Capítulo XVII - Here rests the elven beauty.

Khaled didn't know it right away. But he felt it. A faint emptiness, like a dissonant note within his own soul, the tearing away of something that still pulsed in some distant place. The fragments were connected to him by invisible threads, and even though the pact with Liandre ensured his freedom, the loss of one piece affected him. He fell silent for a moment on the balcony of the Assembly Solar, where he was discussing an alliance with the representatives of the Vhaldaris mercantile guild, and looked up at the sky with narrowed eyes.

— Did you feel that? — murmured Jean, appearing behind him, her voice wrapped in smoke from a still-burning vial. The alchemist's sensitivity still amazed him, but he nodded.

— Yes. A fragment... was torn away. — he answered with firm lips. There was no doubt. Khaled closed his eyes for a few moments, beginning to conjure something beyond the imagination of any arcane master of that age. To go beyond ordinary sight, glimpsing the mist. A remnant of his former group, killing a friend: Yundur. He felt the visceral pain. Not for losing the fragment — it couldn't be distorted even by the insufficient gods — but for the life cruelly taken. How far would they go for this? He took a deep breath. Two remained. They would go after Nádia and someone else whose identity he didn't yet know. He had to reach his sister first.

At Khaled's request, Tilka began spreading rumors in taverns and every possible corner of Vhaldaris: "Yundur, the blue rogue, was murdered. By former heroes. Former companions of Khaled." It was no secret that Gilgrim and the others were moving in the shadows. Their presence had been recorded in southern ports. They walked as if they were still the saviors of the world — but now they sealed old allies with axes and divine justifications. The battle would not only be physical, but also a game of narratives, and for now, the mage held the advantage. He wanted to ignite the world with the fire burning in his chest. To have his former companions fall into disrepute. His revenge wouldn't be just arcane — he would bury their names in the complete silence of the ages.

— They're hunting the fragments, one by one, — Tilka said, arms crossed, watching Khaled with attentive eyes. — And they've convinced themselves they're right. Faith... is sometimes the sweetest poison.

The bard, aware of what the mage wanted, no longer cared to hide the game. Even though Jean still had doubts, she was sharp enough to deduce. So, the mage had a small group who knew his most intimate secrets. But it was the mercenary who knew him more deeply than the two.

Liandre crushed a goblet in his hand when he heard. The mercenary had never met Yundur, but seeing the contained sorrow in the mage's eyes was enough. For the first time since the beginning of the journey, he understood what Khaled carried with him: not just power, but losses the world tried to erase.

— So they've started a war, — Jean said with a calm that was almost frightening. — The only question now is how much we're willing to burn.

Khaled didn't reply. He just walked over to the map table, observing the red-inked marks: places they needed to go, where the old aristocracy tried to reassert itself. He circled one point in particular, where he could feel his sister was. He didn't know what state Nádia would be in, but he wanted to see her as soon as possible.

And at the heart of the map, the name Tilka had written as a joke took on new weight:

The Red Dawn.

— This is... — Tilka softly furrowed her brow. — Oh man, this is going to be amazing. It's a pirate island called Tough Shell.

Liandre frowned, but not with the same mischievous excitement as his small companion — his expression held real distrust. A pirate island? It had to be a bad joke. That was the kind of place where vulgar criminals reigned, where morals and ethics were just empty words whispered between drunken laughter. For an ordinary citizen, it was the end of the world; for someone who wanted to hide, the perfect beginning.

If someone wanted to smuggle weapons, negotiate in silence, or form alliances far from the Republic's eyes, that was the place. And now, with the remaining aristocracy slipping through the regime's cracks like hungry snakes, it seemed more than coincidence that it was Khaled's next destination.

Liandre's muscles tensed.

Adreele had already taken steps regarding the next strike point. The council remained unyielding: any attempt to reestablish the old monarchs had to be suffocated before it could take root. Among the most urgent threats were the clandestine transport of weapons, unregistered artifacts, and stolen magical scrolls — relics of power that could spark revolts if they fell into the wrong hands.

