Chapter 3: Stonehead

  Far from Sadek, high above the ground, lies a city unlike any other. It was not built on land, but into the mountains themselves.

  Three huge mountains stand side by side. Within them, between them, on them: the city of Stonehead. Houses, paths, walls – everything is made of the stone of the mountains. The buildings seem to be connected to the rock, as if they had never been built, but had simply always been there.

  The way there is difficult. There is only one access: a long, narrow bridge that stretches for many kilometers at a dizzying height through the clouds. Anyone who crosses it needs courage – or no sense.

  Nevertheless, Stonehead is a well-known place. Travelers from many parts of the world come here. Traders, adventurers, seekers – they all hope to find something in this city.

  Because Stonehead is more than just a city of stone. It holds secrets. Ancient stories. And maybe even answers.

  And it is here, between rock and sky, that a new chapter begins.

  At the top of the middle mountain, where the sky seems almost close enough to touch, stands a mighty palace. It is built of turquoise stone, smooth and flawless, as if it had been cut from a single piece.

  This is the Paraiba Temple.

  A holy place. A center of order. And the heart of Stonehead.

  Along the stone path that leads to the entrance of the temple, three figures move. Their steps are calm, deliberate. No words. No noise. Only the dull echo of their boots on the stone.

  They may seem strange to some, but in Stonehead everyone knows their names. They are the guardians of the city – three people, each responsible for one of the mountains. They watch over the borders and protect the balance.

  As the three keepers of Stonehead walked along the temple path from Paraiba, their steps echoed softly through the expanse of the stone complex. Between them was not silence, but a discussion, carried by concern and foresight. The last few days had left their mark – not on the stone, but on the minds of those responsible for this city.

  Jaseol, the keeper of the deepest mountain, Citrine, was the first to break the silence. His voice was deep and firm, with a hint of urgency. “We have seen a huge increase in the population of Citrine. It's getting crowded. If it continues like this, we will run out of living space.”

  Next to him walked Lazuli Lapis, the guardian of Paraiba, the mountain in the middle. Her gaze was calm, her step deliberate. She nodded slightly, almost sadly. “My prediction is once again coming true,” she said in a low voice. “If it continues like this, Stonehead won't be above ground for much longer. Parts of Citrine and Paraiba could slip away.”

  Zircon, the guardian of the highest mountain, Alexandrite, stopped. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “How many years do we have left?”

  Lazuli looked at her, her face showing concern, but her voice remained calm. “One year.”

  A brief moment of silence fell over them. Then Zircon took a deep breath, closed her eyes briefly, and spoke with calm determination: “Then we have no choice. We must tell the people of Stonehead at the Festival of Hope that we will close the borders.”

  But Jaseol immediately stepped forward, his voice rising slightly, not out of defiance, but out of fear. “But without tourism... Stonehead will economically collapse. We depend on trade with the capital.”

  Zirkon continued without answering him. Their steps led them through the temple's large entrance hall and into the high-ceilinged hall, the centerpiece of which was a massive stone sculpture—a detailed image of Stonehead himself, carved directly out of the rock. She paused before the statue, let her gaze wander, then spoke slowly and emphatically: “Lazuli, I ask you to find a way towards the future. You have time – until the Festival of Hope.”

  Lazuli bowed her head slightly and nodded. She said not a word, but her eyes reflected her determination.

  At that moment, a shout broke the silence of the hall. It came from the upper corridors, loud and urgent. It was the voice of Granit, Lazuli's closest advisor. He entered hastily, his robe fluttering in the wind as he shouted, “Guardian Lazuli... another attack by the Black Orlov! One of their members is trying to destroy the walls towards Alexandrit!”

  Zirkon turned around, her forehead wrinkled. “To Alexandrit? Are they still looking for...”

  Suddenly – a crack in reality. An aura permeated the room. No wind, no light, but pure presence. A power so strong that it paralyzed thought.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Jaseol spun around, his voice a mere whisper in the face of such power: “Is that... the attacker?”

  But at that moment, Lazuli had already disappeared. No movement, no sound – she was simply no longer there.

  Zircon looked at the spot where she had been standing, and her expression changed. She seemed to have an idea, followed by a slight smile. “I think... Lazuli has found an answer.”

  Granite took a step forward, visibly confused. “Where is Guardian Lazuli all of a sudden?”

  Zircon looked at him, friendly, with a gentle smile on his lips.

  Granit blushed slightly, bowed his head and hastily bowed.

  At the western gate, which connected Paraiba with the highest mountain, Alexandrit, the ground lay in ruins. Smoke rose. Screams echoed through the rocks, accompanied by the sound of fleeing footsteps. People ran, stumbled, dragged the wounded behind them – and again and again a metallic, pulsating crack sounded.

  An unknown figure was raging. No one knew his name, no one knew where he had come from. But what he left behind was unmistakable: chaos.

