Chapter XVI - Echoes in Vhaldaris

— Beautiful place, good food, free drinks, music as much as I want, and I can even leave with whoever I please... How wonderful, huh? — Tilka boasted with uncomplicated joy as she loosened the ties in her hair. Her rebellious red locks fell freely over her shoulders, fluttering as if they, too, wanted to celebrate. With a casual gesture, she dropped her lute onto the cushioned bench beside her.

— Yeah... — Liandre murmured, crossing his arms. He remained uncomfortable despite all the pomp. He knew many still wrinkled their noses at the sight of his name associated with the republic. Leaning against the wall, he pretended to be interested in a generic painting, likely bought just to fill space.

They were waiting for Khaled, who was currently in a closed-door meeting with Adreele and the ghost, discussing the political movement that would finally place the Red Dawn at the heart of the people. Liandre didn't understand why he hadn't been included—though he had his guesses. Jean, on the other hand, had taken the opportunity to hide in the laboratory, as he always did when conversations became too social for his taste.

— Oh, come on... — Tilka rolled her eyes lightly. — Most people loved the idea of seeing a former aristocrat serving the republic. It sends a strong message: times have changed. Sooner or later, the conservatives will have to swallow it. — She gave Liandre a quick pat on the leg, offering support with natural ease.

He allowed himself a faint, almost involuntary smile. Despite the discomfort, the demands, and the judgments—from all sides—there was something keeping him steady: Khaled. Even if the fragment bound their destinies, he knew there was more than magic between them. There was choice. There was affection. There was truth. And for now, that was enough.

— How wonderful that your curse has been lifted and now you can walk freely through Elderim, — Tilka sang, swinging her legs on the bench as if she were at a private show.

— It wasn't exactly like that, — Liandre replied, dragging his words with a touch of irony as he crossed his arms. — Khaled and I made a deal. Remember how he was trapped in the tower? Well... it's not like he could just walk around freely. He needs the remaining six fragments, and so we created a kind of bond. Something that ties us together. It allows him to walk the earth without restrictions, as long as we stay close. In the end, once he has them all, he'll be able to break the curse... by removing the fragment. But that's a secret, okay? — He ruffled the halfling's already unruly hair, and she laughed at the teasing.

— I see... — Tilka grew thoughtful, piecing together old clues. She remembered the fragments, mentioned by Khaled in his story about his former team. It set off an alarm in her bardic instincts, always sharp. — Isn't that a bit... convenient? I mean, a fragment appears, he manages to escape his prison after centuries, and in the end, everything resolves like a fairy tale?

Liandre only laughed, shaking his head.

— If there were more to it, Khaled would tell me. I think we've reached a level of mutual trust. So don't overthink it. — He liked his friend. She was one of the few people he could form any kind of bond with that didn't involve ulterior motives or the weight of his own past. Despite everything, Tilka was there—lighthearted and sharp-tongued—offering him a kind of companionship that felt good. And finally breathing with some freedom, Liandre realized he was beginning to build connections—however fragile—beyond the mage.

The moonlight bathed the curved rooftops and stained glass of the ancient city of Vhaldaris, reflecting off the polished stone streets as if the night itself were keeping watch. Tension hung in the air. The city had become the silent battlefield of a war of influence, where words carried more weight than swords, and a well-placed song could topple empires.

Khaled walked ahead of the group, his long tunic swaying gracefully, dyed in deep red and muted gold. His obsidian and brass staff scraped the ground as he stopped before the gates of the Hall of Shattered Glass. Hidden eyes watched them. Whispers of power gathered at the edges of his consciousness, but the mage's mind remained centered, steady as stone—a master of spatial magic, conjuration, and the manipulation of magical veils. Nothing would escape his arcane sight.

— Don't speak. Observe. — His tone didn't demand obedience—it inspired it. His eyes glowed briefly with the spell of magical detection. Lines of energy revealed themselves, tracing the hidden seals of protection around the hall. — They're hiding something. We need an opening.

