Southern Astravia Mountains
Evening, Ventiday, 6th of Luminis, Year 1013
"Do you see me, my dear?" asked the broad-shouldered man, standing quietly by the window, his silhouette blending with the cold stone wall. His long black hair cascaded down his shoulders, and his grey eyes held a charisma that demanded attention.
The woman beside him didn't answer immediately. Her gaze wandered across the city sprawled below, her black eyes reflecting the wind that played with her white hair—a stark contrast against the endless ocean of snow and stone.
"I see you," she finally replied, her voice soft but sharp. "Too clearly, in fact. Even the details you tried to hide didn't escape me."
The man smiled—not out of offense, but because the words were entirely his own: cold, precise, and laced with a hidden care.
"I built this city as a protest. A place for those who no longer wish to kneel before the kingdom's dogma. Long ago… this place was just a frozen wilderness, teeming with beasts that obeyed the laws of their hunger. But we came, with resolve and followers who believed."
"You chose this place because it's beautiful?"
"Yes—and because it hides itself. Even though we sit a thousand meters above sea level, it still feels below—because the surrounding mountains loom like slumbering giants. Look at Ghaeldrakh," he pointed northward, toward a peak that pierced the clouds. "Sixteen thousand meters to the sky. It watches over this city like a god, letting us breathe under its shadow."
The woman gave a slow nod. "The light here is strange. Daytime feels like an evening that never ends."
"That's why this city could grow in silence. Few truly know it exists—not even the kingdom. They lay claim to the Astravia Mountains, but they haven't even touched all of Astralyth."
"And you built a city… right under their noses."
"It started as a hideout. But why stop there?" he said quietly. "We built, we became self-reliant. We lived on vis and on our own principles. Now, Nostrah stands not just as a place to live—but as a reminder that history isn't done being written."
She turned to him, eyes narrowing. "And this city… is filled with those the kingdom calls extremists."
"Our people," he answered gently. "Those who refuse to forget the thousand years before the Age of Peace. Those who believe the kingdom hides more than it admits. We are them—the children of discarded history."
A pause, then he continued.
"Eighty years ago. My brother and I discovered fragments of a past that was never taught. We read them in secret, night after night—until one day, he stole an ancient manuscript from the Cryfarth Provincial Library. A record of humanity—before the kingdom redefined what it meant to be human."
He inhaled deeply. "That day, he was caught. Branded a traitor. Executed."
The woman beside him clenched her jaw. "You've told me that before, and my answer hasn't changed. That wasn't justice. If it had just been theft, he would've been exiled at most. But we know… the royal courtroom isn't a place to seek truth. It's a chessboard, and the high judge is just a hand moved by fear. They didn't punish your brother for what he did—they punished him because he was a pawn nearing checkmate."
He looked away from the window and into her eyes, filled with unshakable conviction. A faint smile touched his lips—not out of pride, but because he knew time had finally sided with him.
"They don't realize they've already entered the game. And I, Harold Elberant… am the enemy they forged themselves."
"Is that so? I've always stood by your side, Harold."
Her voice was low, yet her eyes shimmered with something unreadable—part conviction, part undisclosed truth.
She rose slowly, her dark cloak swaying softly as she walked toward the heavy wooden door that guarded the silence of the chamber. Her steps were nearly soundless.
Harold didn't say another word, only watched her back. Just as her hand touched the doorknob, he spoke again, gently.
"I'll wait for you at the next meeting."
She paused, opening the door slowly.
"Oh, by the way," she said lightly, as if slipping in a footnote. "Some time ago… I met someone interesting."
She turned slightly, a cryptic smile curling her lips—not sweet, but teasing. Then she stepped outside, leaving the door to close behind her in slow silence.
No explanation. No name.
The outside air greeted her with the soft bite of winter. Above, the afternoon sun hid behind a veil of thin clouds, casting a pale light across the snow and the ancient stone walls of Nostrah.
She descended the stone steps of the building. In front of her stood a tall obsidian statue—an exact likeness of a man in a long cloak, his gaze locked forward.
