The fallen City: Prologue

It was a clear night, with the moon and stars dotting the curtain of night with shining lights like precious gems, illuminating the sand-covered ruins below to a bluish hue. The city, or the remnants of which stand alone in this desolate wasteland, was once part of a powerful civilisation from a mythical age of gods, monsters, and sorcerer-kings. An age that no longer exists and will never be repeated now or forever more. The passage of time has obscured all but the most trivial details: who they were, what their accomplishments were, and what ultimately caused their downfall. This mystery has confounded even the most adept historians and scholars, leaving it as a puzzle that may never be completely solved. But regardless of the reasons, isn’t it the destiny of all civilisations and of all peoples to eventually meet their end? The rise ended by the fall. To be surpassed and subjected to the whims of time in a world where nothing is permanent. The endless ebb and flow of rising dawns and falling dusks play out in endless repetition. But what if you had the ability to defy this fate? To possess eternal life, to be untouched by the march of time. To have flesh that never weathers nor tires. Would such a life be appealing, or would it simply be an illusion, a foolish dream of postponing the inevitable?

In the centre of these ruins, amidst the remnants of golden and silver spires, stone marvels, and statues made of pure gems, stood a young man who seemed almost ageless. He stood there on the once golden stone road, immersed in a melancholy that only pure solitude could bring. This young man possessed a tall and lean physique reminiscent of carved marble statues of legendary heroes long gone. His tanned brown skin had a light pale alabaster sheen, visible in the moonlight, making him appear almost otherworldly to any outside observer. His face and eyes were as sharp and focused as a hawk, a stark contrast to his dishevelled black hair that blended into the darkness. His amber eyes shone with a faint, luminous glow in the moonlight but also bore a tiredness that contradicted his youthful appearance. He was draped in a tattered hooded cloak of faded colours that danced as the calm night breeze washed over him, partially concealing his faded and dull bronze breastplate with runes that faintly glowed a dim green. By his side, a curved bronze sword was tucked into his belt. The sword, like his armour, also had runes etched into it. His armour and blade shimmered in the moonlight, casting a blue hue that contrasted with the green hue of his armour and weapons.

If an observant person were to watch this young man, who was currently brooding in his existence and solitude, they would be struck by the contradiction that defined his existence. He appeared youthful and almost timeless in his appearance, yet he carried himself with a sense of tired aloofness that was like an old man in the last stages of his life. And like all old men, he was surrounded by the signs of stagnation, death, and decay. His clothing, armour, and weapons all belonged to a bygone era, a time long past. The city around him was worn and dilapidated, with the once sturdy stonework and woodwork of the buildings now standing as forgotten relics of a once great age, the many roads and footpaths becoming jagged and cracked like mountain rocks. The greatness and achievements of that era were now lost to time, and what remained was left to decay and crumble to dust, becoming one with the ether of the universe. The only one who still remembers these primordial glories in their full splendour is the brooding young man bathed in the moonlight, surrounded by the remnants of a forgotten past that forever remain etched in his heart.

It was a peaceful night, like many nights in this dead and fallen city, and he cherished these moments of solitude. They allowed him to delve into his memories, akin to exploring the depths of the ocean. On the surface, everything was clear and illuminated. Every little detail was vividly remembered—the sights, the sounds, the smells, and, if he was fortunate enough, even the slightest touch or taste. Yet, as he delved deeper, striving to uncover more profound insights in the deep sea of his memories, the path ahead of him quickly became shrouded in darkness and the uncertainty of what was unseen and unknown. What he once believed to be undeniable truths now seemed clouded by the murky depths. Tonight was a memorable night for the young man. This city was his former home, a place whose name has been lost to history. Despite the surrounding sand and ruins, the city remains vivid in his memories. As he strolls through the city in his mind’s eye, he is struck by the warm feeling cast upon his skin. The buildings shine and shimmer in the golden rays of sunlight, the vast grassy plains beyond the city’s great walls wave in the breeze, and the pristine water flowing from the great northern mountains now flows through the city’s many canals, glistening and sparkling like diamonds.

Such a scene would bring tears of joy to even the most hardened man, witnessing the beauty unfolding before him. The sounds of people indulging in various joys of life echo in his mind in an endless loop. He observes the children’s happiness as they play on the street, kicking a ball or playfully sparring with sticks. He also notices the weathered faces of labourers carrying heavy loads of stone, wood, or metal. He listens to the merchants involved in their trade, with one particularly intense discussion revolving around a merchant selling subpar copper. He even catches the whiff of freshly baked bread. How long had it been since this city was bustling with activity? Ten years? A hundred years? Maybe even a thousand years? He often used to measure time by the movement of the stars, for all the devices he kept track of time with had stopped working years ago. He wasn’t even sure if they were all working, they would be telling the correct time any more. But he had seen so many stars pass by him that he had lost track. It might have been a few hundred years ago when he last checked? The uncertainty gnawed at his thoughts as he wandered into his memories.

