Andorsa, the city of the minotaurs, was unlike any other. Most cities are born from stone, brick, sweat, and stubbornness. But Andorsa was born from bones. Not ordinary bones, but the ribs of a giant long dead and half buried in the earth. The ribs didn't just rise from the earth, they stabbed out of it, like some forgotten god had been buried alive and tried to claw his way back. The mountains around? Hah, they looked like embarrassed children, standing there green and short, pretending to be important but hiding in the giant's shadow.
From those ribs hung chains, heavy and rust-streaked, and from those chains dangled houses, swaying in the wind as if the giant were still breathing beneath the soil. A strange sight indeed, roofs creaking, windows trembling, families living as though suspended in the sky. Some houses had grown bold, climbing to the very top of the ribs, daring gravity itself. Others had settled on the ground below, clinging to earth as if suspicious of the bones above.
The mountains that surrounded Andorsa were green, yes, but beside those bones they looked like children standing in the shadow of a father too great to match. It was not a city; it was a story carved into the land.
The last time I was here was three years ago, with Azan. We had come searching for the forbidden island. Andorsa then was not silent, it was chaos. The empire wanted it for itself. They came with promises, offering the natives another land to live in. But the people refused. These were minotaurs, stubborn as mountains, proud as rivers. They would not leave their giant guardian, not even if it meant war.
And war did come. I still remember that day, how the streets filled with steel, how smoke darkened the bones themselves. And in the middle of it all stood Azan. That was the day I learned just how feared and powerful he was across the lands. He claimed this city for himself. And the empire, mighty, relentless, merciless, was forced to retreat.
Now I return, older and perhaps wiser, though I doubt the second part. I wondered if Azhar, the minotaur I once knew, would remember me. But here lay the problem: I could never quite tell one minotaur from another. Not being rude, of course, but their horns, their snouts, their thick brows, one might say they are carved from the same mold. If you lined up ten minotaurs in front of me, I might end up greeting a stranger with warm memories and ignoring the friend I sought. Ha!
I had wanted Yuki and Arnold to see this place. To see Andorsa in its beauty, to marvel at houses swinging from chains, to gape at ribs so large they blotted the sky. But Zaman shook his head. "The city is not what you remember," he said. And he was right.
After Azan's death and the downfall of his crew, the empire had once again sunk its claws into Andorsa. And now it was not a city of defiance but of silence.
So, the plan changed. Boot would stay behind with Yuki and Arnold.
"Who said I will be staying with children?" Boot scowled, his voice dripping with contempt. "I will not waste my breath in their company, you filthy mortal. I will not obey someone beneath me."
That is Boot, always Boot. If arrogance were currency, he would be richer than kings. Still, I know his weakness. Praise him a little, flatter him a lot, and soon enough his pride bends like a stubborn branch in the wind. So he agreed, though with the face of a man condemned. And thus, Zaman and I left the ship in his reluctant care, trusting him, unwisely perhaps, with its safety.
Inside the city, silence ruled. It was the silence of graveyards, not of peace. At this hour the streets should have been filled with noise, the hammer of forges, the cries of merchants, the tramp of hooves. Instead, only the echo of our steps walked with us.
The few minotaurs we passed did not greet us. They glared at me with open disgust. Their eyes, when they shifted to Zaman sitting lightly on my shoulder, widened. Surprise. Fear. Perhaps recognition. Perhaps memory. I could not say.
We moved on, through the empty market. Its stalls were shuttered, its wares hidden, its colors gone. I remembered an inn from long ago, a place where ale and gossip flowed together. Inns are always the best places for whispers, and I needed whispers.
That is when I saw them.
Two men. Pirates, by their dress. Each bore the mark of a mermaid tattoo on his hand. Then came the "legendary duo." Legendary for what, I've no idea, maybe for existing at the same time. One looked like he hadn't missed a meal since the empire was born; the other looked like he hadn't had a meal since the empire was born. If you put them side by side, it was like a before-and-after sketch of famine. They were dragging a line of minotaurs behind them, their horns bound, their hands chained. They cursed them as they went, loud and cruel.
The people stood frozen, eyes downcast, fear heavy in the air. It was like one of those old tales when the villain struts onto the stage and everyone waits for the hero. I too waited, for some brave soul to step forward. But no one did. Heroes, it seems, are always late when they are most needed.
A little girl among the captives pleaded for mercy. The fat pirate laughed and kicked her aside. Zaman's eyes flashed with a fury I had seen only rarely.
My hand reached for my blade. But before steel could sing, something else happened. Small balls rolled across the ground, clinking softly before bursting into smoke. Screams filled the air. The smoke rose thick, choking, and when it cleared, the pirates lay bleeding and the captives were gone.
A shadow leapt across the rooftops, swift as wind, carrying the rescued minotaurs from building to building. I could only watch as it vanished into the city's bones.
The crowd slipped away, silent, as though afraid the shadow might return. The pirates staggered up, pride more wounded than flesh. Their eyes found me.
"What are you staring at?" the fat one spat. "Do you take us for a joke? Come here."
So they had found someone to vent their anger on. Poor me.
I smiled. "Why don't you bring your beaten ass here instead?"
It was salt in his wound. He roared, snatched his friend's blade, and came swinging. But he cut nothing but air. I slipped aside, drove my fist into his belly, and dropped him to his knees.
The skinny one drew his sword. "Arrogant brat. You caught him off guard, but now I'll teach you manners."
He charged. His mouth was full of threats, his blade full of nothing. I stepped aside, caught him with my heel, and slammed him into the ground.
Zaman nodded approvingly. "That is how you knock sense into idiots."
We carried on, the fight forgotten like a joke told too often. And then we reached the inn.
When I pushed open the door, I froze.
The room was full of pirates. Not two, not ten, but dozens. And every one of them bore the same mermaid tattoo on their hands.
The air grew thick. Tankards stilled. Eyes turned.
And then, behind us, the door closed.