Tilka, already disguised as a traveling courtesan, slipped among the opera guests, a sweet smile on her lips and her lute slung across her back. Her role was clear: spy, extract secrets, and distract the aristocrats with sharp wit and calculated charm. With a subtle toast, she pried a name from a half-drunk diplomat—Lady Velarra Nox would be present that night. A decisive step.

Meanwhile, Jean stayed in the back, watching the alley where they would enter. Potions clinked softly at her belt—elixirs of magical resistance, illusory mist, and liquid fire. She touched her fingertips with a greenish powder and spread a containment circle, sealing their retreat. Protection was her role—and if needed, her explosive magic would end any ambush attempt.

Then, when Khaled raised his hand and traced a symbol in the air, the hall's seal shattered silently, like melting glass. It was time.

Liandre moved without hesitation, cutting through the opulent hallway in his scarlet armor, forged from the scales of an ancient dragon, gleaming under the nearest torch. The sword in his hand bore the republic's rune. He was no longer a rebel—he was the symbol of militarized justice: sharp, firm, and relentless. He severed the restraints of two guards and knocked them out with brutal precision. When a third tried to invoke a magical alert, Liandre slammed him against the wall before the word could leave his lips.

— Clear. — He grunted, glancing back at Khaled.

Khaled stepped into the central hall. On the glass altar lay maps, contracts, and records of the Ceita, arranged like offerings of power. The mage raised his hands and invoked a temporal containment field—nothing there could be altered, destroyed, or teleported until his investigation was complete.

— The Ceita is trying to bribe the Crimson Gold Bank and use the profits to fund troops in the south. We have proof. Now it's time to play their game... with our pieces. — His eyes gleamed as he analyzed the document.

Tilka returned with a smile and the final piece of information: there would be a public speech the next day. They could expose the Ceita.

Jean approached, handing Khaled a concentration potion—his magical gift was valuable, but it took a toll on his mind and body. He accepted it with a silent nod.

Liandre spun his sword and sheathed it, ready for the next move.

He approached Khaled and touched his shoulder gently, offering support. Power demanded a certain level of understanding. The elf's mind was trained—years of reading, of intense meditation. But it had been a long time since he had performed such feats, studied his grimoire, or hummed spells of such magnitude that he felt exhausted by nightfall. The resilience he showed, even in exhaustion, was complete, exhilarating, and enigmatic. He loved reciting runes. Learning new magical feats. And now, on a real mission, he felt alive again. He turned toward Liandre with an excited smile.

— We discovered something important today. It will bear fruit soon. We can make the denouncement and tighten the siege. — Khaled allowed himself to be embraced. He breathed in the faint scent of dragon embers from Liandre's armor, mixed with sweat from the effort—but it didn't bother him. He liked the sensation, though he preferred him without clothes.

The team returned to their base—Jean's house. They found it more practical to stay at the restaurant, especially since the alchemist preferred the tranquility of her furnaces and spices over the bureaucratic mess of the government. So, they decided a familiar and relatively safe environment was best. Khaled had set up enough protections for them to relax.

Liandre returned from a bath, and before long, they lay together in bed, kissing under the soft glow of the half-moon outside. They desired each other as time passed, growing closer. They no longer hesitated to make love, to connect. Khaled would savor every moment with Liandre before the end. The mercenary, however, clung to the illusion that they would last beyond the elf's goals—that they would stay together even after his ascension. Their dissonant, unspoken thoughts lingered in the emptiness between their lips as they kissed, trembling, delighting in each other until no fabric remained between them.

The day dawned with a sky too clear for a city wrapped in conspiracy. Vhaldaris didn't seem to realize its heart was beating on the edge of rupture. The Central Plaza of Mirrors, a symbol of diplomatic neutrality, had been chosen for the announcement. Khaled had insisted on it. It was risky ground—but all change required boldness.

