The afternoon in Belvart had a strange, artificial beauty. Because the city was carved into the mountain, the "sky" was a vaulted ceiling of stone, but the dwarves had embedded thousands of glow-crystals that mimicked the movement of the sun outside. As the trio—Sheng, Arthor, and Elvric—walked the upper tiers, the crystals shifted into a deep, warm amber, signaling the approach of evening.
They found themselves on the "Balcony of Kings," a massive stone overlook that jutted out from the mountainside. Below them, a sea of white mist swirled, hiding the world they had left behind.
"It's breathtaking," Arthor said, leaning his heavy forearms against the railing. He looked at Sheng, his expression softening. "See? This is what we came for. Not rumors, not wars. Just the view from the top of the world."
Sheng tried to nod, but his heart wasn't in it. Every time a group of tourists passed, he heard his name. He heard the word Sylvia. He heard the snickers of the younger elves. He felt like a statue in a museum—something to be looked at and whispered about.
"I can't enjoy the view when I'm the view, Arthor," Sheng whispered.
Elvric was about to offer one of his trademark witty rebuttals when the air in the city changed. It wasn't a sound at first, but a vibration—a deep, low hum that rattled the teeth.
CLANG.
The first strike of the Great Bell of Belvart was so loud it felt like a physical blow. The trio spun around, their combat instincts screaming.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
"That's the alarm for the outer gates," Arthor said, his voice dropping an octave into his commander tone. "That's not a fire drill. That's an assault."
Suddenly, the bustling, peaceful scene of the city vanished. The merchants began slamming their iron shutters. The laughter was replaced by the frantic shouting of guards. A voice, amplified by dwarven magic, boomed through the caverns: "THE WESTERN PASS IS BREACHED! ALL ABLE-BODIED WARRIORS TO THE RAMPARTS!"
"Richard is still at the training grounds," Sheng said, his hand already on his daggers. "And Orthox..."
"Orthox is already running," Elvric noted, pointing down toward the lower tiers.
They saw the dwarf sprinting toward the gatehouse, his double-headed axe gleaming in the amber light. He didn't look back. This was his home. There was no question of him leaving.
The trio began to move, but as they reached the stairs leading to the gates, Arthor stopped. He looked at Sheng, then at the crowds of guards and frantic civilians.
"Sheng," Arthor said firmly. "We have to leave."
"Leave?" Sheng asked, shocked. "They're under attack! We have to help were warriors,fighters and you Arthor your a knight if we join! We can turn the tide!"
"No," Arthor said, his eyes filled with a painful kind of wisdom. "If the 'Shadow of the War' is seen fighting here, the rumors won't just stay rumors. They'll say you brought the attack with you. They'll say you attacked the city because you were rejected. If we stay, we make your disaster a catastrophe. We help them best by disappearing."
Sheng looked down at the gates. He saw Richard joining the line of swordsmen, his longsword drawn, looking serious like as if for the first time in his life. He saw Orthox taking his place beside the gate captains.
"They're our friends," Sheng hissed, his loyalty warring with his logic.
"And they are home," Elvric added softly, placing a hand on Sheng's shoulder. "They'll hold the line. They want us to get you out of here before the Elven Houses use this chaos to arrest you for 'inciting' the trouble. Come on let's go. Before the gates are sealed for good."
It was the hardest decision Sheng had ever made. He watched as the two groups—the defenders of the city and the heroes of the war—separated. With a heavy heart, the trio turned their horses and rode for the secret emergency tunnels, leaving the sounds of clashing steel and dwarven war-cries behind them.