The statue of Harold Elberant.
She paused before it.
There was no one else in the small plaza—only her, the statue, and the quiet whisper of mountain wind brushing through the valley. Her eyes studied the stone face, as if comparing the man she'd just spoken with to the legend enshrined outside.
Then, slowly, her lips curved into a faint smile.
Not of admiration. Nor affection.
But the smile of someone who knew something neither the statue nor the man it honored understood yet.
In a half-whisper, she said,
"He's always been a little narcissistic."
And with light steps, she turned and walked along the cobbled streets of Nostrah—leaving the statue, and the silence that clung to it.
They called her Lady Petra Elberant.
The Lover to the founder. The calm face of an iron will.
And alongside her husband—Harold Elberant, the orator, the rebel, the architect of power behind the curtain—they were known as:
Lord and Lady of Nostrah.
A pair who didn't rise to power… but built their own throne.
In this city, they weren't just symbols.
They were the heartbeat beneath the silence.
The Lady, with her cold logic and unhurried stride.
The Lord, with a voice sharp enough to end wars before a sword was ever drawn.
She walked at a steady pace, nodding briefly at familiar townsfolk. A few children waved—she returned the gesture with a soft wave of her own, slipping warmth between stone walls and the biting chill.
The evening market still buzzed, despite the sun's glow reduced to a faint haze beyond the gray skies. Wooden stalls offered mountain herbs, greenhouse vegetables, and fresh cuts of wild game from the lower valley. She stopped at one and picked out a small sack of silverroot—an herb known to enhance focus—and a bundle of silaris leaves, fragrant and fresh, for dinner later.
"Still picking your own groceries, my Lady?" asked an old man behind the stall, his grin tucked beneath a white beard.
"If I rely on others too much, I might get poisoned," she said casually, flipping a silver coin onto the counter. "Or worse… spoiled."
A small chuckle followed—light and warm, like sunlight flickering through a morning mist. But behind the lively hum of the crowd, several eyes were watching—more than mere curiosity for a noblewoman's shopping habits.
In one corner, a hooded man nodded slightly when their eyes met. She returned the gesture, then walked on as he vanished into a narrow alley. Behind a bread stall, a young woman arranging loaves froze momentarily as the Lady passed. Their eyes locked for just a heartbeat—and that was enough.
They weren't just merchants.
They were part of the network—watchers, readers of symbols, messengers—all woven into the pulse of a city unmarked on any royal map.
Because in Nostrah, every smile might carry a code.
Every movement, a message.
And she knew well: there was no such thing as true peace in a city born of defiance.
The Lady left the bustle of the market behind, descending a winding stone path toward the base of the mountain. Her steps were steady, even as the road sloped upward and a thin mist began to settle in the air. As she drew closer, a building revealed itself—clinging directly to the vertical cliff of Mount Astravia, as though carved by divine precision.
It looked like a relic from a bygone era—dark stone walls, narrow vertical windows, and a slightly slanted wooden roof. Moss clung to its foundation, yet it remained pristine. It wasn't built to stand out—but to blend into the mountain that sheltered it.
She pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside a room warmed by firelight and illuminated by soft lumium crystal lamps.
"Let's see today's progress," she murmured, removing her thin leather gloves one finger at a time.
A young man named Prisz greeted her at once—neatly dressed, a black sash bearing the Elberant crest draped over his left shoulder.
"Good evening, my Lady," he said with a respectful bow.
"Evening," she replied casually, tucking her gloves into her cloak. "I picked up a few ingredients. Summon the cook, as usual."
"As you command," the attendant answered, disappearing into a side hallway.
She stepped into the main hall—a low, stone chamber with a timber ceiling, where a fire crackled in the corner hearth. A long pinewood table, hand-carved and aged, stood in the center, cluttered with notes, ancient maps, and unfinished cell-integration schematics.
She sat by a tall window, loosened the ties of her outer cloak, and gazed into the mist descending over the valley.
