"Hey... wake up..." An old woman, dressed in a modest yet climate-adaptive garment, gently called out. Her clothes weren't warm, but they weren't cold either—made from a specially modified fabric to regulate temperature according to weather and climate. "You had another nightmare, didn't you, dear?"
His eyes barely opened, heavy with sleep. The young man struggled even to move his lips, as if every muscle was weighed down by exhaustion. In the end, he drifted back to sleep without reacting more than a flutter of his eyelids.
The old woman just smiled and gently stroked his head, like lulling a baby back to sleep.
"Is he still having that nightmare?" asked a 55-year-old man from the doorway, standing shirtless in black shorts.
"Yes," Alia Aerial replied. "Go back to sleep. Love. I'll stay with him a little longer."
The man paused, watching her for a moment. Then he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his head against her back. Alia tensed slightly from surprise.
"Then I'll sleep like this," Peter Aerial said.
Alia smiled gently, playfully tapping his hand. "Don't be such a child, Peter. I'll join you soon, after a while."
But Peter just shook his head. "It's too cold tonight to sleep alone."
Hearing that, Alia only offered a small smile. Of course she understood. A man who just returned from a two-week expedition would naturally long for his wife. But still...
"Put your shirt on, Peter. If you're cold."
Peter didn't answer. He just smiled widely, showing his teeth, ignoring the playful scolding. Slowly, he closed his eyes, letting his body relax.
That night had already slipped into dawn. From every building in Asterra City, a traditional melody gently played—soft music that filled the silence with a familiar calm. The city felt quiet, but not empty. In its simplicity, it was romantic. Peter let himself melt into the moment, soaking in the atmosphere he'd longed for during his expedition.
After a few peaceful minutes, Alia whispered a suggestion to return to bed. They left the young man still fast asleep.
When morning came, the sun slowly rose over Asterra City. While it might not match the grandeur of Capital Newland with all its technological marvels, Asterra held a quiet beauty in every corner. Though not vast, the city housed millions—designed not for glamour, but for protection. From monsters, from fellow humans, even from the wrath of nature.
As the morning light washed over the city, Asterra looked like a painting of a newly reborn world—orderly, peaceful, carrying a fragile serenity. To some factions and nations, Asterra was the final gem of civilization. A secret garden blooming amidst ruins. Neatly arranged buildings, white-stone streets, clear fountains, and green trees that thrived within the patterns of an artificial ecosystem. Genetically engineered birds sang from branch to branch, creating the illusion that no great calamity had ever touched this land.
But anyone who looked closely would know—its beauty wasn't born of ignorance. It was a choice, a mask consciously crafted by Peter Aerial, the third Duke of Asterra. He shaped the city with the hands of both artist and guardian. The gardens were also emergency exits, the artificial lakes stored clean water, and the elegant towers were in truth sky sentries with hidden sensors.
All of it stood upon the foundation laid by his father—Arielle Aerial, the second Duke. Arielle had transformed a small settlement into the first fortress to withstand monster attacks in the year 40 E.C. And in 45 E.C., that fortress was named Asterra City and declared its independence. Peter continued that legacy, but with a different vision. Not just survival—but the resurrection of hope through beauty.
Behind the ripple of the fountains were hidden troop passages. Behind the murals of flowers on city walls were weapon generators and secret storage. Asterra didn't reject technology—they simply used it quietly, sparingly. Not to compete with Newland, but to ensure they wouldn't fall like Capital Eridu.
Asterra was a soft symphony of strength and tenderness. And Peter Aerial was its conductor.
At night, Asterra turned into a city of romance and remembrance. Every home, every small shop, every main street filled with the gentle echo of traditional melodies passed down since before the rise and fall of Capital Eridu. These weren't just songs. They were prayers wrapped in nostalgia, remembering the long history written in blood and sacrifice.
When the night peaked, the people of Asterra gathered in the central plaza. There, they released lanterns into the sky, one by one, like stars slowly rising from the earth. Each lantern carried a name, a prayer, or a wish for those who had fallen to protect the life they now enjoyed.
Among the thousands of glowing lights, there was always one lantern that was different–larger, brighter, and released before the others. That lantern was the eternal tribute to the first Duke of Asterra 'Paul Aerial'. The man who led the people out of the chaos of Capital Eridu, who fought on the frontlines against monsters when the world was unprepared to protect them. But he never lived to see the city rise as it did, for he perished to give others a chance at life.
Paul Aerial's name was never forgotten on the lips of Asterra's people. He was the unseen foundation, the first pillar that held the storm at bay. Every lantern that took to the skies that night, every song sung, was a whisper of love and honor to the father of a civilization—one who chose death so others might live.
The sky above Asterra sparkled, as if the stars themselves remembered the one who first lit them. The struggle and terror were never forgotten, passed down through generations by grandmothers and grandfathers.
Peter Aerial, the current Duke, created an annual festival—simple yet full of meaning. Every year, as the season shifted and the skies cleared, the festival would begin. There was no excessive grandeur, no blinding technology, just grounded celebration. Food bazaars run by families, and dances that told the tale of their escape from fallen Capital Eridu—of the first Duke's struggle that led to Asterra's birth.
These dances weren't just performances. They were living stories. Young dancers told tales with their bodies—of the days monsters came, of people fleeing through blood and rain, of Paul Aerial leading them with unyielding courage.
The rhythm shifted with the tale—from dark and breathless to a calm, measured beat. The finale always depicted the birth of Asterra. The dancers raised symbols of homes, lit small lanterns, and held hands, marking the dawn of something new.
For Peter, this festival wasn't mere entertainment—it was a moment to instill deep gratitude within his people. Gratitude for a life still tasted, even if it wasn't always sweet. In each step on the evening market stone, in every child's laughter as they bit into warm bread, lay seeds of awareness: the world hadn't given them much, but they still endured.
Even during the festival, though he seemed to enjoy it, Peter often silently observed his people's faces—faces once shadowed by fear, now laughing in the embrace of music and light. For him, their smiles were victories that needed no fanfare.
Because truly, Asterra wasn't built from stone and steel—but from memory, sacrifice, and undying hope. That was the meaning behind its emblem: two wings spread wide, sheltering a single star at the center.
And on the night of the festival, Asterra whispered to the world:
"We once fell. But we did not break—instead, we rose, stronger than before."
And in the city's silence, the echo of their sacrifice lived on—breathing through the wind, dwelling beneath the footsteps of its people.