— Since we don't have mages available to perform a precise teleportation, — Adreele began, her usual firmness wrapped in a calm voice — and it would be reckless to rely on chance in this vast world, the most sensible option is for you to use our fastest aerial vehicle.

She gestured, guiding the group through a corridor of pale stone that opened into a large external courtyard, protected by enchanted metal bars. There rested the aircraft destined for the mission: a dirigible with austere contours, as silent as it was threatening.

Its hull was made of opaque metal, tinged in shades of matte gray and pale ivory, designed not to reflect light or draw attention in the skies. The design lines were elegant but robust, as if proclaiming that the machine could withstand both the fury of storms and the heat of battle. Around the main structure, reinforced rings supported enchanted propellers, inscribed with runes of wind and concealment. No crest, no name. Just the discreet mark of the Republic under the cabin's lower side, almost invisible.

— This model is used only in missions of the highest importance, — said Adreele. — It's fast, silent, and impossible to track by untrained eyes. Your presence must remain unnoticed... for now.

Her gaze rested for a moment on Khaled, then on Tilka, Jean, and Liandre, as if she wanted to memorize that formation before throwing them into the unknown. They knew this journey wasn't just about crossing distances — it was about tearing through veils of conspiracy.

Liandre's stomach was already turning even before stepping onto the metal staircase. The constant hum of the dirigible vibrated in the air like a warning — a bitter reminder of the last time he flew in a machine like that. It had been a disastrous experience, one he preferred to bury among other memories he carried like scars. He hated flying. Hated the feeling of not having his feet on the ground, the smell of heated metal, the uncertain swaying. It was like handing over control of his life to unseen forces — and for someone like him, that was unbearable.

Tilka, on the other hand, seemed ready to burst with excitement. She climbed the steps like she was dancing, tossing out enthusiastic remarks about panoramic windows, wind in her hair, and wine at sunset among the clouds. Her eyes sparkled more than the light crystals discreetly lining the entrance to the cabin. For her, this adventure was a stage — quite literally.

Jean, always composed, kept her face calm, but those who knew her well could spot the signs: fingers slightly trembling with anticipation, her gaze drifting over the fuselage, as if she were already flying on her own. Floating came naturally to her, a magical habit embedded in her daily life. Cooking without touching the floor, gliding from room to room with ghostly lightness... now she would touch the sky in something grander, and that silently thrilled her.

Khaled, meanwhile, observed the machine like someone admiring a forgotten masterpiece. There was a spark of silent, almost reverent admiration in his eyes. That sleek hull, the muffled hum of the enchanted engine, the almost invisible runes on the propellers... everything seemed to speak to him of power, order, and ascension. It was like witnessing the spirit of the new Republic take metallic form. Imposing. Ambitious. Promising. The mage absorbed every detail, reflecting on his role in this ever-turning mechanism.

Lastly came the mercenary, grumbling under his breath, a step behind the others. He climbed the stairs like walking to the gallows. But he wouldn't stay behind. He never did. Even nauseated, even irritated, Liandre was, above all, steady. And as always, he was ready to protect those ahead of him — even when everything around seemed ready to fall from the sky.

Slicing through the skies in a dirigible was undoubtedly a gift for those who knew how to appreciate the world's lightness from above. But not for Liandre. Curled up in his cabin — narrow, stuffy, almost suffocating — he tried to stave off nausea with thoughts just as heavy. His clothes now were simple, practical, lacking the adornments he used to wear in the Republic's gleaming halls. A reflection of his discomfort, both physical and emotional.

Sitting on the edge of the hard bed, he stared at the family ring spinning between his fingers. That small jewel carried more than legacy: it held memory, guilt, longing. Linette. Where was she now? What was she doing? Did she think of him? Was she even alive?

