For five days, Rorix moved like a wraith through thick and aged forests, craggy hills, unforgiving mountain chains, and wind-scoured mesas. As he moved, he avoided patrols, watchtowers, and outlaw settlements as soon as he sighted even the slightest hint of them. The corruption of his wedding ring into a weapon was a silent guide driving him forward—a nagging pressure in his mind that demanded answers.
The alchemical implant on his chest heated up on his fifth day in the no-man's-land. It's reacting to something. But to what?
Rorix, standing on rocky ground, looked around for anything the implant could possibly be resonating with. Finding nothing, he moved a few steps forward. The implant hummed in response: a stronger reaction.
Again, finding nothing in his immediate surroundings, he moved a few more steps forward. With each step he took, the humming grew stronger, a clear and insistent pull, prompting him to move further and further forward.
"I'm not jumping off that cliff!" Rorix chuckled, his voice swallowed by the wind.
From his vantage on a rocky outcrop, he finally saw it: a cloistered, self-contained town nestled in the shadow of a central spire. This was the source of the resonance. A thin, chemical-scented smoke curled from the spire's peak, tainting the clean mountain air.
As his gaze swept over the settlement, a new and unsettling sensation prickled at the back of his neck. It was the feeling of being watched. Not by a pair of eyes, but by something vast, dispassionate, and analytical. He must have entered its domain, and it was now aware of him.
The town's architecture looked more functional than aesthetic, made of all grey stone and supported by black iron components. High walls, unsupported by watchtowers and bearing no banners, enclosed it. The single gate was a marvel of engineering, a massive iris of interlocking metal plates, currently sealed tight.
I'm close. This must be the home of the Conclave.
But he had no hope of entering such a place through the usual means. He may possess a gift of the Conclave, but he was nothing to them but an outsider they might never recognize as one of their own. I can try to sneak in once this feeling of being watched goes away, he decided, even as the feeling of scrutiny intensified.
He descended to the ground where the town lay. He then spent hours circling its perimeter to study it, keeping to the rocks and shadows, the entire time feeling that unseen gaze tracking his every move. Eventually, realizing there was no other way in, Rorix began to move closer to the gate.
As he advanced, the alchemy in his chest and the ring on his finger, which had been in a state of quiet resonance, suddenly hummed with great intensity. It felt as if he had tripped a wire. The intimidating, pervasive sense of being watched flared, confirming his suspicions. The Conclave was no longer just observing him move; they were actively scanning his soul.
He found a secluded spot within sight of the gate and settled in to wait. A direct, hostile approach would be suicide. He needed to understand them, even a little, before a conversation was forced upon him.
Hours bled by, but the metal iris remained shut. No patrols entered or left. The only sign of life was the unending plume of smoke from the spire. This was a closed society, deeply suspicious of the outside world, and its dispassionate eye never left him.
When twilight painted the sky, a low grinding sound echoed from the gate, grabbing Rorix's attention. The interlocking plates began to retract, and the iris dilated with an engineer's precision, revealing a heavy armored transport—a carriage-like vehicle encased in black iron plates and pulled by four massive, bio-alchemically enhanced beasts. The transport bore no sigil of house or royalty, but rather, the stylized emblem of the Conclave: a retort flask interwoven with a serpent.
The transport cleared the gate and departed. Immediately, the iris began to close. It was a fleeting, suicidal opportunity. He took it anyway.
He drew on his chest's alchemy, not for a full transformation, but just enough to veil himself in shadow. His form blurred, and the sound of his movements dampened. He sprinted across the open ground.
But by conserving his power, he lacked his top speed. He reached the gate just as the final plates were about to lock, the gap no wider than his shoulders.
With the odds overwhelmingly against him, Rorix drew more mana from the depths of his being and completed his transformation into a spindly shadow being. He leapt, pouring himself through the closing gap with a silent grace.
The plates locked shut behind him with an authoritative clang as he reformed. He was finally inside. The pressure of being watched was now overwhelming, prompting Rorix to cover his face and lower his head. Feels like they're peering into every bit of my being.
The air here was sharp, a medical tang of ozone and unidentifiable substances. Rorix stood in a wide, sterile courtyard paved with perfectly fitted hexagonal stones. Imposing windowless buildings flanked him on either side, their smooth faces feeling like a thousand unblinking eyes. In front of him, at the end of the courtyard, stood the spire, its soft, subtle, purple-white glow pulsing like a slow, sleeping heart. A shiver of pure dread ran down his spine. Another sensation, perhaps a warning this time.
Rorix straightened and held the greatsword high, but not in a threatening manner. One hand held the grip, while the other was wrapped carefully around the flat of the blade.
"I come here in peace!" his voice echoed across the open space, a challenge to the oppressive silence.