Tilka was the first to position herself among the crowd gathering before the circular stage. Her sweet, enchanting voice carried an ancient song of renewal, evoking hope for fairer times. As she smiled, her eyes scanned the faces: disguised aristocrats, civilian soldiers, guild representatives... and among them, Ceita infiltrators. Her fingers brushed Khaled's magical necklace—a silent alert.

Jean, meanwhile, organized the perimeter defenses with surgical precision. Her enchanted automatons hid on rooftops, ready to release containment barriers if things spiraled out of control. Near the stage, disguised as a servant, she distributed small protection potions to allies posing as ordinary citizens. Her strategy was clear: no one would touch Khaled or Liandre while she still breathed.

And then he appeared.

Khaled walked calmly up the marble steps of the stage. A new cloak draped over him—white, with red and gold detailing, the symbols of the republic embroidered on the shoulders. The crowd murmured at the sight of him—some in silent reverence, others in suspicion.

He raised his hand.

— Citizens of Vhaldaris. — His voice, magically amplified, was clear, firm, unshakable. — We are the Red Dawn. We are the thread between the old and the new. We carry not just strength, but purpose. And today, we reveal the silent enemy among us.

With a gesture, he activated the denunciation scroll. A magical hologram formed in the air—faces, accounts, documents. Names of the Aristocratic Ceita, evidence of bribery, betrayals, and deals with foreign mercenaries. The crowd erupted in agitated murmurs. Some revolted. Others shouted the names of the guilty.

Then, the attack came.

Three hooded figures broke through the perimeter, conjuring greenish spells amid the chaos. But Khaled didn't move.

Liandre did it for him.

With a powerful leap, the warrior plunged between the casters, his flaming sword cutting through the air. The spells ricocheted off his armor, and each of his strikes was precise, brutal, necessary. He wasn't just defending a mage—he was defending the only man who trusted him beyond labels and dark pasts.

Jean activated the defenses. A curtain of mist fell over the stage, reducing visibility for the attackers, while her automatons summoned barriers isolating them from the crowd.

Tilka raised her voice above the chaos. Her song was now an ancient compulsion spell, forcing one of the Ceita members to shout names and plans before the crowd. Her performance wasn't just art—it was a political weapon.

And when it all ceased, silence fell like a sentence.

The Aristocratic Ceita had been exposed.

The shouts turned to applause. Civilian guards, once skeptical, now stood with the Red Dawn. And as the smoke of battle still lingered, Khaled descended from the stage. He walked to Liandre, still in combat stance, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

— It's done. — He smiled faintly. — Now, Vhaldaris is ours... politically.

Liandre didn't know if he could feel happy about the recent revelation. There was a bitter weight to the victory, even if Khaled's plan was bearing the intended fruit. Tilka, ever the bard, didn't waste the opportunity—she delivered an impassioned speech among the citizens, speaking of ancient betrayals, shattered loves, and the dawn of a new era. Of how old myths faded to make way for Elderim's true history—a history rewritten by new heroes.

And then, the sky opened.

Khaled took flight under the stunned gaze of the crowd. His cloak billowed, dyed in the republic's colors: red, gold, and white. It was an imposing sight, almost divine. He flew to the central square, where the statues of his former companions from the legendary monarchist team stood—a tribute to the old order, revered for grand deeds but also for memories that needed to be laid to rest.

The mage stopped before them. Stone faces that had once been his allies. Each sculpture carved in white marble, with aged bronze details, polished granite bases, and hammered silver adornments—all resisting time as symbols of an era that, for him, had ended in blood and silence.

With a firm gesture, Khaled extended his hand. From his palm erupted the violet chalice of magic—a dense, pulsating flow of uncontested arcane force. The spell struck the statues with absolute precision. In seconds, the marble shattered into glowing shards, the bronze melted into dark rivulets, the granite exploded into dust, and the silver vaporized into luminous mist.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Khaled landed softly before the empty space. Where reverence for the past had once stood, there was only dust. A clear symbol: the republic would no longer walk under the shadow of kings or dead legends.

