When Heroes Die

"Six. If you find a strange person in a Villain's Lair trapped inside a ritual circle, don't help them to escape. Yes, even if they promise to have your children."

– 'Two Hundred Heroic Axioms', author unknown

Unease filled him as he took in the sight that had just flared up on the horizon. Far ahead to the left of him and just off the dirt road, in the shadow of a small hill jutting out in the grassy plains, flashes of particoloured light lit up the late afternoon sky. It was distant enough that he could not make out the source from where he was, only just falling short of the horizon, but still, it could only really have come about in one way. Mage combat, he thought to himself warily.

Olivier had been on the road for some time now, selling enchanted wares and keeping his eyes open for wayward gifted in need of support, long enough that he had started upon the journey home to Beaumarais. He was on the return stretch to the small town, although the mountains and valleys that surrounded his home were still beyond the horizon. This trip had been an exciting one, and although he had found no more gifted during it, people had been enamoured with the wares he had to sell.

He had ventured farther afield than usual, but the sights he had seen had been worth the extended journey. He gently tugged on the reins of his mules from further back on his wagon, they brayed at him sullenly, tossing their heads of brown hair back and forth, then slowly drew to a stop. The cool autumn sun bore down upon them, the sky cloudless far above, and he waited several heartbeats for the sight up ahead - whatever it was - to finally draw to a close.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nothing, tall solid structures of metal and glass sprouted from the earth. They grew and grew and grew, the surrounding terrain almost seeming to melt like cheese over a fire to compensate. The plains grass vanished into the earth, and the knoll which had been present had since flattened out. The towers, for what else could they be, seemed almost to reach up and touch the sky.

Looking on, he was reminded once again of his argument with Morgaine in the past. The moment when he had realized that if she had wanted to kill him, there was nothing he could have done about it and the shame he had felt then at the time. For but a moment then, he had understood what regular folk felt about magic.

Olivier knew magic and had some understanding of what could be done with it. He had, after all, grown up in a family of mages even if he had no magic of his own. This — whatever it was — defied his understanding of it. Was this some new grand Praesi ritual being tested, out in the middle of nowhere, stuck in transit between two towns? He licked his lips nervously and considered what he should do.

It made sense, he thought, for him to turn back now and carry news of this to the last town he had passed through. It was only two days past at his current pace, but then again, what could he even tell them? That a city made of pure fantasy had grown in the middle of nowhere? He would be laughed out of town for sure. No, better that he wait a bit longer for the spell to draw to a close before he acted.

He had his mules pull the wagon to the side of the road, allowing them to feed on the grass while he waited, continuing to watch the working unfold. Whatever it was and whoever it was that had made it, it truly took his breath away. To do all of this with a single spell, he doubted even the vaunted Praesi Warlocks could achieve something of this scale. That left him wondering about who exactly was responsible and why they had seemingly transmuted large portions of an open plain into what was quickly becoming clear was a city. It unsettled him how quiet the working was, for something of such scale to make seemingly no noise at all, it was like trying to imagine a dragon sneaking up on you. Utterly preposterous.

Half a bell later, it seemed that the working had drawn to a close. He had, in the interval, talked himself into approaching. Shouldn't he, after all, learn more about it before he carried the news? Guiltily, he acknowledged to himself that secretly this was not the real reason he approached, no, it was more about the thrill of it. Sorcery of this scale was something extraordinarily rare and, despite how he had expected someone else to show up and notice it, he was still the only person on the road. So he would approach carefully and learn as much as he could, then carry news of it with him to Beaumarais when he returned. Magistrate Alisanne Lassier, he decided, could be the one responsible for deciding what to do from there.

He clicked his tongue twice, signalling to the mules that, once again, it was time to continue. They eyed him balefully, then, with great sufferance, began to pull his wagon. He stuck to the road for now, allowing himself to be drawn in closer, without having to dismount and approach on foot. The plodding of hooves, the gentle rumble of the wagon beneath him, and the waning light of the sun against the back of his neck all served to distract him from his good sense. That way, before he decided to be smart here and turn tail, leaving before learning more. Absently, he reached to one of the packs beside him, pulling out some jerky to chew on. The marvel of magic drew inexorably closer, and finally, they pulled as close as they could whilst still following the road.

Once again, he signalled for the mules to stop, then, climbing down, the soles of his worn leather boots sent up a small cloud of dust as they made contact with the ground. His legs were unsteady for spending too long on the wagon, and so he took a moment to stretch. Then, finally ready, he prepared himself for the short hike off-road. He picked up one of his water skins and grabbed one of the decorated torch staves on the wagon he intended to sell. It wasn't intended for use as a walking stick but was enspelled to keep the flame on the end burning in exotic colours, making for a somewhat extravagant light source. There weren't any trees nearby for him to pilfer any branches, however, so it would have to do. It would serve, regardless, its only duty to poke around in the grass up ahead as he moved, alerting him to the presence of any snakes, before they became a more immediate problem.

