Chapter II — Bastion, the Last Stronghold
The walls of Bastion rose from the frost like the ribs of some buried titan, black stone etched with the scars of a thousand sieges. The gates were iron, ancient, dented by claws and weather, yet still they held — the last walls in a world that had forgotten how to build.
The wind carried no scent of life here, only the tang of rust and cold. Blue torches burned along the ramparts, their flames unmoving, unfeeling — the same hue that flickered within my eyes.
This was home.
Alfara walked beside me, her cloak drawn close, her golden hair dimmed by the endless twilight. Her gaze swept the walls, the narrow streets beyond, the motionless sentinels standing watch along the parapets.
"What are they?" she whispered.
"Guardians," I said.
She stared at one as we passed beneath the gate — a figure in rusted armor, hollow-eyed, unmoving except for the faint rise and fall of its chest as if it breathed by reflex. "They… are they alive?"
"No. They've given that up."
Her brow furrowed. "Given it up?"
"They were soldiers once. When their minds began to slip, they came here and let the Keepers bind them to the wall. Easier than turning into the mad ones outside."
She drew back, horror softening into sorrow. "They chose to forget who they were… so they wouldn't lose themselves completely."
"That's what passes for wisdom in this age," I said.
She looked at the Guardians again, her voice quiet as prayer. "In my time, hope was the last thing a soul surrendered."
"In this time," I replied, "it's the first."
---
We crossed the outer square. What had once been a marketplace now held little more than echoes — stalls of stone and iron where undead haggled without voices, exchanging trinkets they no longer needed. Blacksmiths hammered at metal out of habit. A group of children — or what had been children — played with bones like marbles, laughing with mouths that no longer breathed.
Alfara flinched at the sound.
Everywhere she looked, she saw reflections of what she remembered: fountains where water once sang, now frozen solid; banners that had once caught the sun, now bleached and tattered; statues of gods worn faceless by time.
In her heart, she still heard the hymns of the Age of Life — the music of rivers and birds, the laughter of mortals. She remembered walking among gardens bright as dawn, the sky clear and endless. Her mother's voice, warm and patient. Her father's hand on her shoulder, steady as time itself.
Then light — and a tearing sensation, as though time had folded her in its palm and flung her forward.
She had awoken in the temple alone, her world gone to rot.
And now, this city — this Bastion — was what remained of creation.
---
We came at last to the high quarter, where the streets narrowed and the air grew still. Few undead lingered here. Those who did turned their heads as we passed, their gazes lingering on the light that seemed to follow Alfara wherever she walked.
At the top of the hill stood a tower that leaned like a weary sentinel. Its surface was patched with stone of mismatched color, as though rebuilt a dozen times by a dozen hands. Strange runes flickered across its door — dim, fractured, half-forgotten.
I raised a hand to knock, but the door opened before my knuckles met wood.
A figure stood in the doorway, wrapped in layers of grey cloth and dust. His skin was pale as wax, his eyes dull but deep — the kind of eyes that had seen too much to care anymore.
"Grimm," he said. His voice was soft, almost absentminded. "You don't usually bring guests."
"She's alive," I said.
He blinked once. "Impossible." Then, after a pause, "Intriguing."
Alfara inclined her head politely. "We seek knowledge. Of the past, and perhaps of what remains."
"Ah." He smiled faintly, as if at some private joke. "The past. A bad habit I've been trying to break for a long time." He turned, motioning for us to follow. "Come in, then. Don't let the cold listen in."
---
The inside of the tower smelled of dust and candle smoke. Shelves bowed under the weight of scrolls, cracked tomes, shards of relics from the Age of Life. A great sphere of glass hung in the center, filled with swirling mist that pulsed faintly, as if trying to remember what color once was.
Aethoron shuffled through the clutter, muttering to himself. "The spark of life… people still chase that myth? Hm. Thought the world had outgrown that sort of thing."
Alfara frowned. "It isn't a myth. It was real. My father—" She stopped herself, the words catching in her throat. "I mean… it was said the gods foresaw a way to undo this decay."
"The gods," Aethoron repeated, tone halfway between a sneer and a sigh. "Always so eager to fix what they broke. Can't leave a corpse to rest, can they?"
Something in his voice made my flames flicker uneasily.
"You said once there were others," I said. "The heroes from the old age — the ones who fought the gods' war."
He turned, eyes glassy but sharp. "Ah. Them. The half-dead saints." He chuckled. "They linger. Bound to the places they died. Monuments that forgot what they were built for."
Alfara stepped closer. "Can they be found?"
"Found?" He looked past her, as if peering through walls and centuries. "Oh, easily. They've been waiting. Waiting for something to remember them." His gaze refocused, sudden and sharp. "But don't expect gratitude. Death disappoints its heroes most of all."
Alfara's face softened. "If they still hold any spark of what they were, I can help them remember."
Aethoron's expression twitched, caught between amusement and melancholy. "You'll try to heal the dead? My dear, that's how we got here in the first place."
"Enough," I said, more harshly than I meant to. "Will you help us or not?"
He studied me for a long moment, then shrugged. "I have nothing better to do. The dead make poor conversation." He reached for a staff leaning against the wall — a black rod of iron etched with faint runes that glowed when his hand touched it. "Besides, the ruins have been quiet too long. A little noise might wake something worth listening to."
---
We left Bastion at dusk — though dusk meant little in a world where the sun never rose. The gates creaked open, their hinges groaning like old bones, and the wind swept in with a sound like distant weeping.
Behind us, the Guardians resumed their silent watch. Ahead stretched the wastes — a pale expanse where the horizon bled into fog.
Alfara glanced back once at the city, her light glimmering faintly against the dark. "How do they live like that?" she whispered.
"They don't," I said. "They just remember how."
Aethoron chuckled softly. "Memory's a fine chain. Strong enough to drag even gods into the grave."
Alfara looked at him, unease flickering in her expression. There was something about him — a depth that felt wrong, like a chasm filled with echoes of voices she almost recognized.
But she said nothing.
We walked on.
Toward the ruins of the old world.
Toward heroes who refused to die.
And, though none of us yet knew it, toward the end of everything Althoran had built.