The pale afternoon light filtered between the tall buildings of Chronos, casting long shadows across the winding alleys. The city's restless energy echoed off the stone walls, a mix of merchant cries, rumbling carts, and hurried footsteps. Amid this urban chaos, Samuel and Canon moved through the streets with purpose, their eyes scanning each face like hunters tracking prey. The capital buzzed with life—vendors shouting prices, children darting between stalls, the mingled scents of spices and sweat thick in the air—but Samuel had only one thing on his mind.
He approached a young apple vendor, barely twenty.
"Have you ever heard of the Heart of Aethril?"
The boy blinked, confused.
"The... what? Is that the name of a weapon?"
"Never mind."
A little farther, a stylish jeweler answered with a chuckle,
"Aethril? Sounds like an old perfume brand."
"We're off to a great start," Canon muttered, puffing on his cigarette.
Samuel kept asking. An apprentice herbalist. A blacksmith. A group of students and professors from the Academy. All young. All clueless. None of them had the slightest idea what the Heart of Aethril was—or even who, or what, Aethril might be.
"What I don't get," Canon said, annoyed, "is how something that powerful can vanish so completely from memory."
Samuel didn't answer, but his eyes darkened.
Eventually, they reached an older street, with uneven cobblestones and dark timber shops. One weapon stall caught their eye: worn blades, but well-maintained. Behind the counter, a weathered man was cleaning a curved sword.
Samuel didn't waste time.
"Aethril. Does that name mean anything to you?"
The man looked up. One of his eyes was milky and blind, but the other lingered on Samuel for a moment before he gave a slow nod.
"Aethril… the cursed colossus." He set down his cloth. "That's a name I haven't heard in years."
Canon stepped forward. "Can you tell us more?"
The old man shook his head.
"Forty years ago, a giant came from the north. Massive, black as ash. They called him Aethril. He wanted to turn everything into dust. Had no voice. No soul. Just a will to destroy."
Samuel narrowed his eyes.
"And his heart? A relic?"
"No one ever saw it. Didn't even know he had one. After he was defeated, people say he just vanished—evaporated into nothing. Some claim it was all an illusion, a tale to scare children."
He picked up his cloth again.
"Time did the rest. People forgot. Or chose to forget. No wonder those young merchants didn't know a thing. Most weren't even born when it happened."
Samuel stood in silence, his gaze distant.
One last stall stood ahead, this one filled with strange and exotic objects. An old man sat on a stool, watching the crowd with sharp eyes, a thin pipe clutched between his teeth.
Samuel approached. "I'm looking for information about Aethril. And his heart."
The old man met his gaze, then offered a faint smile.
"You're chasing a ghost, brother. But if you want someone who knows, talk to old Kazan."
He tapped his pipe against the counter.
"One of the ten heroes who fought him. The only one still alive, for that matter."
Canon raised an eyebrow.
"Kazan? What is he, a hero or a hermit?"
"He's a master now. Runs a dojo just two streets from here. Easy to find. Ask any adventurer."
Samuel turned without a word.
Canon exhaled, grinding out his cigarette.
"Finally, something that feels like a lead."
Samuel muttered without stopping:
"Let's just hope he's still lucid enough to tell us what he knows."
And they walked off, their steps echoing on the stone, in search of an old man who might hold the answers they needed.