These questions repeated like a twisted prayer, a murmur trapped in his mind. The urge to find her grew stronger each day, but he had sworn to himself he would only begin the search after ridding himself of the curse. After all, what could he offer her in this condition? What kind of reunion would it be if he was still cursed, marked, broken? Maybe, if his name echoed loudly enough through the winds and villages, she would find him herself. Maybe...

But what if she doesn't forgive me? What if she's forgotten me? What if she's not even in this world anymore?

Dangerous thoughts. Painful. Real.

He lay down slowly, the uncomfortable bed creaking under his weight. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find comfort in the gentle sway of the aircraft — even that tremor, which usually disturbed him, began to feel like a caress.

— Could be worse... — he whispered to himself.

That's when he heard the knock on the door. Soft, but firm. He recognized the voice instantly.

— Liandre?

He sat up immediately, heart jumping before the body obeyed.

— Come in, — he answered, already expecting the familiar figure.

Khaled entered, his long hair tousled by the cutting wind whistling outside. His cloak swayed slightly with the change in pressure, and his eyes — always serene, yet alert — lingered on his friend.

— Don't you want to eat something? Or at least look at the view? It's... pretty nice, even for a skeptic like you, — he tried, with a half-smile.

Liandre wrinkled his nose, leaning back on his elbows, still on the bed.

— No, thanks. Just thinking about how far we are from the ground... makes me queasy. — He shuddered at the thought, gaze lost for a second.

Khaled crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. He watched his friend with that characteristic silence, as if reading him from the inside. He didn't speak right away — and maybe that was what made his presence so hard to ignore.

— Oh, who would've thought? A big, burly warrior, feared on the battlefield... afraid of heights? — Khaled teased with a sideways smile, throwing himself beside Liandre without asking permission, as he often did when he wanted to invade his space with a hint of intimacy. — But it doesn't seem like that's the only thing bothering you. What's wrong?

Liandre let out a hoarse sigh, eyes fixed on some distant point on the metallic wall.

— Nothing... just... Linette will see the news, inevitably. And I have no idea how she'd react. Or if she's even alive. — His voice carried a quiet bitterness, a familiar weight for someone who had learned to live with absence.

Khaled didn't reply immediately. He just leaned back more comfortably, staring at the curved ceiling of the cabin as his breath deepened.

— I can locate her, — he said at last, in a low tone, like revealing a secret held too long. — I've been meaning to tell you for days... but didn't know if I should. If you have something that belonged to her — a jewel, a letter, even a strand of hair — I can find her. I can discover where she is. And if you want... we can go to her.

The silence that followed was heavy and full of meaning. Khaled leaned his body against Liandre's, letting the warmth between them speak what words still couldn't.

Liandre froze for a moment, his mind struggling to keep up with the whirlwind of feelings that had taken him by storm. The weight of the news hit him like thunder, followed by a tempest of emotions. Fear. Anxiety. Hope. A spark of happiness so rare it hurt.

He turned suddenly, eyes wide, hands instinctively going to Khaled's shoulders. He gripped him firmly, as if he were his anchor.

— Yes! Of course, yes... — he exclaimed, his voice choked, almost breathless. — But... not now. Not yet. After the island, okay? After we get the next fragment, maybe we'll have some free time... for this. — The words came out so fast he wondered if they had even been understood.

Khaled didn't laugh, didn't joke. He merely nodded, a faint glow in his eyes, content to see the spark reignited in his friend.

— Of course — he replied, gently. — When you're ready.

And for the first time since they had departed, Liandre felt something lighter than nausea and the fear of falling: a flicker of anticipation.

Saying that Liandre had grown accustomed to the pace of the airship might have been a gentle exaggeration, but not entirely false. Over the days aboard that metallic colossus, he began to appreciate — at least a little — the vastness of the landscape below. The sky shifted colors like a watercolor in motion, and the wind, entering through small openings or carried in by strategic stops, brought various scents: salty sea breeze, smoke from industrial cities, lavender from distant fields, and sometimes the dry stench of urban dust.