Not long after, the aroma of baked bread and warm cheese filled the room. Her personal cook entered, carrying a wooden tray: coarse wheat bread, a small bowl of herb-infused olive oil, slices of aged cheese, and a thin strip of smoked meat.
"Thank you," she said simply.
She ate in silence, bite by bite, her eyes occasionally drifting to the stone wall where old manuscripts hung—histories never reprinted by the kingdom, but memorized here.
"Tell me, Prisz," she said, staring into the fire. "Do you think humanity has reached the peak of its evolution?"
Prisz hesitated before answering carefully, "I don't know, my Lady."
She nodded slowly, as if that was the answer she expected. "Humans are strange creatures. They see themselves as rulers of nature… yet they die more often by their own hands than by nature's design."
"Intelligence," she continued, "is a blurred threshold we never truly understand. If one day we do reach its apex, we will cease to be human. We'll become something else. Something… eternal."
Prisz remained quiet. He didn't fully grasp the direction of the conversation, and his mistress didn't expect him to.
She picked a piece of parchment from the table—a dense scribble of cellular structures and adaptive intelligence notes.
"Come here, Prisz."
Her gaze was calm as she laid the paper flat on the table.
"Did you know? The human brain wasn't made to think. It was made for something far more vital—to anticipate threats."
Suddenly, she moved.
A knife shot from the table.
It sliced through the air—just inches from Prisz's neck. Close enough to force a panicked retreat. But far enough to make one thing clear—it wasn't an attack. It was a test.
"Good," she said flatly. "You're still alive."
She retrieved the knife with a smooth motion and sat back down.
"Because if you failed to read my intent," she continued in the same cold tone, "your brain hasn't evolved enough."
She placed the knife back on the table as if nothing had happened.
"Now, look at me, Prisz."
She stared deep into him—not with anger, but with the curious gaze of a researcher observing a promising subject.
"When you dodged my strike… did you have time to think?"
Prisz swallowed hard. Slowly, he shook his head.
"Of course not."
A thin smile touched her lips—not warmth, but confirmation.
"It was instinct. Reflex. The primitive part of you. And that's the point."
She leaned back against the chair, eyes drifting to the grey sky beyond the high window.
"We call ourselves intelligent beings. But every important decision… is made by the parts of our brain we're not even aware of."
She looked at Prisz again, as if evaluating the results of an experiment.
"So tell me, Prisz… if humans don't even know why they act, are we truly worthy of the title 'rational being'?"
Silence fell like a mist across the room.
Outside, snow had begun to fall—softly, quietly. As if the world itself was pondering… or merely reacting.
"Answer me another, Prisz."
Her voice dropped an octave—but grew heavier in weight.
"As the wife of Nostrah's leader… do I deserve to stand beside him? Do I uphold the values of nobility?"
Prisz tensed. He knew this kind of question—not one that sought answers, but the kind that opened old wounds.
"My Lady…"
"I was born to a small family in Meddylbran. No title. No land. Only books, dust, and exile."
She chuckled quietly, bitter.
"Back then, nobles saw me as a stain—something that couldn't be scrubbed off their banquet rugs."
She rose slowly and walked toward the hearth. Firelight danced in her dark eyes.
"But in this city… the one we built from ashes… I stand above them all. With filthy feet and hands full of the history they discarded."
She turned to Prisz. "So once more, Prisz… who are the true nobles? Those who inherit the name? Or those who fight to redefine it?"
Prisz bowed deeply. This time, not out of fear—but of reverence.
She closed her eyes briefly, then murmured, "I don't expect you to answer. Don't force yourself."
When she opened her eyes again, she returned to her research and notes, while the attendant resumed his duties in silence.
Time passed.
The Lady organized the scattered books, diagrams, and loose pages on the table.
With quiet steps, she approached one of the great doors—crafted from centuries-old teakwood, adorned with intricate carvings unique to Nostrah's architecture.
As the door creaked open, a chill swept through the air. A stone corridor descended downward, illuminated by soft blue light from aeternium lamps embedded in the walls.
Stairs spiraled into the deep, each step etched with remarkable detail—geometric spirals, ancient vis patterns, and symbols decipherable only by a chosen few.
