Date: April 28, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The idea came from Maël. After more than two weeks of exhausting training, when every morning began with overcoming oneself, and every evening with studying maps and scrolls, he was overcome by a thirst for simple human joys. Or rather, the version of them available in Ligra.
"Shadow Theater," he said one evening, stretched out on his bed, staring at the stone ceiling of their shared room. "Premiere tonight. 'The Tale of the Bottomless Lake.'"
Dur, wiping the blade of his hunting knife with an oiled rag, looked up.
"Theater? With actors?" He pictured the traveling comedians he sometimes saw in childhood by the orphanage walls—loud, brightly dressed people performing simple skits.
Maël smirked, guessing his thoughts.
"Not quite. It's different here. It's not people acting. It's spirits."
At these words, a chill ran down Dur's spine. For him, spirits were either brute force, like Joran's, or a tool for adaptation, like Maël's. He couldn't imagine them participating in something as ephemeral as a performance.
"How?" he asked simply.
"You have to see it," Maël replied, a spark of excitement igniting in his eyes. "Uncle Sarim gave permission. Said cultural development is no less important than physical. Especially now."
In the evening, they left the estate and headed for the central district. Their path led to a large structure resembling a circus tent near the main square, but made not of colorful canvas, but of dark, almost black silk, embroidered with silver stars and constellations. A crowd milled at the entrance—merchants with families, wealthy artisans, a few officers in dress uniform. The air was filled with excited chatter, the smell of roasted nuts and sweet flatbreads.
Inside, it was as dark as outside. Long rows of benches descended amphitheater-style towards a large, completely white screen stretched at the back of the stage. Maël found two seats in the middle of the hall, and soon the light globes under the ceiling went out, plunging the space into complete, oppressive darkness. Dur felt a familiar pang of claustrophobia, but he breathed deeper, as Koch had taught, and clenched his fists, forcing himself to calm down.
The silence was broken by a low, velvety voice-over, telling of the founding of Ligra, of the first settlers who came to the banks of the Liran River. And then an image appeared on the screen. It wasn't drawn. It was woven from light and shadow, moving, alive. Spirit-artists, invisible to the viewer, created pictures right in the air, projecting them onto the white surface. It was like an animated engraving—the outlines were slightly blurred, translucent, but incredibly expressive.
Dur froze, mesmerized. He saw boats with the first settlers float across the screen, saw them build the first wooden fortifications, saw them fight wild beasts. This was art, but art breathing with magic. He saw the spirit of wind fill the boats' sails, making the folds of fabric on the screen billow; saw the spirit of earth help raise the walls, stone blocks laying themselves upon each other. This was a world where magic served life, not just death.
Then the narrative reached the conflict with Alvost. Figures appeared on the screen in angular, fearsome armor, with spirits resembling demons of darkness—clawed, horned, spewing black smoke. Ligra's defenders, in contrast, were clad in shining armor, their spirits were noble griffins, mighty bears, shields of pure light. The battle was depicted epically and one-sidedly: noble defenders against hordes of faceless invaders.
Dur listened and watched, but now his mind, tuned for analysis, began to note discrepancies. Where was the economic background he had studied in the library? Where were Alvost's internal conflicts? This was not a story, but a myth. Propaganda meant to unite the people against an enemy.
He glanced at Maël. He sat with a stony face, but a barely perceptible ironic smile played at the corner of his mouth. He too saw the lie. But the necessary lie.
The climax of the performance was the scene at the Bottomless Lake—a place which, according to legend, was the cradle of the first water spirit. The Alvostians, driven by greed, tried to desecrate the lake, but a Ligran hero named Elian, bearer of the "Heart of the Lake" spirit, sacrificed himself, merging with the waters and creating an impassable whirlpool that forever protected the borders.
And as the storm raged on the screen and the lake's waters surged, swallowing the invaders, Dur felt his own long-held fear of water grip his throat. He saw not an epic victory, but a cold, all-consuming abyss, the horror of falling into black, icy emptiness. His fingers dug into the wooden seat. It was too close. Too real.
The performance ended with thunderous applause. The lights came on, and people, eyes shining, began to disperse, discussing what they had seen with enthusiasm.
Dur sat motionless, still trying to catch his breath. Maël touched his shoulder.
"Well?" he asked quietly.
"Beautiful," Dur forced out. "And… scary."
"Scary?" Maël was surprised.
"They made war a fairy tale. And death—heroic. But death… it's not like that. It's dirty. And water… it doesn't protect. It just takes."
Maël looked at him with new understanding.
"You're right," he said after a pause. "It's a lie. But a sweet lie. People need heroes and clear boundaries between good and evil. Especially now. Sarim uses it to strengthen the city's spirit."
They left the theater into the cool night air. The city lived its life, but now Dur saw it differently. Behind the façade of order and well-being hid a complex machine, where even art was a cog. He thought about his fear, how the performance had touched his most sensitive spot.
"They use our weaknesses," he suddenly realized aloud. "Not just with swords. But with this too. With fairy tales."
Maël nodded, his face becoming serious.
"Of course. War isn't just battles. It's a battle for minds. Alvost, I'm sure, shows its people pictures of us as greedy tyrants. And they too believe in their truth."
This thought was troubling. The enemy was no longer just soldiers in armor. They had become a system of beliefs, a myth that needed not just to be defeated, but debunked. And Dur understood that his "Better World" must be stronger not only by the sword, but by truth. But which truth was real? The one in Orven's archives? Or the one in the propaganda performance? Or some third one, yet to be found?
Returning to the estate, they were silent. But this silence was more eloquent than any words. They had just seen another face of war. And it was as dangerous as a honed blade in a master's hand.