Those Who Still Live

The gates of Cael'Rhain rose like fangs from the earth, sharp and slate-gray against the sky. No arch. No welcoming spires. Just massive walls set between the bones of the mountains, angled and cold—functional, fortified. It was not a city that invited. It endured.

But the road outside was alive.

A long queue of caravans stretched along the winding approach—traders, messengers, pilgrims, and families. The scent of dried meats and fresh-spiced oils clung to canvas awnings, and the rumble of carts echoed between the rocks. People murmured, bartered, laughed. Children chased each other between wheels, and guards patrolled up and down the lines, marking goods and checking names.

It was the most life the group had seen in weeks. Ever since Callestan. 

The line moved slowly, but steadily. Koda and the others hung near the back, not yet announcing their presence. Not yet invoking their rank. For now, they watched.

It was Maia who saw the flag first.

A simple thing—tattered, sun-faded, but clear.

A banner from Delrest. Blue and ochre, hand-stitched with a family crest curled like blooming ivy. It flapped gently from the rear of a wooden cart near the front of the line.

Maia's breath caught in her throat.

She dismounted before she knew it, hands loose, boots crunching on the gravel as she strode forward through the line. People made way when they saw her—the emblem on her cloak, the authority in her walk. But there was something else too.

An urgency.

The cart in question was modest. The wooden planks weather-worn but sturdy, its wheels reinforced with new iron bands. Barrels and crates were stacked along the sides, their tops tied down with heavy tarps. Two children sat near the back—a boy of six, a girl no older than four—playing with cloth dolls stitched from old travel rags.

On the front bench sat a man. Thick arms, wide shoulders, sun-leathered skin. A wide-brimmed hat hung down his back, revealing dark hair streaked with gray. His smile was easy and warm as he turned toward Maia, misreading the look on her face.

"Traveling healer?" he asked, jovial. "I figured the Order had their own lanes through the gates, but you're welcome to cut past us, of course. Always glad to meet someone wearing that crest."

Maia opened her mouth.

No words came.

The man's wife was beside him—visibly pregnant, hand resting over her swollen belly, her other arm curled around the sleeping form of the smallest child. The woman looked tired, but content, her head leaned on his shoulder. She met Maia's eyes with a faint smile and a polite nod.

"We're traveling in together this time," the man continued, proud. "Didn't want to risk the baby coming while I was out running goods. She insisted we left a few weeks early, so we wouldn't be on the trails when the baby was born—but you know what they say about timing and blessings."

Maia's hands trembled.

The sound of children's laughter behind the cart broke something loose in her chest.

She stepped forward and collapsed against the edge of the wagon, burying her face in her arm, sobbing—loud and sudden and completely without restraint. The kind of weeping that drew silence from everyone nearby.

The man's smile faltered. "Miss…? Are you alright?"

By then, Koda had made his way through the line behind her. He didn't speak at first. He placed a hand on Maia's shoulder, grounding her, then turned to the man and his wife with a gravity that pulled all the light from the air.

"You're from Delrest," he said softly.

The man's brow furrowed. "We are. Or… we were. Been living outside the southern rim for the last few seasons, though. My folks still stayed within the walls. We were just heading back now to resettle. Baby's due in a month."

The woman shifted, sensing the sudden weight in Koda's tone. The children stilled, eyes wide.

Koda looked down.

Then met their eyes again.

"I'm sorry," he said. "There is no Delrest anymore."

The silence that followed was thick and terrible.

The man blinked slowly. "I… don't understand. What do you mean? Did the undead reach it? The walls—"

"There was no siege," Koda said, voice steady, quiet. "No fire. No screams."

His hand tightened gently on Maia's shoulder.

"They never woke up. No signs of pain. No signs of resistance. Just sleep. Deep and absolute."

The mother pressed a hand to her mouth.

The man sat frozen.

Koda lowered his head. "We cremated the city. All of them. Buried their names in stone. I don't know how… or why you weren't there. But you were spared. You and your family."

The man didn't move.

Then he lowered the reins from his lap.

And wept.

Not loud. Not like Maia.

But with long, wracking breaths—shoulders shaking, hands braced on his knees. His wife leaned against him, stunned, arms around their youngest as if afraid she might vanish too.

The children didn't understand. Not fully. But they knew something was wrong. The girl climbed down from the cart and walked slowly toward Maia, offering a ragged cloth doll with a button eye missing.

Maia looked up through her tears and took it with both hands.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Koda stood still.

And said nothing more.

There was no comfort in survival.

But there was meaning.

And though grief gripped the road that day, it was grief in its truest form:

Not sorrow for the dead.

But awe at those who lived.

After things calmed down again, Koda and Maia worked their way back to their carriage.

———

The gates of Cael'Rhain loomed above them now, massive slabs of iron-veined stone reinforced with wards that shimmered faintly under the daylight. Their size was not just for show—they were made to withstand siege, to hold against the collapse of empires if need be. Every joint, every seam had the faint whisper of divine reinforcement embedded into it.