She descended unhurriedly, her fingers tracing the wall's carvings now and then, as if greeting the history hidden beneath the surface.
She adored the design of this place. To her, each step was more than a passage—it was elegant escape from monotony, escapism in geometric form. A silent descent from the clamorous world above, into a realm where forbidden ideas were born.
At the bottom of the staircase stood a door—unlike the one before. Above it, an inscription was carved:
Dolor perpetuus, sed mensura variegata.
Suffering is eternal, but its measure varies.
For those who tried to understand its meaning… their minds never emerged the same. It was more than just an engraving; it was a reversed mirror, reflecting the deepest folds of logic—and breaking them slowly.
Reason would falter. Notions of justice, suffering, even humanity… all began to feel like brittle walls, ready to collapse with a breath of doubt.
She had stared into the black hole of her own mind—
And learned how to stand on its edge without falling.
She stepped inside. A thin mist clung to the stone floor, stirring gently with her every step—
as if the room itself recognized her presence.
The laboratory stretched wide and deep, divided into multiple functional chambers, lit by the pale blue glow of lumium crystals embedded in the ceiling. At the far end of the main room stood a large table cluttered with surgical tools, microscopes, and optical instruments nearing nanoscale precision—crafted from vis-infused alloys and alchemical glass.
Along the flanks of the room, rows of research tables displayed glass cylinders, stasis capsules, bio-tanks, and cryo-tubes—each containing a different living entity: small animals, exotic plants, and hybrid organisms that defied classification.
Some were suspended in nitrogen fluid, their bodies preserved in a silence thick with frost. Cryopreservation didn't just halt biology—it delayed nature's verdict.
Others had become permanent exhibits—preserved not to be saved, but to be observed. To prove that even life could be sculpted into spectacle.
Still others were kept alive inside isolated chambers—subjected to controlled vis dosages, induced mutations, monitored reactions, and measured pain thresholds.
And the rest… were simply left to live.
Not free. But conscious enough to feel the slow burn of suffering.
In silence. Behind thick glass. Under constant surveillance.
Because here, in this laboratory, the line between science and suffering was a smudge on a report sheet. Its methods were no different from politics or society—only the subjects and details changed.
The Lady preferred experiments that broke codes of ethics.
But never left a trace—except for those involved.
She did not fear sin.
What was sin to her?
"Karl," she said, addressing the young man peering into a nanoscope, examining a plant specimen in a thin vial, "how's that subject?"
The young man—Karl Elberant, her second-born—had inherited his father's piercing grey eyes and his mother's radiant white hair. A living contradiction. The genetic harmony of opposing forces.
"Photosynthesis response has dropped by fourteen percent," he said softly. "But its vis tissues… are beginning to show self-initiated activity."
At the end of the vial, the nanoscope's lens was embedded directly into the crystal wall—no slides, no tissue slices. Petra preferred her specimens alive… and aware they were being watched.
She turned to a nearby capsule—an inky-veined plant pulsing slowly, like a breathing heart. Vis trickled through its cells, casting a faint glow along the surface of its roots.
"Good," she murmured. "But I wasn't talking about that one, Karl. I meant S-330."
Karl fell silent.
He walked toward the large central chamber—unlike the others, its walls two fingers thick, wrapped in glyphs designed to resist shattering.
Etched into its base was a crimson label:
[Codename] S-330 // Dorothy Vreter
Classification: Specimen Class X – Creatura Composita
Status: Vis-Reactive Organic Hybrid
"She… used to be a slave. I once—"
"Yes," Petra interrupted, her voice cool. "And she signed the contract willingly, two years ago. No coercion. No violation."
Inside the tank, the creature did not sleep.
It simply… existed.
Its eyes were open.
Its mouth was incomplete.
Its body was a fusion of flesh, roots, and semi-transparent vis tissue, merged with the circulation system within the tank.
Petra stepped closer, unblinking.
"S-330 didn't just survive the fusion process. It adapted."
Then she turned to Karl.
"Document everything you're feeling. Don't lie. That, too, is data."