As he strolled down the main street heading towards the south gate of the city, he caught sight of something. It was a faint flicker of light in the distance. The only light that should be in this city at night was the moonlight that illuminated his path. The flickering lights that once lit the city, powered by magic, had long since gone out, and there were none left to fix nor light torches in their absence. Intrigued, he made his way towards it like a moth drawn to a flame. He approached the light cautiously, moving quietly, silent as a wisp of wind. As he neared, he saw the dying embers of a campfire. Alert and wary, he cautiously approached the campsite. In this city, there shouldn’t have been any inhabitants apart from maybe an old visitor or two every few decades or centuries, or the odd squatter brave and crazy enough to venture to the city and hide behind its walls to escape the bleak and desolate wasteland that now surrounded and strangled the city in a vice-like grip. They would struggle, fighting one another for scraps like rats in the ruins of the once-thriving metropolis.
As he explored the campsite, he noticed that while it was empty, it was too organised and well-stocked for random scavengers. Surprisingly well-equipped for squatters, he thought to himself, his arms crossed as he surveyed the campsite. Most of the squatters he came across were primitive beyond any expression of the word, often wearing rags made of animal hide or the skins of other people for clothing, and wielding crude and rusted makeshift weapons. Pieces of armour and weapons of unknown make were scattered around, along with bags full of provisions, sturdy tents, and a makeshift shelter partly constructed from the derelict remains of what was once a popular bar for labourers. Inside the shelter, he discovered a sturdy wooden table covered with stacks of maps and books written in a language he couldn’t identify. Everything appeared basic and almost laughable to him in its simplicity. Studying the map, he recognised it as a crudely drawn city map. His mind raced with thoughts as he took in his surroundings.

Another group of treasure hunters, he thought, his brow furrowed. The idea of more intruders entering his home, his city, filled him with unease. He would have expected that after all the other groups of treasure hunters that had come to this city from the outside world and never returned, these people would have gotten the message to leave this city alone and untouched. However, danger always seemed to tempt the reckless and adventurous. It was a feeling he knew all too well. Leaving the campsite, he set out to find his latest target. With his keen senses, it didn’t take him long to locate them. The torches they carried and the unfamiliar language they spoke made them easy to spot. There were twenty of them, heavily armed, seemingly exploring the ancient temple in the city. Too many to take on at once, he thought to himself as he watched them from the rooftops, crouched down like a cat eyeing its next meal and getting ready to pounce. While in single combat, he was sure he could easily take on one of them in a one-on-one contest of arms, maybe even several of them at once. However, he didn’t like to charge in; it wasn’t how he preferred to conduct himself. Both in politics and war, he favoured a more subtle approach if he could help it. From the rooftops, he then back-flipped into the depths of a nearby alley, his cloak swirling in the calm night breeze, as he landed with a soft thud on the sand-covered stone footpath. Dust and sand kicked around him as he clung to the wall and climbed into the shadows of the alley, peeking out of the corner and watching them. Over the next few hours, he immersed himself in this new evaporite activity. An activity that was the only departure from the soul-crushing loneliness he felt, that was eating him up inside until he was nothing but an empty shell devoid of that animated such a being.

In fact, it was one of the few things that made him feel a connection with people and made him feel truly alive, a feeling that was now alien to him. The rush of combat, the warmth of fresh warm blood upon his skin, and sparks as steel hit upon steel, was something that made his heart skip a beat. He watched them from the shadows, closely monitoring their every move, and when the chance presented itself, he would quietly strike from the shadows and eliminate them one by one. Using the cover of darkness and his intimate knowledge of the city streets, alleyways, and buildings to his advantage, he would strike swiftly and mercilessly. His victims fell easily, like mice ensnared in the talons of a hawk. His blade fell one by one without struggle. Though he found some satisfaction in this, it was overshadowed by a sense of duty and responsibility. These treasure hunters were oblivious to the fact that some things should be left undisturbed. If the city only held riches from the past, Tharos felt no connection to the scattered trinkets, bracelets, and rings made from the most finely polished precious metals and gems, bowls, cups, and plates made from the finest clay and ceramics in the empire. However, lurking in the depths of the city was something far more perilous than the ghost of a young man haunting its once majestic halls. It was something that couldn’t be described with mere words alone. If one could simplify it, calling it a monster would be the closest description. Its true nature and the reason for its imprisonment underneath the city remained a mystery even to him, but the extreme danger it posed was undeniable. Even the most arrogant magi would not dare to try and control it. Standing on the temple roof, he surveyed the aftermath of his efforts. His cloak was stained with a thick layer of red, and his armour and sword bore new chips and dents. Even his bare flesh bore small scratches that were vanishing like mist. This marked the eleventh group he had confronted in recent years. Typically, it would be a decade or two before another band of treasure hunters appeared, but the frequency of encounters was now escalating at an alarming rate. These encounters were now on a yearly basis.

These treasure hunters seem to be more organised than I first thought, he mused. Looking up at the night sky, the great curtain of night, the darkness of the void, which from his view perfectly reflected the emptiness he felt inside, he stared up at the sky and could see the flickers of stars. The stars shone like bright diamonds in the pure black sky, their light reflecting in his faintly glowing eyes. He gazed up at them as he had always done, even as a small boy, hoping beyond hope that the heavens would provide some insight from the grand cosmos. He knew in both his head and heart that it wouldn’t come, not any more. For the gods had surely turned their back on him. But if Tharos knew one thing for certain, it was this: He was about to have his work cut out for him.