Gray clouds covered the sky with solemn stillness. On the horizon, Mediavare stretched like a land of silence and ash. Its towers of quarantine lay collapsed, the cremation furnaces rusted and cold, and the temples that once held the dignity of farewell rose like broken bones. What had once been a place where death was treated with respect was now a cemetery of ruins and forgotten memories.
The Reconnect transport vehicle touched down on the broken plaza. Pablo descended first, crownless, wrapped in a patched wool cloak, his boots still caked with mud from the journey from Fortis. He did not look like a king; he looked like a son visiting a grave.
Beside him walked Dr. Elinor Carth, temporary minister and survivor of the Republic. Her silver hair framed a face worn by solitude and memory.
She stopped before a ruined temple, where hundreds of shattered urns lay scattered among the overgrowth.
—Here… —her voice cracked— here, respect was lost. When the Republic fell, no one came for the bodies. No one dared to say goodbye.
Pablo remained silent. His breath grew heavy, and his eyes clouded like the sky above. He gently touched one of the broken urns; the ashes within crumbled at his fingertips, as if even death itself could not withstand neglect.
—No more forgetting —he whispered, clenching his fist—. No more abandonment. Mediavare will not be a dump of bones. Here… the light will return.
⸻
He ordered the installation of solar cremation furnaces powered by Electrium, capable of functioning without human intervention. Farewell chambers were created for all citizens, and, most importantly, the Hall of Remembrance was designed, where every name, every face lost in wars and epidemics, would be preserved in both digital archives and stone.
Machines roared on the surface, but the real battle was underground. Restorers and archaeologists descended into forgotten catacombs, rescuing bodies that had never been cremated. Some were wrapped in strange symbols: emblems of the Circle of Infinity, a sect that worshiped death as eternity rather than release.
One worker handed Dr. Elinor a blackened relic, etched with a serpentine circle.
—Did you know about this? —she asked Pablo, showing him the object.
He held it in his open palm. The metal was icy.
—No. But I feel that Mediavare hides more than it shows.
⸻
The greatest discovery came in the central quarantine building. After tearing down walls of concrete and dark vidrium, they found a sealed chamber, invisible in any record. The walls bore inscriptions in an archaic language.
Elinor read aloud, her voice trembling:
—"Here lie the fragments of the shadow, kept to prevent the return of the seven."
The silence became unbearable.
Pablo rested his hand on the stone. His voice was barely a whisper:
—"The seven…"
Elinor looked at him, her eyes glassy.
—Majesty… what does shadow mean? What fragments could be so dangerous that they were sealed under tons of vidrium?
Pablo said nothing. At the center of the room stood an empty altar, as if whatever belonged there had been taken long ago. A void that hurt more than presence ever could.
He closed the door himself and ordered it to be resealed with pure layers of vidrium and a new epitaph:
"Let history remember, but let the present protect."
⸻
Days later, Pablo inaugurated the first civil war memorial. There were no flags or symbols of victory, only an endless stone slab engraved with names. Names of thousands.
At the foot of the list, one phrase:
"Here begins the peace of those who gave everything for a country not yet ready for peace."
Elinor, standing beside him, murmured:
—I always thought history was for the victors… but here, every name shouts that no one won.
Pablo lowered his gaze.
—It's not about winning. It's about not forgetting.
⸻
That night, the urns were honored one by one, and the sacred fires in Mediavare were rekindled. People wept silently, without speeches, without crowns of flowers—only tears and a shared flame.
Pablo stepped away from the group. He walked to a crumbled wall and gazed at the night sky, heavy above him like a slab. In his hand, he still held the Circle of Infinity relic. He turned it over between his fingers.
—Do we matter? —he asked the air, voice broken—. Or are we just names someone will erase again?
The wind blew cold. No one answered.
And yet, Pablo did not throw it away. He placed it in his bag, as if that question still held an echo waiting to be answered.
—We are not alone… —he whispered, though he didn't know to whom he spoke.
The flames of Mediavare burned higher, as if the city itself, after years of silence, was finally breathing again.
⸻