And in the heart of the square, the Red Dawn had been etched forever—not just in political records, but in the imagination of the people.

Applause echoed through the square like a wave—enthusiastic, innocent. Most of the people didn't fully grasp the symbolic weight of what Khaled had just done. To them, it was the birth of a new era, the triumph of a team that would now protect them—the Red Dawn—and the mage who hovered above them all like a beacon of power and hope.

But behind that grand gesture lay a calculated rupture. Khaled had erased the heroic images of his former companions, condemning them to oblivion with the same coldness with which he had been betrayed. Ostracism was now their symbolic grave—no epitaph, no worthy remembrance. Just dust and silence.

With this, he reclaimed what had been unjustly taken from him in history: the role of protagonist. Now, he rose again as the archetype of a new world—not a king, but a guide; not a tyrant, but a herald of a different time.

In the square, Tilka smiled as she led the chorus of a revolutionary song, set to ancient rhythms. Jean watched silently, arms crossed, her expression ambiguous. And Liandre, standing firm beside the people, saw in Khaled something even he couldn't name—greatness or ruin.

In the air echoed the old civil war mottos, now renewed as sacred vows:

"Liberty. Equality. Fraternity."

Words once shouted in trenches, whispered by conspirators, and written in blood on the walls of the old capital. Words now reborn as the republic's banner—with Khaled as its new symbol: feared by some, loved by others, but impossible to ignore.

In the days following the destruction of the statues, the city of Vhaldaris was swept by a feverish wave of rumors, debates, and headlines. Republican newspapers, independent pamphlets, and even small handwritten bulletins distributed on street corners splashed their front pages with shimmering magical images of the scene: Khaled in the sky, imposing, the purple lightning devouring stone, bronze, marble, and gold, reducing the old icons to dust before the ecstatic crowd.

The presses of The House of the Free Voice, the republic's official newspaper, blared the headline:

"RED DAWN: ELDERIM'S NEW HEROES USHER IN THE AGE OF LIGHT"

Meanwhile, the popular Mouth of the District, the Iron District's paper, ran a more dramatic banner:

"THE MAGE OF THE END RALLIES THE PEOPLE – Khaled Erases the Past and Rekindles Hope"

In the Gardens of Repose, where the decaying elite and former aristocrats now lived in uneasy silence, the gesture was met with unease. Here, whispers spread quickly: "He erased history," "He rewrites memory," "He takes revenge under the guise of justice." Behind beautiful facades, tense meetings unfolded between old names, speculating about possible exiles, alliances, and quiet countermeasures.

In the Pleasure Districts, a multicultural and working-class stronghold, the event was celebrated with songs, magical fireworks, and music. Children painted the faces of the Red Dawn on walls; the name Liandre Arthuro was repeated among young sword apprentices with a mix of curiosity and admiration. To them, he represented overcoming one's own blood. Jean was called "the wise protector," while Tilka became "the voice of the new age," her melodies echoing through taverns and alleys like an unofficial anthem of change.

In council meetings, republican ministers cited the newfound political stability:

"The people are united. The symbolic gesture worked. For the first time in decades, the districts speak the same language: trust."

In the halls of the Cloud Castle, where Vhaldaris' civil leadership convened, the names of the Red Dawn were whispered with reverence—and, in certain circles, caution. After all, a new symbol born from ruins always carries the spark of unpredictability.

The Council understood perfectly the political weight of electing republican heroes. They all consented, aware that they needed a symbol—something that embodied strength, grandeur, and hope to hold the new order together. Yet, a silent fear lingered among the more experienced members: Khaled's power.

No matter how aligned his actions had been with the Republic's ideals thus far, it was impossible to ignore the ease with which he wielded ancient magics and arcane forces beyond common comprehension. In their thoughts, the same unsettling whisper repeated: "If this mage ever turns against us... what could we possibly do, with the little power we have left?"

