Azimuth materialized gradually around Elias, like a ghost city assembling itself from scattered atoms of light. Pain lanced through his skull, a pressure so intense it threatened to split his head open. Black spots danced across his vision like ash from a distant fire, and the world beneath his feet swayed with nauseating uncertainty.
His legs betrayed him. First to his knees, then forward onto his chest, face pressed against cold, wet stone. The smooth white surface resembled a single sheet of pristine snow. A new pain joined his catalog of suffering—his cheek would surely bruise from the impact, and his knees throbbed in angry protest.
His stomach twisted violently. From his position on the ground, he retched, expelling bitter bile onto the immaculate surface. As he struggled to right himself, his senses remained in chaos—up and down melded into a single disorienting concept while cardinal directions shifted like quicksilver. A piercing ring filled his ears, reminiscent of the time a Market Quarter merchant had caught him stealing and delivered a stinging blow across his face.
The disorientation ebbed slowly. The ringing faded and his headache dulled to a manageable ache that sat behind his eyes like a sullen reminder.
A peculiar scent filled his nostrils as his senses returned—one he had encountered only during the Heraclea trial. The dense salt of seawater hung in the air, almost thick enough to taste. Foghorns bellowed in the distance, calling to ships approaching the harbor. The gentle rhythm of waves provided a backdrop to the cacophony of seagull cries and the collective murmur of countless conversations.
Elias pushed himself upright, fighting the weakness that made his legs tremble beneath him. He raised his left hand, where the Mourning Coil sat dormant against his skin, radiating a gentle warmth. In his right, Sable Kiss felt unusually calm and steady in his grasp.
The Judge's words whispered through his mind: Your artifacts will become as they were meant to be at the beginning of your journey.
Something had changed. He could no longer sense the obsidian blade's emotions, and the coil around his wrist had stopped its insistent pulling. Each object seemed more mundane now, though a faint undercurrent of power still emanated from both.
He noticed something else—the bracelet given to them by High Priestess Seraphina had returned. It sat snug against his right wrist, humming with energy that tingled against his skin. The sensation intensified at several distinct points along the band. The medallion hanging around his neck also pulsed with renewed weight and energy. The medallion had been with him during the Heraclea trial but had remained dormant. Clearly, these artifacts were incompatible with the historical scenario but found purpose in this second phase.
As his vision normalized, Elias surveyed his surroundings with methodical precision. Two realizations struck him immediately—he was alone, and he stood on a pristine white road that stretched along an endless shoreline. Numerous docks of dark wood extended into the water, where vessels of every imaginable size and design were moored by thick white ropes pulled taut.
The harbor teemed with activity, ships constantly arriving and departing. Elaborate wooden vessels adorned with intricate carvings that spoke of obscene wealth shared water with utilitarian metal behemoths built for practical function. Sailors and dockworkers moved with practiced efficiency, loading and unloading cargo, while merchants negotiated loudly over manifests and schedules.
Above it all, the sky resembled a masterful painting—a tapestry of vibrant hues ranging from brilliant orange to soothing pinks and purples. Twilight was the only word that could capture the spectacle. The setting sun peeked over the horizon, a sliver of gold against the darkening sea.
The sight was awe-inspiring. Elias had never beheld anything so magnificent, not even the ostentatious splendor of the Sanctum District. An unfamiliar emotion welled in his chest—joy, pure and unadulterated. He could have remained there for hours, drinking in the beauty before him.
Yet something felt wrong about the spectacle, a subtle wrongness that nagged at his instincts. The sun seemed frozen in its position, neither rising nor setting fully, as if time itself had stopped at the perfect moment of twilight. The waves maintained an unsettling rhythm, too consistent to be natural.
He continued cataloging details with practiced efficiency. The crowd was dense and diverse, filled with people of every apparent social standing. Clothing varied widely—women with bright headbands or pastel ribbons woven through their hair; men in an assortment of hats or with nothing adorning their heads. Suits in dark navy, brown tweed, and gray wool mingled with simpler attire reminiscent of Valtaros's Market Quarter—jeans with t-shirts, robes with sashes. Conversations flowed in a constant hum, punctuated by occasional laughter or raised voices from animated negotiations.