Step by step, he made his way towards the city, a bitter breeze occasionally pushing one of his curly locks into his eyes. The closer he drew, the more impressive it was to his eyes. Then, the grass came to an abrupt end and his boots thudded against a hard, smooth bronze beige surface. He paused and bent down, running his fingers along the grain. It was a novel material, something he hadn't seen before, and looking at it brought his concerns to the fore.

Was this the work of a demon? He wondered to himself. The very thought sent a shiver not related to the evening chill down his spine. Praesi Warlocks had a reputation for dabbling with demons among those not educated in magic. The reality was different, though, at least as he understood it. Only the maddest and most ambitious of diabolists risked bringing one of them into Creation. To his eye, this did not look like the aftermath of a demon incursion either, although admittedly he had no practical experience with them. The result was too… inorganic, structured to the convenience of people. It did not look like a nightmare of mutated flesh that demons of corruption were famed for and although demons could certainly achieve an outcome like this, their frame of reference was too alien to conceive of it.

His eye roved further, to his right, there was an ash-grey road paved out of another unknown material with a white line down the middle, between two of the bronze-beige paths, which were elevated just slightly in contrast. He wondered what the purpose of the distinction was; a footpath, maybe? Either way, the road beckoned him onwards, and cautiously he stepped onto it, deciding to follow it on the way in. Every so often, there were round metal disks buried in the road, as well as metal poles extending from the ground a few feet into the air like branches from a tree. He was puzzled as to their purpose.

Then, he arrived. Even from a distance, the buildings had made him feel small, but standing directly under them, under these marvels of construction, fed into both his sense of adventure and his sense of caution. There was glass everywhere. Surely, not even the First Princes' Palaces in Salia used glass this liberally? It was extravagant on a scale that defied his understanding.

Standing at the base of one of the buildings, he noticed what seemed to be letters painted onto the surface of one of the windows in a language he didn't recognize. He traced over one of the figures, a straight line that then curved to the right in a loop, ending at half the height of the symbol. He knew Lower Miezan, the language most commonly spoken in Praes, and had passing familiarity, in the sense that he had seen the written alphabet, for both Taghrebi and Mthethwa. This didn't look like any of those. That should have reassured him, as it meant that whoever was responsible for this was unlikely to be one of the mad wizards from Praes. It didn't.

If it wasn't the Praesi, then he had no idea who could achieve such a grand work of sorcery. The Dead King and the Titans maybe, although neither side had a motive. But who else? He didn't know much about the Dwarves, aside from the fact that they were more or less the only nation on Calernia that wasn't just a regional power. However, they weren't renowned for extravagant magics, so he doubted they were responsible. The Fae, perhaps? That thought worried him, but upon further consideration, he doubted it was them. They had the power to achieve this but lacked the agency to pull it off. By their very nature, they were tied to stories, and he couldn't conceive of a story tied to an event like this, except maybe the gnomes.

He continued walking down the road, taking in the alien sights surrounding him as he mused. Why were there rows of metal loops connected to the ground perpendicular to the main road, on that slightly elevated section of roadway? Who could afford to just leave metal like that? How was a road designed that was so flat? And how did these towering monoliths stand as they did and not come crumbling to the ground? Surely, some of them stood taller than the tower in Ater? What kind of magic could create a place like this, and why do it at all, seemingly in the middle of nowhere? As he explored, the questions only piled up.

He approached one of the buildings, looking through the glass to take in the interior. There were rows upon rows of shelving, made out of another material that he didn't recognize. Absently, he reached for the door, only to find it had no handle, and he couldn't figure out how to make it budge. Who made doors with metal frames and glass bodies anyhow?

The more of this place he saw, the more he suspected that it wasn't so much built as transplanted from elsewhere. The posters stuck to the outside of windows were what drew him to that conclusion. Pictures of people garbed in strange, foreign outfits. Clothing of the likes he had never seen before. The posters were far too… Sterile, almost artificial in nature, seeming not to have been penned, painted, or drawn by hand at all. Many of them depicted strange machines, or in some cases people performing what looked to be magic. Either way, they were his best source of information on the place so far.

The idea that someone, or several people, had teleported what had to be a substantial chunk of a city from somewhere else terrified him. Especially whilst leaving the occupants behind and just dropping it here somewhere on the outskirts of Bayeux. How would someone even go about achieving something like that? This was going to have ramifications very high up, he realized.

It occurred to him, then, that he had at most another hour or two before the sun would set, and he would need to make his way back to his wagon. It was unlikely someone would steal from him. Anyone who saw the wagon would see the city as well and were they tempted to theft, the prospect of stealing from a place like this was far more tantalizing. Regardless, though, the idea of finding his way back to his wagon after the night had fallen did not appeal to him in the slightest. Making the most of what limited time he had left was important then, and that meant deciding what he needed to see.

If this was a ritual, and it seemed to be one, he thought to himself, then the point of origin was likely the centre, which meant heading to the middle of the city. How a ritual on this scale could be accomplished, without leaving miles of countryside wasted by the desolation, he didn't quite know. That was a riddle in and of itself. Still, if he wanted answers, finding the caster would be the best way to acquire them, which meant finding the eye of the spell. A little voice at the back of his head cautioned him that being in the presence of someone who could do this wasn't the smartest idea, but he smothered it before it took root. When was he ever going to have the opportunity to see something like this again?

