The iron-banded gates of Fort Harrow groaned open at dawn, their hinges protesting like old courtiers forced into unwelcome bows. Asad Khan—Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib in the secret chambers of his soul—led the small party through the archway, boots crunching on frost-rimed cobblestones. The fort squatted on a low hill like a grizzled sentinel, its gray stone walls scarred by goblin raids and older wars. Banners of House Varyn snapped in the chill wind: a silver hawk clutching a rune-etched scroll. Torches guttered in iron sconces, casting long shadows that danced like hesitant verses.
[Diwan System Notification]
Location: Fort Harrow – Border Outpost of Valoria
Quest Update: Reach Safety – Partial Completion. New Objective: Secure Patronage or Passage to Aetherhold.
Poetic Essence: 245/245 (Regenerated overnight via meditative recitation)
Warning: Local mana density low. Verse-Backlash risk: 12% if overused.
Asad's lips twitched in that familiar ironic curl. "A fort," he murmured in Common, the System translating his inner Urdu seamlessly. "In my dreams, I knew palaces that crumbled faster than this. Yet here, stone pretends permanence while words birth empires."
Lirael walked at his shoulder, her half-elven bow strung and ready, green eyes scanning the battlements. Her new buff from Companion Bond shimmered faintly in his vision: +18% morale echo. Grom Ironvein stomped beside them, hammer slung across his broad back, beard braided with fresh iron rings scavenged from the road. The three farmers trailed, eyes wide at the soldiers mustering in the bailey.
A captain in chainmail and blue tabard approached, hand on sword hilt. "The singer from Thornvale? Lord Varyn awaits. Make it quick—the shaman's horde reforms by noon."
They were ushered into the great hall, a cavernous space of smoke-blackened beams and long tables. Lord Varyn, a gaunt man in his fifties with a hawk nose and worried eyes, sat at the high table flanked by advisors. Maps sprawled before him, marked with crude goblin runes and glowing spell-markers.
"Boy," Varyn said without preamble, "my rider claims you sang goblins to tears. Prove it. We face fifty more by midday. Words or steel—which wins the day?"
Asad met the lord's gaze steadily, the poet's wit sharpening behind the peasant youth's face. "Words have won greater battles, my lord. Empires fell not to swords alone, but to the verses that named their fall."
Before Varyn could scoff, a horn blared from the walls. "Raid! Shaman at the gate!"
Combat erupted too fast for poetry's luxury—tight, brutal, paced like a single sher exploding into reality.
Goblins poured from the treeline, twenty lean scouts led by a hunched shaman whose staff crackled with crude fire-runes. Arrows whistled. A farmer screamed as one took him in the shoulder.
Asad stepped forward on the parapet, Poetic Essence surging like aged wine. No time for full ghazals. A single couplet—adapted from earth's fire, tightened for pace:
"Jalata hoon apni taaqat-e-didaar dekh kar
Kyun jal gaya na taab-e-rukh-e-yaar dekh kar"
(I burn with envy at my own strength of vision
Why did I not burn up seeing the glow of my beloved's face?)
The words left his lips as pure resonance. The shaman's fire-runes flared—then turned inward. The goblin mage shrieked as phantom flames of self-doubt consumed its focus. Its staff exploded in harmless sparks. Allies faltered, arrows veering as "burning envy" manifested as disorienting heat mirages.
Lirael's arrows flew true—two goblins dropped. Grom's hammer crushed a skull with a wet crunch. Soldiers rallied.
[Ghazal Invocation – Rank F → E]
Metaphor Forge Triggered: Envy as Inward Flame
Enemy cohesion broken: -45% coordination
Experience: +280 (group)
Level Up! Now Level 6
New Passive: Echo of Envy – Minor foes suffer 10% accuracy loss near you for 60 seconds
The skirmish ended in under two minutes. Goblins routed, leaving eight dead. No epic charges—just verse, steel, and swift death.
Varyn stared, pale. "By the First Bard… you are no ordinary peasant."
Asad bowed slightly, the old mushaira grace surfacing. "Merely a traveler with inconvenient talents, my lord. Words that once moved hearts in another life now move… more."
The lord leaned forward. "Aetherhold needs such talents. The king grows weak. Factions circle: Warlords demand dragon-riders for border expansion; the Silence Order whispers that raw verse is heresy, that only regimented runes should rule. Merchants bribe for trade monopolies. Even elven envoys murmur of withdrawal. Take my letter to Minister Thalor. Prove your worth there, and patronage may follow."
[Quest Accepted: Letter to the Minister – Deliver to Aetherhold's Court. Reward: Patronage Tier 1, +500 XP]
Political Intrigue Flag Raised: Silence Order activity detected in region.
By mid-morning they rode south in a guarded caravan—twelve soldiers, supply wagons, the group now officially under Varyn's banner. The road wound through rolling hills where wild mana-flowers bloomed in response to hummed tunes. Lirael rode beside Asad, bow across her saddle.
"Teach me more," she said softly. "That couplet… it burned their will. In elven lore, bards once sang worlds into shape before the Great Verse fractured."
Asad smiled, eyes distant. "In my dreams, I was Ghalib—conqueror of words in a dying empire. Poetry moved hearts metaphorically: a ghazal could topple reputations, console widows, mock kings. Here? The System makes metaphor literal. 'Dil hi to hai na sang-o-khisht'—the heart is but heart, not stone—once healed sorrow. Now it summons shields of empathy. Listen."
