37.- Echoes of a century

The sun filtered through the tall stained-glass windows of the throne room, casting long shadows on a polished marble floor that had been restored after a century of cracks and ashes. The windows, carved with protective runes that glowed faintly in the light, were new, replacing those that "The Catastrophe" had reduced to dust a hundred years ago. In the center of the room, King Alaric occupied his throne, his imposing figure clad in ethereal armor that gleamed with a silvery sheen, forged with magical alloys that had withstood the passage of time as well as he had. Before him, Dukes Darius, Gareth, Seraphina, Brener, and Elmond argued vehemently, their voices echoing in the vast space while the members of the Ivory Tower's Council of Mages watched from the shadows, their faces hidden under hoods embroidered with golden runes that seemed to absorb the light itself.

A hundred years had passed since "The Catastrophe," the event that had shaken Eldoria to its core and changed the world forever. The cracks that once scarred the capital city were now only scars sealed with magic and enchanted stone, visible on the castle walls as a perpetual reminder. The old capital had fallen into ruin after that night of red skies and tremors, and upon its remains now stood New Eldrin, a city of spiral towers and floating markets sustained by spells that defied gravity – a testament to the ingenuity of a people who had learned to flourish among the ashes. The fields, once ravaged by firestorms, now stretched into vast plains of golden wheat and flowers that shimmered with an otherworldly glow, while the laughter of children – a generation born in the shadow of reconstruction – filled the cobblestone streets with echoes of hard-won resilience. But for Alaric, Darius, and the others who had seen the sky bleed a century ago, the memory of that night remained as vivid as the day they trembled beneath its fury.

"A hundred years," Alaric murmured, his deep voice cutting through the air, his fingers clenching the arms of the throne with a tension that had not diminished in a century. "A hundred years since the sky bled and the earth betrayed us."

The dukes exchanged glances, their faces – untouched by time thanks to the gifts of magic they had embraced after "The Catastrophe" – reflecting a mixture of weariness and resolve. Their armor and robes, forged with techniques perfected over a century of advancements, shone with a luster that spoke of a rebuilt era, but their eyes carried the weight of having seen the world break. They had agreed to attribute the event to a natural phenomenon – a lie etched in the annals and proclaimed by heralds from New Eldrin to the orcish borders. The official records spoke of a stray comet that had ripped through the sky and unleashed a magical storm, a story that calmed the masses and filled the temples with offerings to gods who had not responded that night. But Alaric knew that this explanation was a fragile facade, woven to prevent panic – he had been there, he had felt the power that did not come from this world.

"Your Majesty," Duke Darius began, his voice resonating with the authority of a man who had raised the southern ports from the ashes, "the grain reserves are full, the merchant floaters traverse the skies with more cargo than ever, and the orcs send us tribute instead of axes. The orc ambassador swears by the three moons that their clans know nothing of that – he swore it a century ago and repeats it today. We can leave that night behind… we have rebuilt more than we lost."

Alaric observed him, his gray eyes narrowing with a mixture of frustration and empathy. Darius was a practical man, broad-shouldered and with a silver beard that had grown thicker with the years, his face hardened by a century of leadership. But the king still saw him trembling under the rubble of the old capital, his armor dented and his hands clinging to a broken beam as the sky turned red. "Leave behind," Alaric repeated, his tone dry but sharp as a newly forged sword. "And if that night is not over, Darius? What if what we felt a hundred years ago – you, me, all of us – was just the beginning?"

A murmur swept through the room, and Duke Gareth, a man with a weathered face and calloused hands that had excavated the western mines for a century, leaned forward, his furrowed brow reflecting an impatience that had not diminished with time. "With respect, Your Majesty," he said, his deep voice resonating like a hammer on an anvil, "we have spent a hundred years raising towers, sealing cracks, and weaving runes that sing even in storms. The fields shine, the orcs fear us, and New Eldrin stands where the old one fell. What more do we need? To send troops into the forest to hunt shadows we didn't see? To invoke the gods who ignored us?" His sarcasm was an echo of the nights when the tremors had thrown him from his bed, and his fingers tapped on the table with a nervous rhythm.

Duke Elmond, with sharp eyes and a gray robe embroidered with silver threads that he had worn since that fateful night, raised a hand to silence Gareth, his voice firm but charged with a calm that he had perfected in a century of reflection. "I disagree," he said, standing up, his eyes shining with the same intensity as when he sent the first message to the Ivory Tower after "The Catastrophe." "I was there, Gareth – we all were. The sky didn't just bleed, it shattered like glass, and the earth roared with a fury that was not of this world. The mages felt it then, and I felt it in my bones: it was not a comet, it was not natural. The orcs may deny it under their moons, but their elders still whisper of a 'winged shadow' that ravaged the north a hundred years ago – something their shamans fear to name. We cannot pretend that did not happen."

