Chapter 3: The Tale of the Land That Did Not Fall
Kai and Anya squeezed through the crowd until the heat of bodies and the mingled scents of dust and fresh bread wrapped around them. The steady splash of the fountain marked the heart of the square, where people had gathered in a loose ring. At its center stood the bard, boots planted firmly on stone, a well-worn guitar cradled against his chest.
A sharp, ringing chord cut cleanly through the market's noise.
"Gather close, good folk of Southreach!" the bard called, his voice carrying with practiced ease.
"Merchants, farmers, knights, and wanderers, set down your coins and lend me your ears, for this is the tales of The Land That Did Not Fall."
The crowd obeyed almost instinctively. Conversations softened. A blacksmith rested his hammer against his thigh. Two Iron Host soldiers folded their arms. Children climbed onto crates and shoulders, eyes bright with anticipation.
The bard began to play, the melody steady and grounding.
"Aethermoor," he sang,
"A land held aloft by roots older than memory,
Watched over not by one hand,
But by many, bound by oath and sacrifice."
Murmurs rippled through the listeners. Coins paused mid-count. Even the animals tethered nearby seemed to still.
"In the North," the bard continued, his voice turning cold and clear,
"Where ice creeps like a living thing,
Stands Sivan Frostweave, the Ice Warden.
She holds back frozen death with crystal and will,
Sheltering her people while seeking truths long buried,
Clues left behind by a leader who vanished before the first seal was wounded."
A woman wrapped in furs nodded solemnly. An old man muttered a prayer. Apprentices whispered the name Frostweave as if it were a charm.
The tune shifted, warmer now, steady as a marching rhythm.
"And to the South," the bard proclaimed,
"Where fields stretch wide and walls stand firm,
Rides Garron, the Knight King.
Born not of nobility but grit and steel,
He leads the Iron Host with honor,
Guarding plains and people alike,
Preparing for storms yet to come."
A ripple of pride passed through the crowd. Knights straightened. A farmer raised his fist. Anya clapped softly, eyes shining.
The music deepened, wilder now.
"In the West, where forest and mountain claw the sky,
The beasts themselves stand watch.
Griffins, wolves, and creatures of fang and feather
Answer to the White King,
Unseen, yet ever present,
Protector of the wild lands where the World Tree's roots run deep."
Gasps followed. A child whispered, "Is he real?" An older woman hushed him without looking away.
The melody slowed, stretching like heat over sand.
"And in the East," the bard said softly,
"Where desert scars still mark the land,
And soil remembers old ruin,
The Desert Protectors endure.
They guard fragile oases and guide the lost,
Holding the line while the land heals,
So life may one day bloom again."
Silence settled over the square, heavy and reverent.
"Different lands," the bard said, lifting his gaze,
"Different burdens.
Yet bound by one purpose."
"Elves and gnomes, knights and mages, beasts and watchers,
Stand apart, yet together.
They are Aethermoor's shield.
And while shadows stir beyond the horizon,
Know this,
The land still stands because they do."
The final chord rang out, echoing against stone and steel.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the square erupted in applause.
Coins clinked into the bard's pouch. Voices rose in praise. Children cheered. Even the knights nodded in approval.
"That was amazing!" Anya exclaimed, clapping as hard as she could.
Kai smiled, something warm settling in his chest. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It makes the world feel bigger and safer."
As the applause faded, voices called out eagerly.
"Again!"
"Another tale!"
"Sing more, Luise!"
"Silence, everyone!" someone shouted. "Bard Luise will begin again!"
The square quieted once more. Luise lifted his guitar, fingers resting on the worn strings.
"Long before walls were raised and crowns were claimed," he began, voice lower now,
"Before steel learned to sing in battle,
The demigods walked this world as guardians.
And when darkness rose from the seas,
They did not flee."
The crowd leaned closer.
"They bled so the land would not,
Burned their lives to light the world's last hope.
From their sacrifice rose the World Tree,
Its roots drinking corruption,
Its leaves carrying sanity and life."
A murmur of awe spread. Faces tilted upward instinctively.
"The World Tree is not merely wood and leaf," Luise said.
"It is a promise made flesh,
A vow that the world would not fall quietly into shadow."
He struck a sharper chord.
"But promises demand vigilance."
"Power came from the stars as fire and stone,
Fragments that grant strength to any hand bold enough to grasp them.
Strike. Weave. See.
Gifts that do not ask who you are,
Only what you are willing to lose."
A hush followed.
"Flesh turns to stone.
Bodies fade into light.
Memories slip like sand through open fingers."
A woman shuddered. An old man hug himself.
"And so the protectors stand watch," Luise said softly,
"Not because they are fearless,
But because they fear what happens if they fail."
The melody gentled.
"Remember them when the skies darken.
Remember them when the land trembles.
For though they stand apart,
They bleed the same as you."
A pause followed.
"And somewhere," he whispered,
"Even now,
Fate sharpens its blade."
The final note faded into silence.
Then the crowd erupted once more.
For Kai and Anya, the market of Southreach felt different now.
Not merely a place of trade and noise,
But a place where legends breathed,
And where the land itself seemed to listen.
Braxon found them while the crowd was still thick with listeners.
The bard's guitar rang out again behind them, a fresh melody rising as people pressed closer to the fountain. Applause faded into eager murmurs, then into silence as Luise began another verse. The market did not slow; it simply flowed around the performance, trade and legend sharing the same breath.
"Kai. Anya."
Braxon's voice was calm but carried easily through the noise.
Both children turned.
"Father!" Anya said, tugging at his sleeve.
"He's still singing. He's telling another story!"
"I can hear that," Braxon replied, a faint smile touching his lips.
Kai straightened. "We didn't wander far. Just the fountain."
"I know," Braxon said. "You did as you were told."
Behind them, the bard's voice rose again, speaking of ancient oaths and stars that watched from beyond the sky. A few listeners shushed latecomers as they tried to squeeze into the circle.
Braxon crouched slightly so he was level with his children. "The goods are sold," he said quietly. "Every crate. Even faster than usual."
Kai's eyebrows lifted. "Already?"
"A good market day," Braxon replied. "Which means we'll be heading home once the crowd thins."
Anya hesitated, glancing back at the bard.
"Can we stay a little longer? Please? He's not finished."
Braxon followed her gaze. Luise had closed his eyes as he played, fingers moving with practiced ease, his voice weaving another chapter into the air. The crowd listened like a single breathing thing.
"…a little longer," Braxon said at last. "But stay where I can see you."
Anya beamed. "Thank you!"
Kai nodded, relief plain on his face. "We'll stay right here."
Braxon rose and stepped back toward the edge of the square, leaning against a stone post where he could watch both the children and the crowd. To anyone else, he was just another farmer lingering after a sale.
The bard's song continued, rich and steady, carrying tales of lands yet untraveled and trials yet to come. Coins clinked again into Luise's pouch as late listeners paid in advance, unwilling to miss a single word.
Anya swayed gently to the music. Kai listened in silence, eyes fixed on the bard, the stories settling deep in his chest.
And while Southreach bustled and bargained around them, the song went on, unbroken, as if the land itself had decided it was not yet done listening.