Aurelion announced itself long before its walls came into view.
Music carried on the wind—lutes and soft drums, laughter layered over conversation. The road widened beneath their feet, stones laid with care, untouched by cracks or scorch marks. Color returned to the world in banners and painted signs, in tiled roofs that caught sunlight instead of ash.
Viktor slowed.
After days of ruin and silence, the sound felt wrong.
“Either this place is blessed,” Ethan muttered, adjusting the strap of his pack, “or they’re pretending very hard.”
Haruki’s gaze never stopped moving—across rooftops, through open gates, along the rhythm of foot traffic. “Pretending,” he said. “There’s too much normality. It’s… curated.”
The guards at Aurelion’s gates barely glanced at them—no questions about the north. No warnings. Just a bored wave through, as if travelers from scorched lands were an everyday inconvenience.
Inside, the city breathed easily.
Markets bustled. Merchants argued over prices. Children laughed as they chased one another between stalls. No one spoke of falling fire or violet light. No one looked up unless the sun demanded it.
Viktor felt like an intruder.
In the central square, a speaker stood atop a stone platform, reading from a scroll.
“—and so the council assures all citizens that rumors of celestial disturbances are exaggerated at best,” the man declared. “Trade routes remain secure. The sky remains unchanged.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
A few people applauded.
Ethan stopped short. “Unchanged?”
Viktor’s jaw tightened. “They’re lying.”
“Not exactly,” Haruki said quietly. “They’re redefining truth.”
They spent the afternoon listening.
In taverns, patrons laughed off stories from the north as drunken fantasy. In lecture halls, scholars debated whether light could fracture perception without altering reality. In council halls, officials spoke softly of containment and maintaining calm.
No one denied that something had happened.
They insisted it didn’t matter.
As dusk fell, Viktor climbed the inner steps of a watchtower overlooking the city. From above, Aurelion glowed—steady lanterns, ordered streets, life continuing uninterrupted. Beyond the walls, the horizon darkened toward lands that still remembered the sky splitting open.
He tilted his head back.
The sky above Aurelion was perfect.
Too perfect.
No scars. No residue. No sense of weight.
For the first time since the night of fire, Viktor felt nothing when he looked up.
No pull.
No pressure.
Just distance.
It unsettled him more than the cracks ever had.
Haruki joined him at the railing. “Places like this are dangerous,” he said after a moment.
“Because they’re safe?” Viktor asked.
“Because they teach people to stop asking why,” Haruki replied. “If the sky didn’t touch them, they believe it never will.”
Ethan leaned against the stone. “Let them believe that. We know better.”
Viktor wasn’t so sure.
As night settled over Aurelion, the city never once dimmed its lights to look at the stars.
And somewhere beyond its walls—past comfort, past denial—the pull waited patiently.
Unanswered.
End of Chapter Six