Unlike his mother, Karl Elberant never took pleasure in pain—neither his own nor others'.
To Petra, this wasn't weakness. It was an illness.
One she intended to cure.
That's why she placed him in this lab—
a place often more brutal than the world outside—
with one purpose:
To increase his mental tolerance to suffering itself.
Because in her eyes, the world had no place for the easily shaken.
Not even for her own blood.
Especially not for anyone else's.
Dorothy hadn't been born with the name Vreter.
She had no birth certificate.
No record of when she came into the world—only of when she was sold.
She was raised in Greythorn Vale, a poverty-stricken town in eastern Cyblaidd. Not a center of power. Not a hub of knowledge. Just a gathering point for spices, stripped from ever-dwindling forests.
There, one sack of blackwood root was worth more than a child.
The people were gaunt. Exhausted.
Most never appeared in the kingdom's census.
The local lords never descended from Lupenshire. They only cared that the monthly shipments arrived on time.
Dorothy was sold to Madrek, a mid-tier spice merchant, by her own uncle.
Not for gold.
Just to clear a minor debt.
At age seven, she was shipped in a burlap sack.
With five kilograms of dried turmeric.
She became a kitchen slave.
Worked in silence.
Slept without light.
Ate what the beasts left behind.
She didn't speak—not out of trauma,
but because the world had never given her a reason to.
Petra had found her during a covert inspection of an illegal production site. Not out of pity—Petra never relied on pity.
But because she saw something uncommon:
"The girl didn't cry, even with broken bones and bruises all over her body. But her eyes… they still asked questions."
And to Petra, that wasn't weakness. It was raw potential.
If questions remained, then so did the will to be shaped.
Dorothy was taken to Nostrah.
Washed. Refined. Rewritten.
Her name erased.
She was no longer a child of men.
She was given a code: S-330
And a name: Vreter
—The Devourer.
One who survives not because she's strong…
But because no one came to save her.
"Genetic integration isn't a curse, Karl. It's just painful… for those too aware of pain."
"Once her body aligns with the new DNA structure—without rejection, without vis destabilization—pain will become irrelevant. And then, S-330 will live a normal life."
"She'll be able to sit. To eat. To speak. Maybe even read. Or tend a garden."
Petra glanced at the biometric display. Stable. Almost serene.
"Once this process completes, she'll be fine. I estimate full stabilization in three months. After that, we'll extract higher-tier Essence of Visflux—for the next phase."
"I'll continue to monitor her progress," said Karl, his eyes catching his mother's with a flicker of irony—barely concealed.
Petra simply nodded. "I'm pleased to hear it."
Without another word, she turned and walked away—
leaving the room… and the shadow of her presence still echoing in Karl's mind.
He remained where he stood, not yet returning to his station.
The lab felt quieter after she left—
not because sound had gone,
but because pressure had lifted.
He looked again at the central tank. S-330. Dorothy.
Nothing moved within.
And yet…
He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Are you hearing all of this?
The question never left his lips.
It spun in his mind, like shards of glass refusing to align.
He inhaled slowly, then walked to the data terminal beside the capsule.
His fingers began to write with vis.
Subject S-330
Status: Stable.
Response to environment: Physically nonreactive, but… somehow I feel that's not due to unconsciousness.
Karl paused.
Then, with a trembling hand he forced to appear steady, he added:
Personal note:Perhaps the one being observed… isn't just her.
The next morning, the sun of Nostrah crept slowly through the thin veil of fog hanging over the mountain city's sky. Daytime here never felt like day elsewhere—its light was pale, cold, as if refracted through stone and snow before it ever touched the skin.
The door to the Elberant estate swung wide.
Sara Elberant had returned.
Firstborn of Harold and Petra Elberant.
To the people of Nostrah, she was the mirror of her mother's youth.
To her brother, Karl… she was a reflection too perfect to trust.
She bore her father's sharp grey eyes.
And her mother's gleaming white hair—slightly longer, swept back with meticulous care.
Every step she took radiated certainty, as if she knew precisely who she was—
and how the world was meant to receive her.