Their journey took them from the heart of Elderim to the far south of the country. And now, after nearly a week slicing through clouds, they could finally glimpse their destination on the horizon: the infamous Casca Grossa Island.

Rising from murky waters like a clenched fist, the island was immense — a rocky mass surrounded by docks, black-hulled ships, crude cranes, and structures built with ingenious improvisation. Seen from afar, Casca Grossa looked like a breathing metallic body — pipes belching steam, lazy-spinning propellers, elevated rails weaving through rusted iron buildings and dark wood, with mechanical cranes stretching toward the sea like iron arms reaching for cargo.

It was a place where metal met the old pirate tales. The streets, made of repurposed planks, creaked beneath worn boots and mechanical wheels. Barrels of rum and rusty gears coexisted in taverns. Improvised structures stacked atop one another created vertical neighborhoods — some accessible only by manual lifts, others by ropes and hanging ladders.

In the dark alleys or the steaming squares, anything could be found. Most of the population was human, rough and weathered, with wary eyes and hands always near weapons. But there were many goblins, masters at adapting junk into explosive gadgets, and kobolds, small cunning creatures skilled in espionage and smuggling. Others appeared in smaller numbers — exiled dwarves, tieflings of uncertain past, and even a few sea-dwelling tritons who came to trade submerged artifacts.

Casca Grossa followed neither the republic's nor the aristocracy's laws. It was a free territory, ruled by its own codes: the strongest survive, the clever thrive. Every alley held a secret, every tavern housed a spy, and every corner could be the start of a fortune or the end of a life.

— We've arrived — murmured Khaled, leaning on the edge of the deck, his eyes fixed on the smoke rising from the island like a harbinger of chaos.

Liandre only nodded, feeling the adrenaline stir in his stomach. It wasn't nausea now. It was the scent of the coming battle.

They anchored in the city's port and made their way to the island in a small boat, their bodies rocking to the lazy rhythm of the salty waters. They wore simple clothes, covered by rough fabric cloaks, and fake chains on their wrists — the perfect disguise to move among mercenaries and pirates unnoticed. Khaled, ever cautious, had reduced his magical presence to a minimum, sealing part of his power with a silent ritual. Still, the fragment pulsed, as if it longed to be found. Nádia. It was all he could think about. His heart weighed in his chest at the thought of his sister in a place like this — the most dangerous island in all southern Elderim.

Why did you come here, Nádia? The question repeated like a dark mantra as the pungent, oily odor of Casca Grossa began to suffocate them before they had even docked.

— Remember — said Khaled, transmitting the message mentally, his voice echoing calmly and firmly in all their minds. — Speak only through thought. Liandre and I have an urgent commitment. Tilka, Jean... you two will go after the aristocrats who call themselves "Return to the Old World."

That name had come up in the documents recovered at the theater — a group of exiled nobles seeking to restore royal times, using Casca Grossa as a base to smuggle weapons and forbidden artifacts. Their goal was clear: dismantle that clandestine network before something bigger could emerge.

Tilka and Jean nodded seriously. They were already aware of the fragment hidden on the island, but for now, their roles were different. Tilka, in her natural environment, was already smirking at the corner of her mouth, ready to use her sharp wit and almost supernatural perception to extract information in taverns and alleys. Jean, meanwhile, walked with lowered eyes, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest at being surrounded by so many strangers — crowds had never been her strong suit.

As they moved toward the commercial heart of Casca Grossa, Khaled and Liandre took a different path, leaving behind the bustling alleys and betting houses, heading to the rocky and remote shore of the island, where abandoned ports formed a necklace of ruins forgotten by time.

Anchored like a sleeping colossus lay the ship.

