POV Elian
I follow Iolanda into the building where the offices and chambers of the elders known as Potencies are kept.
The structure rises at the very center of the Fortress, as though it were the beating heart of the Dark Throne. Its black walls, engraved with golden runes, glimmer beneath Cainã's sun, radiating an imposing weight upon the shoulders of any who dare approach. It is more than a building; it is the symbolic pillar that sustains the entire order, the guardian of the monument that keeps the magical barriers raised—the same I saw on my very first day.
Throughout the walk, Iolanda keeps her usual serene, serious expression. I, on the other hand, stay silent not out of respect, but because I am trying to guess why I am being taken to Elder Marduk. She told me tomorrow I won't have sword training. Why? What does the elder want with me?
I won't pretend innocence. It is probably about the altar I still haven't assembled, or perhaps about my adjustment to the Fortress. Maybe even news from my family.
A month has already passed since I arrived in Cainã. In that time, I've done nothing but train and read. I haven't visited the city, nor sent a single message home. I could have used the communication amulet the orders provide, but I haven't received mine yet. Elder Marduk himself asked me to endure the distance for now.
Perhaps he wants me to grow, to learn to depend less on them. I understand… I know how much I cling to my family, how much that bond is scarred by the trauma of my past life. Even so, absence corrodes.
We pass long corridors, lined with tapestries bearing ancient symbols of the order. Magi walk in silence, casting quick glances our way. Few speak, but all bow to Iolanda.
We ascend a spiraling staircase to the upper levels. The echo of our steps reverberates against the walls, each turn a reminder of the weight of the place to which I am being led.
The elders' building is not merely a tower. From the outside, its triangular shape resembles a pyramid piercing the sky, as if it were a mountain carved by chaos itself. Though I call it the elders' building, it also houses the offices of the Commanders—each floor reflecting a layer of the Dark Throne's hierarchy.
After minutes of climbing, we finally reach the floor reserved for the elders ranked as Potency. The air here feels heavier, saturated with condensed mana, as though every stone of this pyramid holds centuries of secrets and blood.
I notice another, narrower staircase climbing toward the very tip of the pyramid. The structure seems to touch the heavens. I ask Iolanda whether there are rooms up there. She answers with her usual serenity that she does not know—only Potency Elders have access. That makes me think it might be reserved for the one they call "Son of Lucifer."
We walk along a corridor of polished black stone. Silence reigns, broken only by the rhythm of our footsteps. Elder Marduk's office lies at the end, behind a door inscribed with crimson runes pulsing faintly like veins of living fire.
Two Arcane Swordsmen of the Third Hierarchy guard the entrance. Their black uniforms, lined in crimson, shimmer under the flames of enchanted torches. Their hands rest firmly on sword hilts, their stance rigid, their eyes sharp.
Looking around, I realize every door along the corridor is guarded the same way—two sentries for each elder. It makes no sense. Why guard those who are already among the most powerful of the order? The Fortress's barriers alone are nearly impenetrable.
"Is this ritual? Or do even the elders not trust one another?" I wonder, but keep my thoughts buried.
The tension grows heavier with each step closer to that door.
We stop before it. The two guards—swordsmen of Iolanda's same rank—greet her with a brief nod, as equals. No reverence, no submission. That strikes me. Even as the daughter of an elder, she receives no special treatment. The Dark Throne bows to neither blood nor name, but only to strength.
Iolanda raises her hand and knocks twice against the black wood. The sound echoes deep through the silent hall, like a solemn drum. Seconds pass until Marduk's voice, low and resonant, cuts through the air:
"Enter."
Iolanda opens the double doors—not with her hands. A controlled stream of mana flows from her fingers into the carved runes of the wood. The inscriptions flare in crimson, recognizing her essence, and the doors swing open with a grave creak.
I frown at the sight. Impossible not to compare it to the identification devices I once knew on Earth—fingerprint, retinal, facial scans. Here, the key is your very being: your mana.
"Even here, they have their technologies…" I think, watching the runes fade back to dormancy.
And it is not only that. For all its medieval appearance, this world has crafted magical solutions echoing the conveniences of my past life—distance communication through amulets, water systems powered by enchanted stones, even room heating by magical hearths. All adapted, all molded by magic, but functional.
A shiver runs down my spine. This is not just a world of swords and spells, but of hidden ingenuity. Every detail pushes my mind toward restless possibilities. If they have already shaped magic to open doors and channel water, what more might be created? I can almost feel an urgent thrill inside me, an impatience imagining the systems I myself might one day forge.
The doors part slowly, revealing the office of Elder Marduk. The atmosphere within is heavy, almost sacred, as if every stone is steeped in centuries of history and secrets.
Behind the main desk—broad, of polished black wood, covered in stacks of documents, quills, and an open inkpot—sits Marduk. He leans over the papers, writing with meticulous calm, not lifting his gaze at first. A candle at his side flickers, casting light across the silver ring on his index finger.
But the space extends far beyond his desk. To the left, long dark-leather sofas trimmed in gold frame a low table, upon which rest a crystal decanter and two untouched goblets. Upon the red rug embroidered with runes, the Dark Throne's symbol—a triangle entwined with roots—seems to pulse faintly, almost alive.
On that same wall, a smaller door stays closed.
Tall shelves line the room, burdened with grimoires and ancient tomes, some so old their leather has turned pale. A few newer volumes, still sealed, lie open on the elder's desk, as though he had been consulting them moments earlier.
From the ceiling, luminescent stones set in black-iron sconces bathe the room in warm, steady light, contrasting with the fire that crackles low in the hearth to the right. The wood's hiss soothes and intimidates at once.
And then—the detail that seizes my attention—the immense window behind the elder's desk. Through it, the city of Cainã sprawls beneath the afternoon sun, streets bustling, towers rising. Strange, though: outside, the pyramid bears no visible windows. This cannot be mere architecture.
"They use magic to hide them…" The thought chills me. If they have veiled the windows, how many other structures of this Fortress are not what they seem? How many secrets lie behind illusionary walls?
My eyes drift, almost unwillingly, to a map fixed to a nearby wall. Circles of runes mark points across the continent—each one a branch of the Dark Throne. I recognize one instantly: Brumaria. My gaze sticks there, an invisible weight pressing my chest. My home.
The entire room breathes mystery, power, discipline. It is no mere office—it is a throne of command, a pulsing heart that keeps the order alive.
Marduk finally raises his eyes, breaking the silence.
"Thank you for bringing him, Iolanda." His pause is brief, his grave voice filling the chamber. "Sit."
We obey, taking the seats set before his desk—dark-wood chairs, cushioned in crimson velvet, waiting like solemn witnesses to whatever is about to unfold.