A tense silence filled the room, and the mages of the Council shifted under their hoods, the golden runes flashing like restless eyes. Duchess Seraphina, her braided black hair falling like a cascade over her ceremonial armor – the same one she had worn that night – crossed her arms, her sharp voice breaking the silence. "Elmond has a point," she said, her green eyes piercing Gareth with a glint that could cut steel. "But if you're going to point to the orcs, bring more than rumors of frightened shamans. Do you want me to squander gold on a war because of your suspicions, while my eastern bridges still tremble with every echo of that night? Let's not forget who carried the bodies under the ruins, Gareth – you were too busy hiding in your mine."

Gareth growled, his face reddening as he slammed his fist on the table. "Hiding! And you, Seraphina, with your braids and your speeches? I saw you tremble as much as the rest when the sky split – don't pretend you're braver now!" His voice echoed, and a tic twitched in his left eye, a habit he had acquired in the years of reconstruction.

Alaric raised a hand, his ethereal armor resonating with a hum that silenced all voices, his figure casting a shadow that seemed to absorb the light from the windows. "Enough," he said, standing up, his voice sharp as a blade forged in the chaos of that night. "We do not seek war, neither with the orcs nor with shadows. But neither can we close our eyes to what we experienced a hundred years ago – it was not a comet, it was not a divine whim. We all felt it: the sky bleeding, the earth opening, that energy that was not of this world. Elmond, your idea has merit. I will send a request to the Adventurers' Guild: I want seasoned teams, trackers, and perceptive mages. Let them explore the distant forests, the northern mountains, and the borderlands with the orcs. Let them search for strange runes, residual energy, any sign – we will offer gold and land for concrete answers."

Darius frowned, his fingers drumming on the table with a rhythm that betrayed his nervousness – the same one he had shown when emerging from the rubble a century ago. "And if they find nothing, Your Majesty," he said, his voice low but insistent, "after all this time, what? Will we continue chasing an echo while New Eldrin flourishes? We have built a new world on the ruins – let it rest."

"If they find nothing, we will sleep with fewer nightmares," Alaric replied, his tone as firm as the marble beneath his feet. "But if they find something – and I believe they will – we will be ready. I will not see my kingdom burn again without knowing why." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on the Council of Mages. "Archmage Elian," he said, his voice sharp as a blade, "I require you in my chambers. There are truths I can no longer ignore."

The mages exchanged nervous glances under their hoods, the golden runes flashing as if whispering among themselves. Elian, leader of the Council, stepped forward, bowing his head with a calmness that did not reach his eyes – eyes that had seen the sky fracture. "As you command, Your Majesty," he said, his voice serene but heavy with a weight he had carried for a century.

In the royal chambers, after closing the doors carved with dragon reliefs, Alaric turned to Elian, his gaze piercing like a spear. "Elian," he began, his deep voice resonating in the silent room, "I do not trust the words of the Council – I never have. We were there, you and I, when the sky split and the earth roared. I know you are hiding something – you always have. What was 'The Catastrophe' truly?"

Elian sighed, lowering his hood to reveal a face etched with deep wrinkles but eyes still bright as embers, his white hair falling in disarrayed strands over a robe he had worn since that night – unaltered by time. "Your Majesty," he replied, his voice calm but heavy, "there are truths we do not reveal because we do not know how to face them. A hundred years ago, when the sky bled, it was not a comet or a god – it was a power that does not belong to this plane. We felt it in the Tower: an entire universe awakening, a force that pulsed and went back to sleep. It was not just chaos… it was something alive."

Alaric frowned, his fingers clenching the edge of a table covered with new maps drawn over the remnants of an old one. "A universe?" he repeated, his tone sharp. "And the orcs? What do they know?"

"We do not know for sure," Elian admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor before returning to the king's eyes. "Their clans deny it under the three moons – they denied it then and they deny it now. But the rumors persist: their elders speak of a 'winged shadow' that ravaged the north a century ago, a figure that their shamans fear to invoke. We do not know if it is myth or truth, but the northern mountains… something is moving there, something that has not died in a hundred years."

Alaric nodded, his mind racing with the implications. "That is why I need the adventurers," he said, his voice firm but filled with determination. "They will be our eyes and ears – they will search for runes, traces, any sign. We cannot remain blind, Elian, not after what we saw."

"That is true, Your Majesty," Elian agreed, his tone somber. "But I beg you to be cautious. If that force still sleeps, awakening it could bring a new end… one that even New Eldrin would not withstand."

When Elian withdrew, his robe whispering against the marble, Alaric was left alone in his chambers, contemplating the map of Eldoria – a new canvas with borders redrawn after a century of change. His finger traced the northern mountains, the vast expanses of forest now dotted with floating villages, and the borderlands with the orcs, where watchtowers shone with protective magic. He knew that the path to the truth would be long and dangerous – he had felt that power a hundred years ago, and he still felt it in his nightmares. The fate of Eldoria, and perhaps the world, depended on what they found in the shadows.