Upon entering the house, she ascended the stairs without a word, peeling off a travel cloak that still smelled of damp forest and dry iron.
No greetings. No explanations.
Water flowed in the bath chamber—warm streams washing the journey from her body, though never touching anything deeper than skin.
Downstairs, Karl Elberant sat silently in the dining hall.
A long wooden table stretched before him, draped in a dark grey cloth. A cup of tea sat cooling in front of him, steam long since faded.
He didn't look up when he heard his sister return.
And she didn't call out.
In the Elberant family, silence was the first language.
Words were only used when all other strategies failed.
Sara's footsteps descended the stone stairs—slow, measured. Her cloak now clean and dry, her white hair still damp, tied loosely behind her head. The unrelenting cold of Nostrah never seemed to touch her.
In the dining room, Karl remained as he was—spine straight, gaze fixed on the table, as though even time refused to move without his permission.
Sara approached without haste.
She stood beside the table and spoke without formality.
"How are you and the lab, Karl?"
Karl didn't answer immediately.
He raised his teacup, blew gently on it, and took a calm sip.
"Both I and the lab are functioning well," he said, setting the cup back down.
"And me?" he added, with a faint smile—too subtle to tell if it was sarcasm, challenge, or just fatigue.
Sara didn't answer right away.
She simply pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. Her expression remained neutral, but her grey eyes—identical to Karl's—studied her brother like a subject laid out on an autopsy table.
Then, as if deciding the conversation was worth having, she spoke.
"Nhal Vireth. I successfully extracted an Essence from it."
Karl nearly dropped his tea.
He stared at Sara in shock.
"What do you mean?"
His voice was low—but sharp.
He didn't need clarification.
He needed justification.
The capital, Regiamagna, was the most tightly monitored city in the entire kingdom. Surveillance was relentless, and the ratio of civilians to trained mages was razor-thin—leaving almost no space for intruders, let alone rogue visflux hunters.
And Nhal Vireth—a primordial Visflux whose danger escalated every two kilometers downward—was supposed to be an exclusive domain for only the highest-ranking sorcerers.
Not a place someone entered…
And certainly not one they left—carrying Essence.
Karl looked at his sister again.
This time, not as family—
but as a variable he no longer understood.
Sara met his gaze with her usual calm.
Then, with the tone of a casual report, she continued.
"Don't be foolish. I know when the area's quiet, when it's crowded, when it's safe, and when it's dangerous. They don't go down there every day. I happened to choose the right time."
"After the extraction, I and a few of my operatives ascended from twenty kilometers below. At the surface, we encountered a young man. He panicked—thought we were criminals. He wasn't wrong."
"He tried to flee. And because that would've complicated matters… I killed him."
Karl didn't blink.
But his mind began to reconstruct a timeline that felt disturbingly familiar.
"Not long after that, a teenage boy appeared near the lower ridge. Brown hair. Clear face. The kind of look only someone raised with love and a solid roof could carry. I nearly left. But two others followed—his friends. And when the girl saw us, I knew my cover was gone."
She leaned back in her chair, composed.
"I stepped forward. We fought. The children… were stronger than expected. By the end, two of them managed to take down several of my men. The girl—the young woman—she severed two of my fingers. It was my mistake. I underestimated her."
She glanced down at her hand.
The wound was healed.
But Sara always remembered what couldn't be seen.
"They don't know who I am. I claimed to be our mother. I simply wanted to gauge how well-known she is in the capital. Turns out—she isn't."
Sara laughed lightly.
"With the red wolf mask, my hair color was disguised. But I made sure they left… with trauma. And with the information I chose to leave behind."
Karl was still stunned.
Yet he couldn't deny it.
Sara had pulled it off.
She had retrieved the Essence of Nhal Vireth.
Frustrated, Karl finally gave her a single, reluctant nod.
"Everything has consequences, Sara."
But Sara only smiled faintly before rising—
leaving their conversation unfinished.
As always.
Arcane. Ex Nihilo.
Arcane. Out of Nothing.