  His body was no longer entirely human. Again and again, it changed. Flesh turned to metal, limbs to weapons. Enormous black smoking cannons sprouted from his arms. Without warning, he fired – a blazing shot was aimed at the great west gate, hitting it with an earsplitting bang. The stone splintered, part of the gate broke out of the wall.

  Before the dust had settled, the stranger reloaded.

  Another cannonball raced towards the weakened gate.

  But before the ball could hit it – there she was.

  Lazuli.

  With a single step, she had appeared, as if fallen out of the air. Her figure seemed small against the approaching projectile, but she remained completely calm. Her right hand rose, fingers spread, the surface of the ball against it.

  At that moment, something awakened.

  No wind, no light. An aura – ancient, deep and powerful – flowed through the air. And then a third eye opened on Lazuli's forehead, slowly, like a glimmer from another world.

  The cannonball hit. But at the touch of Lazuli's hand, it stopped – and a bright shock shot into the metal, tearing it from the inside. The explosion was loud, but not wild. Precise. Controlled.

  Lazuli's gaze changed.

  She looked at the stranger, calm, scrutinizing – and then she spoke:

  “I did not see you. You are the wrong one.”

  Her voice was cool, but not angry. But it was precisely this disappointment, this expression of insignificance, that caused something inside the attacker to break.

  He roared, driven by rage – but before he could react, an energetic pulse shot out from Lazuli. The wave hit him with full force, tearing his clothes apart and baring his upper body. Metal plates, strange patterns, strange scars.

  Lazuli was suddenly standing in front of him. Her voice was calm but penetrating.

  “Tell me – what are you to the Black Orlov?”

  His voice trembled, torn between anger, pressure or perhaps inner resistance. “I am...”

  But before he could finish the sentence, Lazuli had already touched him. Her fingertips rested on his chest for a fraction of a second, and in a low voice she forestalled him: “Too slow.”

  Even as she spoke, his body changed again. Metal broke out of his chest, a rotating circular saw shot out, screeching loudly, ready to rip her apart – but Lazuli was long gone.

  She was behind him.

  “You are a traveler,” she said calmly. “One who allowed himself to be blinded in the pursuit of power... and is now being exploited.”

  A surge of energy shot through the man's body, making him flinch and halting the transformation. The saw collapsed, the metallic shine disappeared, and skin replaced the artificial. His body became human again – wounded, but whole. His gaze was empty, his movements slow, as if part of his consciousness was missing.

  Lazuli approached him again. Her third eye glowed slightly as she put her hand on his chest. Her voice was calm but penetrating.

  “What is your name?”

  A moment passed. Then came the answer, dazed, almost soundless: “Pray... Rust.”

  “Do you belong to the Black Orlov?”

  He hesitated, his gaze remained glazed. Then: “No...”

  “Are you under their orders? If so, what was your task?”

  Silence. Only breathing. Only the sound of the wind at the gate. Then - a splintering voice: “They... promised me more... and gold... I should...”

  Suddenly - an arrow.

  As if from nowhere.

  Lazuli's hand let go of Bete the moment the arrow shot through the air.

  It hit. Right in the head.

  Bete fell forward. Lifeless.

  Lazuli spun around. Her eyes scanned the surroundings. Buildings. Rocks. Wind. But nothing. No shadow. No attacker.

  Silence.

  Then cheers.

  The people who had gathered at a safe distance broke out in relief.

  “Clairvoyant Lazuli has saved us!”

  “Our guardian protects us!”

  The voices carried hope, gratitude – and amazement.

  But before anyone could get close to her, before anyone could take a step in her direction, she had vanished.

  A soft gust of wind.

  And only the empty space where she had been standing remained.

  Outside of Stonehead, where the sky seems lower and the roads are few and far between, a dusty trade route ran through barren land. It was empty, silent – except for the steady clatter of hooves echoing through the air.

  A coach moved leisurely along the road. It was pulled by two strong horses, and the carriage itself was simple but sturdy, made of dark wood and with a heavy roof of oiled cloth. A young woman sat at the front end. Her clothing was simple but well-kept, and a dark cloak protected her from the sun. Her gaze rested on the coachman next to her, but her eyes seemed restless, as if she had been wrestling with herself for several minutes.

  “What do we do with him?” she finally asked, quietly, almost hesitantly.

  The unknown man next to her moved slowly. He raised his head, and a mask appeared from under the hood – smooth, made of metal, with no visible facial features. His clothes were completely black, his body large, calm, almost eerily still. A heavy cloak hung over his shoulders, fluttering slightly in the wind.

  “We're taking him with us,” he said calmly, his voice deep and unmoving. Then, almost casually, he added: “Welcome to Stonehead.” Now they were standing before the bridge that led to the city in the mountains.

  Inside the carriage, lying on rough cloth, was a figure. His body was still marked by injuries, his clothes were tattered, and there were traces of dried blood everywhere.

  Shin Juuji.

  Unconscious – or at least it seemed so.

  But suddenly, without warning, something moved.

  His eyes flew open.

  A brief twitch. A shallow breath.

  Then: silence.