They followed Hrodgar in silence, walking the inner corridor of the Second Holy Wall.
Ancient stone glimmered with the soft light of old moon-silver, and each footstep echoed like a knock upon… sleeping history.
This wall—lower than the outer rampart, yet thick as the will of those who raised it—breathed with purpose.
Runes of warding traced its surface, fine and pale as the sigh of long-dead scholars.
Far below, Astra bustled like a festival of magic: silver-roofed homes, drifting Ether gardens, portals blooming and fading like fireflies.
Within, towers of learning rose among floating stones, slow as dream-fish swimming in quiet air.
Astra: meticulous, sacred, alive within perfect order.
"Follow this way," Hrodgar rumbled, voice like wind asleep in an ancient spire.
"North-west… the shadow-folk stir. They seldom welcome guests."
Lucen swallowed, leaning to whisper to Elior,
"Shadow-folk? Sounds like one of those tours where the guide forgets to mention it's one-way."
Alice shot him a look—yet even she dared not speak too loudly here.
A spiral stair appeared, as though mist had turned to stone. Cold air slid downward with every step, raising the hairs on their necks.
"We… we aren't going that far, are we?" Lucen stammered as they emerged into the open wind.
Hrodgar laid a hand—broad as a shield—upon the stone wall.
The runes shimmered, waking like the pulse of Astra itself.
"This place is compressed," he murmured.
"When they built it, giants offered their wisdom freely. Now… none remember how."
Not pride.
A quiet grief for a vanished age.
From where they stood, the world unfolded:
To the left—valleys of shadow, houses sharp as horns, purple flame flickering like watchful eyes: the Demonfolk.
To the right—crystal spires suspended in air, temples like wings, trees of light taking root in sky: the Celestial Academy of the Aelves.
And between them—Astra, calm and pale as a moon ordained between two destinies.
"Light and shadow," Hrodgar murmured,
"are never parted for long."
He tapped his sword against stone.
A sound old as drums of creation.
Steel flowed; metal unfurled.
The great-blade blossomed into a runed silver skiff—not a weapon, but memory of war reshaped for peace.
Lucen's jaw dropped.
"If they sold miniature versions, every wand-shop would go bankrupt."
"Should not be sold," Hrodgar replied.
"It once severed three stars."
No one knew if he jested. That made it worse.
The skiff glided forth. No lurch, no tremor.
As if the sky itself bowed aside.
They landed upon the First Holy Wall—outermost rampart:
Eighty meters high, white-gold stone scored by runic scars like wounds of history.
Each sigil blinked faintly, as though one hundred and eight knight-spirits still marched the battlements.
The wind here was heavy—not cold, but weighed with ancient vows.
A lone watchtower rose, worn and moss-crowned, standing like a sentinel memory forgotten by time.
"My home," Hrodgar said simply.
Inside was warmth and age: blue Ether-lamps, dust-laden maps, armor hanging like slumbering sentries.
A plate of honeycakes waited on the table.
Lucen lit up.
"A legend who bakes!"
"I buy them," Hrodgar replied as a chair groaned beneath him.
"Once, I made my own. But no one remained to taste them. So I stopped."
The words fell like heavy snow.
"Once, one hundred and eight watched here," he murmured, holding his cup.
"Then machines came. Then time changed. Oaths became lullabies."
He laughed softly—like a sword laid upon a friend's grave.
"They call me relic. Clinging to glory. Refusing the modern world.
But walls require eyes. And I… still have eyes."
Silence grew thick.
Elior felt a loneliness vast and gentle as an old dragon watching over a world that no longer remembered his name.
Suddenly, Hrodgar rose.
"Come. More drink."
"No!" the three cried at once.
"…Where?" Lucen whispered.
"Red-Shade Street," Hrodgar said, as if stating the weather.
"Demon spirits—strongest in six realms."
A black cloak fell over them, cold as grave-mist, snuffing out their Ether signatures.
Elior felt himself… vanish.
"Fear not," Hrodgar said, opening a passage of stone and dark.
"I once drank with the mountain-splitters. A peaceful night will not kill us."
"And if it isn't peaceful?" Lucen squeaked.
Hrodgar smiled—a smile that knew too many battlefields.
"We shall find out."
Black mist curled.
Metallic laughter echoed.
Smoke and scorched liquor scented the air.
"Welcome," Hrodgar breathed, hand upon the sword's spine like waking a vow,
"to the streets forgotten by light."