In the Hall of Marks, a restored building now home to radical young politicians, pamphlets circulated condemning the concentration of power in single figures:

"We did not fight for a new king in gilded robes and sweet promises. We fought for a free people. And no one—not even a mage from the ancient past—can be greater than the will of the gods."

The words spread, igniting debates. Some shouted in the squares, others murmured in the shadows, but all carried the same unease: What if the symbol of hope became the next tyrant?

— There's a group of religious figures unhappy with the refusal to acknowledge the gods. — Adreele tossed a few letters onto the table. — Public opinion is undoubtedly favorable, but there's a conservative faction, even among the civil servants, demanding that you make vows of devotion to the divine—proof that you're not against the aspects protecting our republic.

— Our team will not make ecumenical vows. Since they're the minority, it doesn't matter. As long as we keep acting for the kingdom, they'll relent. — Khaled ignored the letters and protests. Truthfully, he wanted to head south as soon as possible. He had no desire to stay in Vhaldaris any longer—they'd already been there two months, and they'd have to stay longer if not for Adreele's investment in the local press and the city's official newspaper, ensuring their voices reached every corner of Elderim. But they still needed to prove the Red Dawn wasn't just a government product—but the true anchor keeping the Republic strong.

— You mentioned insurgent groups in the south, didn't you? We'll head there as soon as possible. Make the official announcement and let everyone know what we're doing. — Khaled needed to see his sister and retrieve the third fragment. Only three would remain. Not that he wanted to rush his own ascension, but he needed his full power if he was to face his former team.

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— No... please... We're friends, aren't we? Why would you do this to a friend? — Yandur's desperate voice cut through the silence of the abandoned crypt like a rusted blade. It was a sincere lament, a plea from the depths of a broken soul.

The blue-skinned drow, his once-sly eyes now weary, his body frail, had once been the agile rogue who slipped through the city's sewers like a whisper in the dark. "Sewer rat," they called him. A hunter of jewels and secrets. But it was with Khaled and the others that he found a greater purpose. He earned his redemption by traversing the halls of a dungeon guarded by a bone-and-shadow dragon. And in that impossible mission, his loyalty forged an unbreakable bond.

Over the centuries, he tried to leave his old habits behind. Never completely. But he wasn't the same anymore. He was aged, worn down, his fingers hidden beneath thick gloves that concealed his curse: everything he touched withered. He lived under the constant care of an attendant, someone who could help him exist without harming. His hope was to spend his final days in peace, traveling by train along coastal cities, feeling the sea breeze on his tired bones.

But the curse was persistent, and now, crueler than ever, it was the ghosts of the past who came for him.

Gilgrim, Randyr, and Laurent—old faces, distorted by decades and betrayal—had returned. And not to save.

— It's for the greater good, Yandur. You know Khaled has returned. — Gilgrim stepped forward, his voice hard as granite. — We must stop him. You carry a fragment. He would kill you for it regardless.

Yandur gasped, his eyes wet. His trembling voice rose from the crypt's shadows.

— Khaled was the only one... the only one who truly saw me. He called for me when all of you denied me. I remember it clearly! You said I'd steal the gold, that I was just another rat. But he... he saw beyond. He was the one who made you accept me, who put me on the hardest, most dangerous missions. And now... you want me to believe that...

He didn't get to finish.

Randyr, with merciless precision, stepped forward and, with a single swing, silenced the old rogue's voice. His head fell, glassy eyes still fixed on the bloody edge of the axe, as if witnessing his own ruin until the last moment.

Laurent averted his gaze in silence. There was nothing to say. Only the sound of tense breathing filled the heavy air. Gilgrim knelt with surgical precision and retrieved the shimmering fragment from the body—pure condensed energy, pulsing with contained fury. He stored it carefully. If Khaled wanted to complete his essence, he would have to face them. And he would be sealed away once more.

Randyr still gripped his weapon. His hand trembled faintly. The orc knelt and muttered a short, nearly inaudible prayer. Despite his impassive expression, something was broken there. A crack in the steel of his faith.

But there was no room for regret. They had a mission to fulfill.