He recited low, for her ears alone, adapting another classic:
"Hazaaron khwahishen aisi ke har khwahish pe dam nikle
Bohat nikle mere armaan lekin phir bhi kam nikle"
(A thousand desires, each one enough to take my life
Many of my wishes were fulfilled, yet still too few emerged)
The air shimmered. A nearby mana-flower unfurled brighter, its petals forming fleeting heart-shapes. Lirael gasped as a small buff pinged:
[Companion Bond Strengthened: +12% shared Poetic Essence recovery]
Lirael Latent Talent Awakened: Minor Verse Sense (Rank F)
Grom grunted from the wagon behind. "Fancy words. In Khazadun, we hammer truth. But… yer hammer sings. Tell me, lad—why hide yer age in that boy's skin?"
Asad's voice dropped, philosophical depth unfolding across the miles. "Because the cosmos jests, my friend. I died old, penniless in Delhi, watching my city burn under foreign boots. Seven children lost, patrons false, verses my only wealth. Reborn here, the Diwan System quantifies what was once divine madness. Existence drowns me still—'Duboya mujhko hone ne'—yet now I may conquer not just hearts, but reality itself. In old world, kings feared my pen for exposing their hollow crowns. Here, I shall rhyme their thrones to dust if needed."
The dwarf chuckled. "Poets. Worse than ale. But stand with ye."
Hours passed in such discourse. Asad wove real ghazals into lessons: one on fate making a wagon wheel repair itself smoother; another on love causing Lirael's arrow to fly truer during a minor wolf-pack scare (tight combat: three verses, five wolves felled in thirty seconds, System noting +110 XP).
By evening, the spires of Aetherhold rose on the horizon.
The capital sprawled across seven hills, crystal spires piercing clouds where sung winds kept floating gardens aloft. Golden domes gleamed beside rune-etched towers. The Great Verse-Weave hummed audibly—regulated magic flowing through aqueducts of light. Streets teemed: merchants hawking verse-scribed amulets, elven diplomats in flowing silks, dwarven forges ringing, human nobles in velvet plotting in litters. Air smelled of mana-roses, spiced meats, and intrigue.
[Location Discovered: Aetherhold – Capital of Valoria]
Bonus: +200 XP for first visit to major hub
Level Up! Now Level 7
Skill Evolution: Ghazal Invocation Rank E – Multi-couplet support unlocked (up to 3 lines without backlash)
They passed through the Hawk Gate, Varyn's letter granting entry. Minister Thalor's summons came by raven within the hour: audience at dusk in the Rose Throne Hall.
The hall lived up to its name—vast chamber of marble veined with rose quartz, walls hung with tapestries depicting the First Bard's creation song. Candle chandeliers dripped wax like melting secrets. King Eldric III sat on a throne entwined with living roses (a Silence Order concession, their symbol), a frail man of sixty with tired eyes and a crown too heavy. Beside him, Queen Lira (no relation to their companion), sharp and watchful. Flanking them: nobles in silks, generals in plate, and—lurking in shadows—a hooded figure in gray robes embroidered with silenced mouths. Silence Order.
Minister Thalor, a sleek man with oiled beard, read Varyn's letter aloud. "A verse-singer from the borders. Claims power beyond runes."
Murmurs. A warlord sneered: "Words? We need dragon-fire, not nursery rhymes."
The hooded agent smiled thinly. "Verse is unstable. The Order proposes banning improvisation. Only approved Spell-Runes ensure order."
Asad stepped forward, bowing with Delhi court flourish. "Your Majesty, words built your world. Allow me to demonstrate."
Political tension crackled. Factions watched: warlords hungry for glory, merchants for profit, Order for control. An elven envoy observed coolly.
Asad raised his voice, full ghazal flowing—integrated, adapted, powerful:
"Na tha kuchh to khuda tha, kuch na hota to khuda hota
Duboya mujhko hone ne, na hota main to kya hota
Bazm-e-duniya mein yeh majlis-e-arabab-e-hunar
Kya hai yeh sab, ek tamasha hai, bas ek tamasha hai
Hazaron khwahishen aisi ke har khwahish pe dam nikle
Bohat nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle"
(When nothing was, God was; had nothing been, God would be
My existence drowned me; had I not been, what would I be?
In this world's gathering of talented ones
What is all this? Merely a spectacle, just a spectacle
A thousand desires, each enough to take my breath
Many wishes fulfilled, yet still too few)
The verses resonated. Reality bent subtly: the king's tired eyes cleared as "divine existence" echoed, roses on the throne blooming brighter in affirmation. The warlord's aggressive posture softened into thoughtful nod—metaphor of "spectacle" exposing fleeting glory. The Silence Order agent recoiled as phantom veils of "unfulfilled desire" wrapped him, his silenced-mouth emblem flickering as if questioning its own dogma. Whispers spread: nobles saw rivals' hidden ambitions as shadowy illusions that dissolved under the rhyme's light.
The hall fell silent, awed.
[Major Verse Performance Success]
Political Influence: +35% with King's faction, -22% with Silence Order
Experience: +650
Level Up! Now Level 8
New Title: Court Rhymer (+20% persuasion in political settings)
New Skill: Intrigue Ghazal (F) – Reveal hidden motives via metaphor (cooldown 1 day)
Quest Update: Letter Delivered – Bonus: Minor Patronage Unlocked. Next: Navigate Court Factions.
King Eldric leaned forward. "You speak as if from another age. Stay. Serve as… advisor of words. But beware—the Silence grows bold."
Asad bowed, mind racing with Ghalib's old fire. In Delhi, verses mocked the Resident; here, they could unmake empires. Yet intrigue coiled: the hooded agent's eyes promised future blades in the dark. Lirael and Grom stood proud behind him, bonds deepening.
The poet within smiled. The conquest of eternity continued—one sher at a time.