Destination in mind, he started to walk, making his way towards the epicentre. As he did so, the haunting stillness of the place seeped into his bones. For a city like this to exist, how many people would need to occupy it, and walk its streets? The eerie feeling amplified the further he walked, it felt like he was striding over someone's grave. As far as he could tell, he was drawing close to what he estimated was the source, a bit over a mile in from the edge. He reached the end of another one of the megastructures, the road coming to a four-way split, and turned left, expecting to find the cause.

His breath caught, then stilled. Unlike the rest of the place, what he saw looked like it had been a part of the original countryside. A smooth, circular chunk of rock with a crack running through it from one side to the other, sitting untouched in the midst of a displaced city. On it, were runes writ in blood, spiralling inwards. They were detailed, intricate, almost certainly a ritual, and right in the middle was a girl, her back facing towards him, clad as she was on the day she was born.

She was pale, hunched in on herself and, with the slow rise and fall of her chest, seemingly unconscious, with long curly black hair facing towards him. Her right arm lay on top of her and ended at the elbow in a stump. A mass of scars crisscrossed the girl's back, and he hastily averted his eyes, contemplating on what to do.

Disgust curled in his stomach as he considered what he had seen. It looked to him like she had been intended as ritual fodder, a human sacrifice, only the ritual had clearly gone wrong, and the circle was broken. He examined the runes again and then turned away, pacing restlessly, their shape fading from his mind the moment he did so. Maybe it had been a Praesi ritual then, with a Duni sacrifice, but one where the caster's madness ended with their demise.

Concern for her warred with concern for himself. He wasn't sure what would happen if he stepped into the ritual circle. It was broken, or at least, he thought it was broken, so it shouldn't do anything. But an entire city had appeared regardless of that, so clearly there was still something happening despite that. He didn't know if stepping into it would cause a reaction again. Should he risk it? The breeze stilled as he thought over it, as if the world was taking a breath.

No, he decided, he didn't want to leave her fate up to chance, not when he could help. He would take the punishment on his own head if this decision ended poorly. Hesitantly, he stepped into the spell, careful not to disrupt any of the lines. The wind picked up again and he reaffirmed his decision. He would help her, he thought, surely it couldn't go wrong. Tentatively, he moved closer, keeping his eyes averted, then tried to wake her. She didn't even stir.

Grimacing, he resolved to pick her up and carry her back to his wagon. Hopefully, she wouldn't take offence at his presumption. Dropping the intricately carved length of yew, he made to pick her up. Right arm beneath her legs, the other supporting her back, he hoisted her up and started to make his way out. She was light, stick thin, and considering all her injuries, she hadn't lived an easy life at all. Putting one foot after another, he made his way out of the city. He walked cautiously, a misstep now would have poor consequences.

Arriving back at the wagon, he noted, to his mounting disbelief, that the road was still empty. True, this wasn't a path travelled along much, but he still would have expected someone to show up by now. He considered what to do next, she wouldn't fit into his clothes, despite looking around his age, she was tall, having a few inches on him. Regardless, he doubted she would appreciate waking up and having someone else clothe her. No, he decided, better to wrap her in one of his cloaks, then figure out where to go from there whenever she finally stirred.

Placing her down on the wagon leaning against one of his packs and firewood, he considered whether to stop here for the evening or continue on for the night. Usually, he would halt at around this time. His brother had called him unwise, travelling alone like this. He grimaced, the thought of his brother once again bringing unpleasant feelings to mind. They had not been on good terms for some time, and it still stung somewhat. He pushed the thought aside.

Despite the turmoil in Procer at large, the civil war had not reached the sleepy parts of the outer edges of the Bayeux principality and, despite the dangers of travelling alone, he had not been bothered on the road. When he did eventually settle down, he would activate one of the alarm wards that his brother had enchanted. It would warn him if anything larger than a fox came within thirty feet by emitting a piercing shriek, which should, in theory, give him plenty of time to react.

He decided, after some thought, to push on until the city was out of sight. He didn't know if there was anything dangerous in it, but staying around to find out seemed like pushing fate. Better, he considered, to make some distance, before settling in for the night. The mules glared at him balefully in the pale evening light, but he was having none of it. They set off and soon, the only light illuminating the way forward was the pale light of the moon and stars above. Between the chirping of the crickets and croaking of frogs as dusk set in, he could almost pretend a semblance of normality.

A few hours of travel later, the city was out of sight. Deciding they had gone far enough, he pulled some logs off the wagon and set them down in a haphazardly arranged ring of rocks. Tiredness had long since set in and, after cooking himself a stew with the little he happened to have on hand, he set up the wardstone and proceeded to doze off against a bag positioned against the wagon wheel.

Waking up the next morning with a knife pressed against his neck came as a bit of a shock that, in retrospect, he should have expected. This, he thought wryly to himself, was not how he saw himself being greeted by the person he had tried to help out.