An ancient vessel, clearly deactivated for decades, maybe even centuries. Its metallic hull, stained with rust and moss, was partially fused to the rocks of a coastal mountain. Part of its upper structure had collapsed, allowing branches and roots to infiltrate the cracks. Creeping plants grew along the deck's edges, and vines hung from the old watchtowers like wild hair. The once-treated wood now rotted slowly under the weight of sea air and time.

The ship, though motionless, retained an air of majesty. It was as if it were asleep, awaiting an ancestral call. The cabin windows reflected the greenish light of the cloud-covered sky, and the wind whistled through the openings like the lament of ghosts.

— Is this the place? — murmured Liandre mentally, his eyes fixed on the forgotten monstrosity.

Khaled nodded, solemn.

— This is where the fragment pulses strongest. This is where Nádia is.

— Do you want me to go with you? — asked Liandre in a low but steady voice, even though the words were transmitted only through the mental link they maintained. There was sincerity in his offer — he knew Khaled would face something delicate and was worried about the mage. But there was also respect: if the elf wanted to be alone, he wouldn't insist.

Khaled stopped. His golden eyes, for a moment, no longer reflected their usual glow — they were dull, clouded by a burden he couldn't share. His soul seemed to tremble under the weight of the decision he carried. To kill Nádia. To kill his own sister to obtain a fragment of power.

No. Liandre couldn't witness that. He couldn't see the ugliness of what he was about to do.

The mage simply shook his head gently, then, in silence, approached Liandre and placed a hand on his arm. A light, intimate touch, full of everything he couldn't say. Then he turned and walked alone toward the old ship.

The interior of the vessel was damp — too damp — as if it rained there endlessly even with the roof intact. The boards creaked beneath his feet, and the smell of rust and rotting dew invaded his lungs. The magic there was dense. Ancient. Sad.

Nádia lay on a wooden bed adorned with moss, like an improvised altar. Her body serene, untouched by time. She wore a gray linen dress, simple yet elegant, and a silk elven scarf covered her eyes — noble, ancestral fabric that protected those who slept the deep sleep. Her olive skin had the same glow as when she was young. Her dark hair rested around her head like a halo of living ink.

She looked like a porcelain doll at rest. Untouchable. Unreal.

Khaled approached as one walks toward a grave. He felt his heart tremble, his body begging to retreat. She slept the elven sleep? So soon? His sister... always so full of life... full of light. What had happened?

He slowly raised his hand, fingers outstretched, about to touch her cold skin. But then—

— So, you really came. My mother said you would.

The voice sliced through the silence like an arrow.

Khaled turned with a start, heart pounding. He hadn't heard footsteps. Hadn't sensed magic. Nothing.

A young man had jumped in front of him, light as the wind and silent as a shadow. Half-elf. Skin bronzed like copper, amber eyes glowing with restrained fury. He wore simple clothes and wielded two daggers with a dim sheen, but the movement of his arms was agile and precise.

— To take her life as if it meant nothing — the boy murmured, eyes locked onto Khaled's.

The mage froze for a moment. Her son? he thought, stunned.

The boy's words struck like a blow. The venom of a truth he had tried to ignore. Yes. He was there for that. To kill her.

But it wasn't simple. It had never been.

Khaled took a step back, not raising his hands, trying to hold back the emotion boiling inside. The floor beneath his feet felt unstable. The creaking of the wood.

The boy spun the daggers in his fingers, ready to attack. The tension in the air was sharp, heavy, on the verge of exploding.

— I didn't come to kill her out of cruelty — Khaled finally murmured. His voice was a hoarse whisper, choked. — I came because I had to. You wouldn't understand that...

— Liar! — The boy stepped forward, his eyes ablaze. — My mother was always good. Even blind, even cursed. She tried for so long... for someone who in the end just wanted to take her life.

— She was — Khaled replied, sorrow in his eyes. — But what's inside her. It's inevitable and necessary for a greater good.

— How many times did you repeat those words to convince yourself? — The boy vanished before his eyes like a sudden bolt of lightning, his impressive speed overwhelming Khaled's most vital senses.