Six months had passed since their arrival at the Citadel—six months of changes, revelations, and subtle transformations.
Hope, Nefer, and Massa had entered as strangers to the land, but now they were part of its living rhythm, albeit in different ways. The Citadel itself sat like a remnant of a forgotten age, a massive fortress carved from black stone, surrounded by the towering veil mist and cliffs that kept it hidden from the outside world. And at the heart of it all, stood the ruler—The Emperor, though his real name, as Hope had come to learn through whispered conversations and bar gossip, was simply King.
Hope had been surprised by the simplicity of the name. No extravagant title. No cryptic surname. Just King. But the simplicity masked a man of depth and quiet dominion.
It was during one of his routine visits to the local bar—an unassuming place carved into the side of a rock, lit by soul lamps and frequented by wanderers and sentries—that Hope began piecing together the Emperor's story.
King had not always been this powerful. Half a century ago, he had stumbled upon the Citadel just like them—as an awakened, barely surviving the horrors of the Ashlands. Alone, he'd taken refuge within the stone walls, and for five years, he'd lived in silence and seclusion, fighting off Veil creatures, crafting the first semblance of order, and learning the secrets hidden in the very bones of the Citadel.
Then another awakened arrived—this one a woman. The two formed a bond, perhaps out of necessity at first. But time molded their connection into something deeper. Together, they carved out a life. They had children, and those children had children. The bloodline grew, and with each generation, the mundane population within the Citadel increased. Now, the city wasn't just a haven for awakened—it was home to almost two hundred non-awakened civilians, the descendants of King and the few others who had joined him over the decades.
What was strange—what gnawed at Hope's mind—was how these people existed in the Ashlands at all. By every known rule of The Veil, only those marked should be pulled into this forsaken realm. And yet these mundane people had been born here, lived here. How? The bar patrons would shrug, sip their soul-wine, and mutter superstitions. Some claimed King had found a way to create a permanent soul-tether to the Ashlands. Others whispered he had made a pact with The Veil itself. Either way, he ruled uncontested.
The Emperor was intelligent, shrewd in his governance. He didn't enforce labor or servitude—at least not directly. Instead, he imposed a system that leveraged the value of soul cores, the crystallized essence of defeated veil creatures.
Guards—awakened like Hope, Massa, and Nefer—were offered lodging, food, and protection in exchange for their service. Others who chose not to work directly for the Citadel had to pay a soul core to stay within its walls. No exceptions. It was an efficient economy of survival and power, and none dared question it. Even if they did, where would they go? The Ashlands were merciless.
Nefer and Massa had decided to stay within the palace walls and serve the Emperor. Their skills had impressed the inner circle, and soon enough, they were drafted into the elite guard, patrolling the citadel's deeper vaults and defending its borders from creatures that threatened its sanctity. Hope, however, had made a different choice.
At first, he'd stayed with them, but as time passed, he found himself drifting. The presence of others, comforting though it was, always felt temporary to him—like something he wasn't meant to hold on to. So, he'd moved out.
On one of his many scouting trips beyond the Citadel's reach, Hope stumbled upon a forgotten structure half-buried beneath layers of darkened roots and ash-stained soil. It looked like a temple—ancient, weather-worn, and silent. A sanctuary.
Clearing it had been a nightmare. Veil creatures had nested inside, fierce and territorial. The battles were long, brutal, and solitary. But Hope was persistent. He understood the land now—its rhythms, its monsters, its whispers. And after weeks of blood and strategy, he drove them out.
Most thought him mad for settling there, just outside the safety of the Citadel walls. Whispers circulated about the lone awakened who chose isolation over luxury, solitude over company. But Hope didn't care.
The temple wasn't large—two floors, a central hall, and a shrine of unknown origin—but it was his. For once, he didn't owe soul cores to anyone. He didn't report to guards or need to stand in lines. The air was quieter there. The walls, though cold, didn't judge.
And maybe, just maybe, he was always meant to live like this. Alone. Apart. Watching the world from the edges, but never really part of it.
That thought didn't bring him sadness anymore. It brought clarity.
And in a place as dark as the Ashlands, clarity was rare… and valuable.