A particularly wealthy individual caught Elias's attention—a man walking with an ebony cane capped by a golden orb, a gold chain stretching from his breast pocket to a monocle resting on his right cheek. His clothing was impeccable, every thread speaking of meticulous care and exorbitant cost. He walked with the confidence of someone who had never known hunger or fear.
Yet for all the variety, Elias noticed a conspicuous absence—not a single person appeared destitute or homeless. No one showed signs of starvation. No one wore the ragged, neglected clothing that signified daily life without resources for proper care. Even the laborers working the docks wore clean, well-maintained clothing that fit properly.
This observation suggested two possibilities—one hopeful, one ominous.
A society without homelessness or hunger would be a wonder. Enough food and work for all, no struggling for basic necessities. A place where children didn't learn to steal before they learned to read.
Elias's expression hardened as he considered the more likely truth: this society had simply eliminated the issue through force. The poor were probably imprisoned or killed. He couldn't decide which was worse. His own experiences in Valtaros had taught him that those in power rarely solved problems through compassion when control was an option.
In Valtaros, slum dwellers rarely mingled with higher classes, but evidence of their existence permeated the city. Here, there wasn't a single hint of poverty, not even in the shadowed corners where such evidence typically collected.
His mind turned to more practical concerns as his analytical nature reasserted itself. I need to figure out what we're supposed to do here. The problem was that he had no starting point, no instructions beyond the Judge's cryptic words. But he knew someone who would—Lyara. Her face appeared in his memory, disappointment etched into her features. The memory stung more than he wanted to admit. I need to make amends somehow. I know I did the right thing, but I need her knowledge to survive this.
A more immediate issue presented itself: How do I find the others? There must be thousands of people here—it could take weeks. The harbor district stretched far beyond what he could see, and the crowd showed no signs of thinning.
As he paced, contemplating his next move, he noticed something peculiar about the bracelet's tingling sensations. The points of intensity were moving. When he rotated his body, the points shifted in the opposite direction around his wrist, like a compass needle maintaining its orientation.
The points were distinct, and there were several of them.
One, two, three... Seven!
Understanding dawned. The bracelet was pointing toward the other Chosen Ones. The strength of each sensation likely indicated proximity. Seven signals signifying the seven others who had survived the Heraclea's expedition.
He decided to pursue the strongest pulse, which suggested another Chosen One was nearby. Spinning on his heels, Elias wove through the crowd, following the intensifying sensation on his wrist. He moved with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to navigating crowded spaces, slipping between groups without drawing attention, his footsteps nearly silent despite the stone beneath his feet.
The pulse grew stronger, a persistent tingling that almost burned against his skin. He was close. The crowd thinned slightly near the water's edge, where the white stone pathway widened into a small plaza overlooking the harbor. Several smaller vessels were docked here, their sails furled tightly against their masts.
As he reached the edge of the throng near the shoreline, he saw her.
Lyara.
She stood at the water's edge, her posture straight and alert despite the disorientation they had all surely experienced. Her hair moved slightly in the salt-laden breeze, and her hand rested on the hilt of Mercy's Edge with casual familiarity. Even from a distance, she emanated a composed confidence that Elias had always envied.
This was the very person he most needed to find, yet not the one he wanted to encounter first. Only Keldric would have been worse. He had hoped to gather others before facing her again, to approach her with allies who might soften the awkwardness of their reunion. He started to turn away, to seek another signal from his bracelet, when Lyara's eyes met his. The recognition was instant, her gaze locking onto him with an intensity that froze him in place.
Crap.
Despite his carefully considered strategy, fate had other plans. He straightened his shoulders and moved toward her with as much dignity as he could muster. Whatever came next, he would face it directly. Survival in the Outer Slums had taught him that avoiding uncomfortable confrontations only made them worse when they inevitably occurred.
The harbor continued its bustling activity around them, oblivious to the tension between two strangers who had already been through more together than most people experience in a lifetime. Ships came and went, foghorns sounded, and the eternal twilight cast long shadows across the white stone as Elias approached the woman who might still hate him for a betrayal he couldn't bring himself to regret.