Chapter 7 – The City That Wasn't
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The bridge into the Cradle of Shards stretched impossibly long.
Its surface was not stone, but memory. Every step Anterz took rippled across it, stirring visions of battles fought, faces glimpsed, choices made and abandoned.
The air smelled like rain that had never fallen.
The sky, though cloudless, rumbled softly—like the ground itself remembered storms long dead.
Anterz walked first, Valteris slung across his back, silent and heavy.
Elaria followed, close enough to touch him if the world began to fold again.
Neither spoke.
Words would have broken the fragile calm.
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The Cradle itself loomed closer.
It was not built.
It had grown—an accretion of broken dreams stacked into towers, bridges, and plazas.
Walls made of shattered mirror fragments.
Archways formed from the ribs of old ruins.
Lights that flickered between torches, stars, and memories of suns.
And at the center of it all, towering over the city, was a monument that made Anterz's blood freeze.
A statue.
Of himself.
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It wasn't just likeness.
It was him.
Anterz—crowned, robed, a blade of black fire in one hand, a globe of chains in the other.
Beneath the statue, the words had been etched in countless languages:
> "He Who Chose Not to Kneel, That We Might Kneel in His Place."
Elaria reached out and clutched Anterz's hand, tight.
"This isn't worship," she whispered.
"This is surrender."
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They passed through the outer ring of the city.
Every building reflected versions of themselves—some barely different, others horrifically twisted:
Anterz in golden armor, leading armies of ash.
Elaria seated on a throne of books, her eyes hollow, her crown too heavy.
A world where they won—but at the cost of becoming what they had fought.
Each image whispered to them, trying to lure them closer, offering easier paths, smoother roads.
Anterz kept walking.
Elaria squeezed his hand once.
He squeezed back.
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They reached the first plaza.
It was filled with people.
Or rather, memories of people.
Figures made of half-light, half-thought.
Citizens of a world that could have been.
They laughed, traded goods, danced in slow spirals across the square.
Children played near fountains that sang instead of spraying water.
Old men and women told stories to invisible grandchildren.
And when Anterz stepped into the plaza—
They all stopped.
Turned.
And knelt.
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The memory-crowd chanted in perfect unison:
> "Hail, the Maker of Silence."
> "Hail, the Weaver of Broken Songs."
> "Hail, the Crownless King."
Each voice layered atop the others, building into a thunderous psalm.
Elaria flinched.
Anterz stood frozen.
Not from fear.
From grief.
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He saw it clearly now:
The Cradle was not a city.
It was a graveyard.
Not of the world that had existed.
But of the world that never did—the world he might have forged if he had taken the throne atop the Tower, if he had chosen to rule, to conquer, to "fix" everything.
A world of peace bought with chains.
A world of beauty bought with obedience.
A world without choice.
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Elaria tugged at his arm.
"Don't listen," she said fiercely.
"They aren't real."
He shook his head.
"They could have been."
"But they're not."
She stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her.
"Because you chose us."
"Not them."
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The memory-crowd began to crackle.
Some figures melted into rain.
Others collapsed into statues.
The entire plaza shivered like a mirage.
A warning.
A threat.
A temptation.
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They passed through the square without another word.
Up the spiral path leading toward the heart of the Cradle.
Toward the Throne of Shards.
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The next street was worse.
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The houses here were perfect.
Every stone set with impossible precision.
Gardens bloomed in colors no natural flower could bear.
The sky overhead was brushed with auroras that spelled blessings in languages no longer spoken.
And inside the houses—
Versions of themselves waited.
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In one window, Anterz saw himself laughing, children around him. A family he never dared dream of.
In another, Elaria sat beside a fire, aged and content, teaching songs to wide-eyed students.
In another, they stood side by side, older, scarred, but ruling over a land that had never known war again.
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Anterz stumbled.
Elaria caught him.
"They're not promises," she said.
"They're traps."
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He tore his eyes away.
Forced himself forward.
Forced himself past the perfect life he might have lived if he had surrendered who he was.
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At the last turn before the Throne of Shards, they met the Herald again.
The skeletal rider.
Waiting.
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This time, it dismounted.
Walked toward them.
The ground cracked beneath its steps, not from weight—but from reality refusing to bear it.
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The Herald lifted its helm.
Beneath was no face.
Only a swirling mass of memories—grief, joy, rage, hope—all woven together into a visage that could not decide what it wanted to be.
Its voice rang out.
> "The Choir King awaits."
> "Will you kneel, Ruin-Bearer?"
Anterz stepped forward.
"No."
The Herald tilted its head.
> "Then bleed, Ruin-Bearer."
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The Herald attacked.
Faster than thought.
Its blade—a scythe made of frozen songs—lashed out.
Anterz barely blocked the first strike.
The force drove him back.
Elaria moved to flank, drawing a dagger of dream-forged steel she had taken from a fallen fracture bearer.
The Herald fought like memory itself—predicting their moves before they made them, striking where doubt lived.
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Anterz realized quickly:
The Herald wasn't just strong.
It knew them.
It carried every moment of hesitation, every regret, every weakness they'd ever allowed themselves to feel.
It wielded them like weapons.
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He grunted as a shallow cut opened along his ribs.
Elaria cried out as she was thrown against a wall of shimmering stone.
Valteris screamed in his hand—not in fear, but in fury.
> "He fights with what you deny."
> "You must fight with what you claim."
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Anterz dropped to one knee.
Not in surrender.
In acceptance.
He closed his eyes.
And let himself remember.
Not the victories.
Not the heroics.
The failures.
The betrayals.
The deaths he couldn't prevent.
The hopes he abandoned.
All the truth he carried.
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When he rose, Valteris burned brighter.
Not with power.
With presence.
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He met the Herald's next blow head-on.
Blade against scythe.
Choice against memory.
The impact shattered the illusions around them.
The perfect houses crumbled.
The kneeling crowds disintegrated.
The auroras fled the sky.
All that remained was the broken city—and them.
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Anterz disarmed the Herald in three strokes.
The Herald staggered.
Elaria drove her dagger into its chest.
The Herald looked at them both—silent, almost grateful.
Then it collapsed into dust, scattering memories into the wind.
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Silence.
True silence.
At the end of the street stood the Throne of Shards.
And upon it—
A figure robed in tattered banners of old wars and forgotten songs.
The Choir King.
Waiting.
Smiling.
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Elaria wiped blood from her cheek.
"You ready?" she asked.
Anterz sheathed Valteris.
"No," he said.
"But I'm going anyway."
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Together, they stepped into the heart of the Cradle.
Toward the King who sang the world back into chains.