Date: April 8, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The morning sun of Ligra barely penetrated the veil of low clouds when two shadows, stumbling and breathing heavily, emerged on the home stretch before the northern gates. Dur and Maël looked as if they had been through the mills of the underworld. Dur's clothes were soaked with blood—his own and that belonging to Korgar the "Boar." His arm was tightly bound with a dirty strip of cloth, and in his eyes was the feverish fatigue of a man who had balanced on the edge of life and death for several hours.
Maël looked even worse. His usually lively face had taken on a grayish tinge, and his side, ripped open by a mercenary's knife, continued to bleed despite all of Dur's attempts to stop the flow. He was almost hanging on his friend's shoulder, moving his legs purely mechanically. His Spirit of Adaptability, which had made an impossible leap in Black Grove, now lay dormant, leaving its bearer in a state of profound energy exhaustion.
"A little… more…" Dur rasped, feeling his knees buckle. "See the towers? We're almost… home."
"Home…" Maël smiled bitterly, the smile more like a grimace of pain. "Dur, you have no idea… how right you are."
At that moment, when no more than eighty paces remained to the massive gates, the air around them suddenly changed. It became thick, cool, and filled with the subtle scent of expensive tobacco and lavender—a smell that could not possibly belong to Ligra's dusty outskirts.
From behind a spreading old elm standing right by the road, a man stepped out silently. His appearance was so natural, as if he had woven himself from the morning mist itself. An impeccable gray doublet, gold embroidery in the form of intertwined wheat sheaves and swords—the symbol of the Agrim family's power—and a face radiating such calm that it seemed almost divine.
Dur instinctively flinched, trying to shield Maël and reach for his knife, but his arm fell limply. The power emanating from this man was not aggressive, but overwhelming, like the weight of a mountain deciding to move.
The stranger took a step forward. A soft, almost fatherly smile played on his lips. He ignored Dur, fixing his gaze directly on Maël.
"Well, rested, Maël?" The stranger's voice was deep, velvety, and full of hidden irony. "Or did forest excursions in the company of wild trackers prove a little more tiring than your philosophy lessons in the capital?"
Dur felt Maël, who had barely been standing, suddenly freeze. All his feigned bravado, all his street cunning and slyness evaporated in an instant. Maël slowly raised his head. In his eyes, Dur saw not the fear he expected, but something far more complex: a mixture of profound respect, guilt, and relief.
"Uncle Sarim…" Maël breathed, and in that whisper was so much reverence that a chill ran down Dur's spine.
Sarim Agrim, the Administrator of Ligra, came close. He paid no attention to the dirt and blood soiling his nephew's clothes. With a confident movement, he embraced Maël, pressing him close. Maël, like a broken doll, buried his forehead in his uncle's shoulder, and Dur could have sworn he heard a quiet, shuddering sigh.
"Hush, my boy, hush," Sarim whispered, stroking Maël's disheveled hair. "You had us worried. Your father, Agrim Ma Rat, personally sent me a letter demanding a report on your 'progress.' I think today's outing deserves its own chapter in that report."
Sarim pulled back and finally turned his gaze to Dur. His eyes, dark and penetrating, seemed to see not just a youth with a bow, but every thread of his fate, every training session with Torm, and every arrow loosed in Black Grove. Under that gaze, Dur felt utterly naked.
"And you must be Dur," Sarim said, genuine curiosity in his voice. "That 'wild talent' Horn has been reporting to me about for the last three days. 'A savage with a head on his shoulders,' as he put it. I'm impressed. Not many grown warriors would have survived a clash with Korgar, and you didn't just survive—you won."
Dur was silent, not knowing how to react. Reality was crumbling. Maël—the nephew of the Administrator? That clever guy from the cubbyhole above the tannery—a member of the Agrim family?
"You're both wounded," Sarim stated, the tones of an administrator returning to his voice. "The game of hide-and-seek is over. You're coming with me."
A luxurious carriage, drawn by four black horses, pulled up to the road as if from nowhere. The carriage windows were curtained with silk, and the Family's coat of arms shone on the doors. Two servants in strict livery jumped out and, taking Maël by the arms, carefully helped him inside.
