As Ventren rode beneath the pale light of dawn he reined his steed to a halt atop a grassy hill. From there, the Royal Capital revealed itself.
There it is, the Venerable Royal Capital of Halzyon.
All his life, Ventren had kept his distance from the Royal Capital. Under Maershal the Cruel, the city had been a perilous place for mercenaries. Forced conscription was a common fear among the Freeholds, whispered over campfires and ale. One careless step within the king's reach and a sellsword might find himself pressed into service—or worse. So Ventren had lingered in the countryside roaming Valkraun's southern reaches with his party, far from the crown's gaze until now.
He rode closer.
Three concentric walls encircled the city with each more formidable than the last. The outer wall loomed like a cliff face, bristling with battlements and corner towers. The first wall and the innermost palace wall both had deep moats, its drawbridge thick and scarred from age. Every wall section has mounted ballistae, arrow slits and archer towers. Portcullises guarded every entrance and above each gate hung iron pots, ready to pour boiling oil or water upon would-be invaders while murder holes and stone-drop shafts promised death to anyone foolish enough to press too close without disabling the defences.
Valkraun's crown jewel had never been breached by force. Sieges against Halzyon were battles of attrition. The last time the city had fallen was centuries ago, when imperial troops starved the king and his people within their own walls, severing every supply line until surrender was inevitable. Present-day Halzyon by Ventren's estimation could endure a siege for five years—perhaps more.
Yet all that grandeur defences faltered beneath a single flaw...
The smell of burnt iron and the smell of corpses. The stench struck him long before he reached the gates. When he drew close to the walls, his stomach lurched violently. He nearly threw up—but there was nothing to expel.
Ahead, the guards frisked Chosrow merchants, their billhooks resting casually against their shoulders.
"This one's clear. No funny business, foreigner."
Ventren urged his steed forward as his turn came. One of the guards glanced up—and stiffened. Ventren's towering frame and horned helmet cast a long shadow over the gatehouse.
"A cloak bearing the sigil and colours of Ironhold," the guardsman said after a moment. "Welcome, Sir Knight. Your name, before we allow you to proceed."
"Sir Ventren," he replied evenly. "Victor of the Ironhold qualifiers. I'm here for the Great Tournament."
"I see."
The guardsman scribbled something onto a ledger.
"First time in the Royal Capital?"
"Yes."
"Alright, Sir Ventren, listen closely. The following laws were enacted by the Prince Regent and apply exclusively within Halzyon. You may bear arms, but this is not some vassal village. For example, you will not strike down a serf for disrespect and walk away. Any disputes are to be reported to the City Guard—or to those bearing my sigil."
He tapped his tabard. "A checkered blue-and-red field behind the double-headed wyvern."
"Duly noted, guardsman."
"And lastly," he added, stepping aside, "the Great Tournament begins in one week. Southern quarter, second wall. The Prince wishes every city's champion present hence the long wait."
"Thank you."
The portcullis rose with a groan of iron and Ventren passed into the city.
Despite the stench, Halzyon itself was… impressive. Streets were being cleared and repaved with higher-quality stone. Charred buildings were under renovation, scaffolds rising where fire had once reigned. Workers moved in disciplined groups—blacksmiths, carpenters, soldiers labouring side by side. In the distance, trenches were being dug and pipes laid.
"Plumbing. Sewers, perhaps," Ventren mused.
Everywhere he looked banners fluttered from walls and windows alike: Valkraun's new flag. A double-headed golden wyvern upon a dark green field or known as Prince Regent Vaenir's Flag.
And yet—
Ventren could not shake the witch's words.
A background of red and rivers of blood when Vaenir becomes king…
From the flat lowlands beyond the outer wall, Halzyon rose steadily toward the mountain's edge, its streets angling upward as if the city itself sought higher ground. Wall by wall, district by district, the elevation increased as stone roads gave way to steeper, terraced avenues. Buildings were carved partially into the rock as Ventren rode onward, their foundations fused with the mountainside.
Above them all loomed the upper districts and the palace seated near the mountain's face. From there, the rulers of Valkraun could see the plains, the roads and any army foolish enough to march toward the capital long before it ever reached the walls. Beside the palace was a grand cathedral dedicated to Matrem Myriam.
The greatest fortress-city in the world, built to repel hundreds of thousands of soldiers.
According to Irina's stories, Halzyon had been built this way to protect Valkraun's small population and to withstand the world's hatred toward Matrem Myriam and her teachings. Under her guidance, persecuted earth mages greatly assisted in the construction of the walls a millennium ago, working with the full support of King Valen IV the Great. The walls of old were not as massive or grand but formidable nonetheless for the time.
The walls are said to now be significantly taller and reinforced than before, with proper masonry and maintenance.
In response to the construction of the walls, all of Valkraun's neighbours declared war and laid siege to the city only to be repelled after losing thousands of men without making any meaningful progress. At best, they managed to breach only the first wall—and even that was made possible solely through the actions of a traitor whose name is lost to history.
In time, the rest of the world chose to leave Matrem Myriam alone, allowing her adherents to coexist with others. Her faith was treated as just another religion by worldly standards, despite its deviant teachings that condemned the very existence of the gods.
Only the imperials of Tytia still reject us openly now, huh.