He entered the city at dawn—in that moment when darkness still clings to building corners, but light already seeps through cracks. Fog wrapped half-ruined columns with the tenderness of an ancient spirit unwilling to let go of the remains of former grandeur.
Stone arches stood proudly, refusing to acknowledge defeat. Roofs had caved in, and only birds nested where melodies once sounded. A crow cawed with particular sarcasm—instead of arias, now birds croak.
Palaces of carved marble had darkened with time, like old men's faces who had seen too much. Stained glass shone with shards of someone's dream. Time is a cruel artist: it doesn't create, only distorts others' creations.
The market once pulsed with life from dawn to dusk. Now only wind whistled through empty stalls. Scholn almost felt phantom smells of cinnamon and nutmeg—it seemed another moment, and a caravan would turn the corner. But no, only dust swirled, like souls of those who once traded and died here.
Something inside clenched. From every crack in the ancient masonry, someone invisibly watched him. Maybe shadows of the past, maybe the city itself watched the intruder into its sleep.
He knew—this is Ohto. The city that chose to disappear itself. Not surrender to the conqueror, but dissolve in fog to remain free. The last act of pride or the highest manifestation of cowardice?
The city sleeps, but is not dead. In the silence lived a promise: it will awaken when the conquered raise their heads. Scholn felt it not with reason, but with skin—as if a second heart beat in his chest.
On the road, hunched figures bustled—lowly slaves dismantling white marble. Stones, witnesses of rise and fall, were carted to Kriver's capital. Building new on the bones of old—a practice as old as the world.
Shame rose to his throat. It was shameful to watch the looting of a grave. But who was he to judge? Everyone has their role in life's theater—some build, others destroy, others observe.
Scholn hurried on, fleeing his own thoughts. Fog thickened, the world seemed unstable like a dream. The city dissolved behind, leaving a bitter aftertaste and a question: what is better—to be conquered or to disappear?
Are there good answers to bad questions?
Suddenly he understood: the journey is only beginning. This city—not the end, but a door. Beyond the door something waits—truth, fate, or just another road. And the beauties he carried in his soul without knowing their names will yet reveal themselves. Not here, not now, but someday. Even if he has to pass through ruins, pain, or even death itself.
He smirked—bitterly, at himself, at this pompous thought. Spurred the horse and rode further, into the fog, where the unknown awaited him.