blue, emerald—bleeding light onto the polished marble of the road. It was the place that separated absolute power, the ancient castle of the Zephandors, from everything else. The grand path leading to the main gate was flanked by members of the Royal Guard, elite troops whose black and blue steel armor was polished to a mirror shine. They stood motionless, like obsidian statues, in their regal bearing.

As expected, they were stopped again, but this time with a definitive authority. The captain of the guard, a man with a scar on his chin and a look that promised nothing good, simply stood in their way.

"No one passes without direct authorization from the council or the king himself," he declared, his voice deep and leaving no room for negotiation.

Angellon tried to open her mouth to reply but was interrupted. 

"Those orders are mine, Captain. I will escort them."

The calm voice made the guards tense and turn. From the threshold of the grand gate, a man approached them with a steady, unhurried pace. 

His presence silenced the air. He was a man who carried his fifty years with a deceptive grace; at first glance, he could pass for someone in his late thirties, but a closer look revealed the truth. His face was sharp-featured, with high cheekbones and a defined jaw. His skin, of a northern pallor, was almost free of deep wrinkles but was crisscrossed by a network of fine, almost invisible white scars.

His hair, a deep black with cobalt blue reflections under the light, was cut—short on the sides and slightly longer on top. A few rebellious strands fell across his forehead, the only element that softened the severity of his features without detracting from his authority. His eyes, a dark blue, observed calmly. They were the eyes of a survivor who had seen the end of the world and lived to tell the tale.

His commander's uniform was a display of power. The coat, a blue so dark it looked black, contrasted with the ribbed teal panel on his chest. Heavy golden epaulets, unmistakable insignia of his high command, rested on his shoulders. What secured the high collar of the garment was a polished silver brooch set with a fragment of enchanted ice. Despite the opulence of the epaulets and the ice brooch, the rest of his attire consisted of solid engraved bronze bracers, black leather gloves, and a wide belt bearing the logo of Zhailon—the crown and the seven stars. His build was lean, but the muscles of his arms were defined beneath his attire.

The man stopped in front of them. He gave Angellon a courteous salute, a brief nod of his head.

"Officer Norvel."

"It's good to see you, Commander Ciro."