Two guards stood at the narrow entry lane, inspecting caravans with routine precision. One wore polished blacksteel armor with the city's crest stamped across the chest; the other held a manifest slate, his gloved fingers flicking through the names and trade clearances of those queued for entry.

When Koda and his team approached the checkpoint, the guards gave them the once-over: gear too clean to be traders, postures too sharp to be pilgrims. When the tokens came out, the mood shifted instantly.

The first guard's eyes locked on Koda's obsidian coin and Maia's smoke-gray one, his expression tightening in an instant. "I—pardon, my lord," he said quickly, gesturing to the others behind him. "You carry tokens of the Order… and that—" he motioned awkwardly to Koda's coin, "—should've let you through without waiting. You could've bypassed the queue entirely."

Koda's reply came quiet, but firm.

"We waited because we needed to."

The guard blinked. "Sir?"

"To see the world breathe again," Maia said gently, stepping forward. "To watch children run between wagons and hear people laugh without fear. We've seen too much silence. We wanted… just a moment."

The other guard, younger, looked stricken.

The older one straightened, setting aside the slate. "Of course. I understand. Forgive us—we simply didn't expect… someone of your clearance to… wait among the caravans."

"We'll need immediate access to the Order's branch," Koda said. "And we request a meeting with the city's head Librarian. Today."

The lead guard gave a sharp nod. "Right away. I'll send runners from the inner post. You'll have an escort."

"And," Junen added, "the scar that touched Delrest… it didn't stop there. The capital needs to know what's coming next."

That sobered the last of the tension.

The guards stepped aside without hesitation, and the gates—huge and deliberate—creaked open on a system of hidden gears and divine channels, part mechanical, part magical. As they passed beneath the arch, the light from outside dimmed for a breath, and then…

The city opened.

Wide, structured, disciplined.

Cael'Rhain was not built for beauty, but for function. Every street ran clean lines. Towers overlooked thoroughfares, and residential tiers sat safely above ground-level markets. Uniformed patrols moved in groups of four. Bells rang faintly in the distance, announcing changes in district cycles or shifts in duty. People walked quickly here—not panicked, but with purpose.

It wasn't just fortified.

It was prepared.

And now, the Order would need to be, too.

The escort met them less than a block from the inner gate—two riders in slate-gray cloaks bearing the sigil of the Order, their breastplates etched with the same faint handprint that adorned the team's coins. Silent, professional, they turned without question once Koda presented his token and began guiding the group through the winding tiers of Cael'Rhain.

The city grew tighter the deeper they went.

Not smaller—just more focused. The outer districts bore the bustle of commerce and craftsmanship: stonecutters, armorers, military quartermasters shouting orders over crates of shaped ore. But here, in the inner rings, there were fewer voices. More eyes. More gates without doors. The air carried the sharp smell of parchment, ink, and polished steel. It was the scent of discipline.

Koda rode just behind the lead escort, the clatter of hooves measured against the perfect stone of the street. Maia sat beside him in the saddle, her hand resting lightly on the reins, though she barely glanced forward. Her eyes took in the buildings—the uniformity, the measured height of each spire, the matching window spacing. It was beautiful, in its way, but so unlike Oria, so unlike the warmth of their previous world.

"Every block is assigned a purpose," Junen murmured quietly behind them. "Housing. Research. Military. Administration. No overlap."

"It's efficient," Terron added, "but gods, it's a bit like being watched even when you're alone."

"Because you are," Wren said.

The final road curved upward, cutting through a sloped street that led toward the high central quarter. The road was flanked by bronze statues—hooded figures kneeling beside stone tablets, scrolls, and blades. Etchings in Old High tongue lined the base of each: We remember, so we do not repeat.

At the crest of the slope stood a building of dark marble and obsidian, its corners reinforced with divine filigree—neither ornamental nor wholly practical. Magic thrummed through the stones, faint but ever-present, like a heartbeat running through its foundations.

The Order's Cael'Rhain chapter house.

It was similar to the one in Callestan—plain but powerful, an architectural reflection of balance and resolve. Tall rectangular windows were fitted with smoked crystal; a single black banner hung above the entrance, the same open hand symbol stitched in silver thread across it.

The escort dismounted and motioned for them to follow.

The guards at the wide doors bowed low—not in ceremony, but respect. The name of the "Hero's Party" had clearly reached the city already.

"Lord Veros sent word," one of them said, straightening. "The chamber is prepared. The Librarians await."

Koda looked once at his team. They were worn from the road, dust still on their cloaks, soot from Delrest still clinging to the seams of their boots. But their eyes were sharp. Their backs straight. This was not a celebration.

"We'll follow," he said simply.

The doors parted—and the halls of the Order swallowed them.