The chimneys of Silverhaven coughed thick smoke into the twilight sky as Aras followed his father through the cobbled streets. The city smelled of coal and gunpowder—a far cry from the elven forests his mother described in her stories. Ash settled on rooftops like black snow. Somewhere, a factory bell tolled, echoing through the stone alleys.
The Golden Hall loomed before them, its marble façade now streaked with soot. Inside, five figures argued over a map lit by flickering gas lamps. Brass gears ticked softly from the walls—relics of a time when innovation still felt noble.
1. Consul Volkov (Human)
A bear of a man in a tailored trench coat, fingers stained with ink and oil.
He leaned over a wireless transmitter humming with Vesperan static:
"—their steel production exceeds projections—"
2. Consul Sylria Yashira (Elf)
Her silver hair was pinned under a worker's kerchief, eyes sharp as broken glass.
She tossed a bloodstained orc tusk onto the table.
"The Blacktusk Clan demands tribute. Again."
3. Consul Drayven (Dwarf-Human)
His mechanical left arm whirred as he adjusted a slide rule.
"We either give them the new rail lines or put bullets in their skulls. Choose."
Aras watched, silent. This wasn't governance—it was a backroom deal in a war factory.
That night, his mother pressed a rusted elven locket into his palm. Her fingers trembled, knuckles raw from scrubbing uniforms.
"This belonged to my sister. The last Yashira who could still hear the wind."
The Truth About "Magic":
Elves once commanded storms. Now, they could barely mend a torn shirt (and only if the fabric was silk).
"Our blood's too thin now. But yours…" She trailed off as factory whistles screamed outside.
Aras clenched the locket. It didn't glow. Didn't hum. Just sat there—a dead thing.
Three days later, Talis (the street rat) dragged him to the industrial district. The air buzzed with electricity; dogs barked behind wire fences.
A Vesperan freight train idled on the tracks, its cargo hidden under tarps.
"They're shipping something to the front," Talis whispered. "Something that smells wrong."
They crept closer. Then—
A hand clamped over Aras's mouth.
Consul Sylria stood behind them, her knife at Talis's throat.
"Run home, little lord. This isn't your war yet."
But Aras saw it: a child's shoe peeking from under the tarp.
Not weapons. People.
His father found him vomiting in the alley. The rain had started—soft, but oily.
"Good," Kalen said, lighting a cigarette beneath the eave of a shuttered pub.
"Now you know what we defend."
The Price of Eryndor's Peace:
The trains would roll out at dawn.
The Council would look away.
And the last elven "magic" would be spent stitching up soldiers in the infirmary.
Aras wiped his mouth. The locket in his pocket felt lighter.
Or maybe he was just getting heavier.
In this city, iron rang like prayer. And Aras knew—here, hope didn't live. It only waited in death.