"Get in, Shadow," Sarim nodded to Dur. "You need a healer's help too. And we'll have a long talk about your place in Ligra's system."
Dur, staggering, entered the carriage. Inside, it smelled of leather and expensive oils. Maël was already lying on soft cushions, his eyes closed, his breathing steady—Sarim had apparently used some calming Spirit or artifact. Sarim sat opposite them, maintaining the same majestic calm.
The carriage moved, gently rocking on its springs. Ligra flashed by outside the window—the dirty alleys of Grumbler's Street, the noisy markets, the guard posts… All of it now seemed like scenery to a play, whose true meaning Dur was only beginning to grasp.
They entered the city's Inner Circle. Here, the streets were paved with white marble, and the houses resembled palaces. Finally, the carriage stopped before the wrought-iron gates of the Agrim Estate.
"We're here," said Sarim, standing up. "Welcome to civilization, gentlemen heroes."
Dur and Maël were led to a side wing of the estate. Healers were already waiting for them. Dur's wounds were treated with an ointment that spread a pleasant coolness through his body, and bandaged with clean linen. Maël was taken to separate quarters—Sarim personally saw to it.
An hour later, when Dur, clean and changed into simple but high-quality clothes of fine cotton, sat in a spacious room overlooking the garden, the door opened. Maël entered. He limped, his side was bandaged, but on his face played that same familiar smile—though now it was slightly apologetic.
He sat in an armchair opposite Dur and was silent for a long time, looking out the window at Ligra's spires.
"You probably want to hit me," Maël finally said, not turning around.
"Yes," Dur answered honestly. "But first I want to understand. You're an Agrim?"
Maël sighed and turned to his friend. His eyes were now serious, devoid of their usual frivolity.
"Yes, Dur. My full name is Agrim Ma El. I am the first son of Agrim Ma Rat, the Head of our family."
Dur froze. The son of the Head of the entire family? The man who could split mountains?
"My father… he's an unusual man," Maël continued. "He raised us strictly. He gave up his habits for each of us, believing a parent's example is the best teacher. He wanted me to learn the world not from palace windows, but from the very bottom. So he sent me here, to Ligra, to my uncle Sarim. But Sarim… he's too good an administrator. He wanted to slot me into the structure immediately, give me a position, duties… And I wanted freedom. I wanted to see if I could survive on my own, without the family name and gold."
Maël smiled bitterly.
"And I survived. Thanks to you. You were the only real thing in this whole game, Dur. You didn't know who I was, and you protected me just because we were friends."
Dur looked at his hands. Clean, well-kept hands in a rich estate.
"And now what?" he asked. "Now we're part of the 'structure'?"
"Now," Sarim's voice came from the door. The Administrator had entered unnoticed. "Now you will train properly. Dur, your talents as a tracker are only a small part of what lies hidden in you. And you, Maël… your Spirit has finally awakened. And I won't let that potential burn out in the ditches of the artisans' quarter."
Sarim walked to the window and pointed east.
"Ligra is just a tiny dot on the map of our holdings, Dur. The outskirts. The real world is vast, and it is cruel to the weak. You dream of something great, I see it in your eyes. But until you become stronger, your dream will remain just a dream."
Dur looked at Maël, then at Sarim. He remembered the oath under the Old Pine. To change the world, you had to have the power to change it. And here, in Ligra, under the wing of the Agrim family, they were offering him that power.
"I'll stay," said Dur. "But I won't be your cog, Sarim. I'll learn, so that one day… I can continue my own path."
Sarim smiled—this time without irony.
"We're not looking for slaves, Dur. We're looking for allies. Rest. Tomorrow, your training will change your understanding of pain and strength."
When Sarim left, Maël extended his hand to Dur.
"Sorry I didn't tell you before. I was afraid… afraid you'd stop seeing me as a friend."
Dur shook his hand.
"You're still that same clever guy, Maël. Only now you have a more expensive roof over your head."
That night, Dur slept in the estate for the first time. He dreamed of water—but this time it wasn't a black abyss. It was a vast sea he would one day conquer. Because now he had not only will, but a path to true power.