☀️ Arselia and Akonia

Klinolog
A lone fishing boat rocked gently on the waves, like the dwarf clouds lazily crawling across the morning sky. The light paint had peeled off, and a hastily patched hole on the starboard side spoke volumes about the quality of this raft forgotten by the goddess in the midst of bottomless unknown.
Having once again pulled up an empty net, the gray-haired gentleman hunched under the weight of time cursed quietly, puffed on his crumpled cigar, and tried again for the thousandth time.
—..First the Anuzish Belt, now Anuzish sweat. What next part of the goddess shall we name ourselves after?..
Continuing to grumble, the sailor made his way to the cabin, where his usual provisions x1 and a stack of papers awaited him on a rusty table. Pulling off his soaked boots, he groaned as he re-bandaged his blackened finger and set about his meager ration. Each hard-swallowed bite of dried food passed through his stomach with sharp pain. Acid rose to his throat in a nauseating surge, but over the years he had stopped paying attention to such trifles. Uncorking his hip flask, the man tilted his head back and doused the pain with the bitterness of alcohol. It briefly refreshed his mind.
—As they say, from Aconia to Agony is just one letter, heh-heh! —chuckling at his own unexpected observation, the sailor reached for the table cluttered with junk. There, atop the salt-dissolved papers, waited a clean envelope carefully sealed unlike the others. Hooked the edges of the document with his dirty thumbnail, he freed with a sharp motion a letter written in neat feminine handwriting:

Dear K.,

How are you? Still chasing that unattainable dream? Perhaps it's time to come home? P. and I won't abandon you. We'll help with both money and work.

Everything here is as before. M. successfully passed her entrance exam to the academy! R. dreams of following in my footsteps. No, not what you thought — a journalist!

Work is as always overwhelming. But when was it ever different with us?.. Independent publishers have a tough time these days. On the other hand, it turned out to be a wonderful opportunity to see the world and meet all sorts of people. I think a person with your talents and knowledge would find a place with us too.

I'm sending our photographs, as well as some from the new millennium celebration in Magrel. You probably know about all the events there even without me.

With best wishes,
Yours sincerely,

Yu. and P.

PS: You never reply, but we will keep waiting for word from you...

Setting aside the message, the sailor leans back and closes his eyes for a moment. Fate of gray reconnaissance in this world ended sadly but deservedly, and K. himself found his calling in a personal suicidal quest.
Under Yu.'s letter, a collection of photographs sealed in transparent film is discovered — a happy family, fragments of the last celebration, and even a snapshot of the newly-minted goddess of light.
—Where there's light, soon just as much darkness will sprout... —casually flipping through the photos, the man was about to turn the envelope to ash when he unexpectedly felt another message at the bottom. Slightly surprised, he unfolds the crumpled paper sheet:

PPS: Enclosed is the latest interview with our old acquaintance, perhaps you'll find it interesting:


"A former imperial province, now a tiny country hidden among mountains east of the kingdom of Magrel — for many, even its name evokes no particular associations. Once inhabited by ascetic philosophers, it was destroyed to the ground by a terrible cataclysm, and only through the efforts of its current administrator did it receive a chance at a second life. From a simple villager to ruler of a mountain state — until now, anyone interested in the fate of Clin Chegver could piece together his story only from rare fragmented fragments. Tradition versus modernity, naive ideals versus ties with the Magrel crown, ostentatious asceticism versus a collection of artifacts, modest lifestyle versus "church" flow of donations, family harmony versus a hidden secret drama — let us try together to unravel this curious tangle to answer the main question: are we witnessing a revival or the final demise of this ancient culture? Today's topic — Cridear."

The familiar clatter of wheels gives way to a sharp ascent, and lungs fill with the cool aroma of mountain herbs; our destination is close. My interlocutor also notices the approach of his homeland: his gray face regains freshness, and flames ignite in his eyes.
—Glad to see you at the festival! And thank you for this unique opportunity to talk.
—I don't fancy journalists and paparazzi. But since you promised to present our conversation in a favorable light, for an old friend I can make an exception.
—Of course! Hmm, I see you haven't visited Magrel in a long time? —I ask the obvious question.
—After the death of the previous queen, I visited it only once. —after a short pause, the mountain lord replies.
—Her untimely passing truly shocked many... What relationships caused you to become so attached to Naria es Diesra Arual? Perhaps there was a secret line of unrequited love, so appealing to our readers?..
Raising an eyebrow, the ruler of Cridear measures me with a surprised look, then shakes his head:
—In this world I met two women: one gave light to my soul; the second to my heart. None of us can live without the Sun, but do you harbor any base carnal feelings toward it?..
—Perhaps, given recent events, that thesis has merit! —I giggle in response. —Then surely you must rejoice that you can now always feel the presence of your former patroness with every ray of morning light!
—..Queen Naria was first and foremost a Person to me. —His Chegvership chuckles bitterly. —Long before she gained her divine power. Long before the coronation. Long before all current events. Only when I first crossed the threshold of Her villa. Perhaps earlier than many now living. —in the last phrase I detect a slight mixture of pride, though unclear whether for himself.
—Wicked tongues whisper that this story involved a spell of imprisonment...
—What someone paints as a curse, another sees as a blessing. —my companion answers evasively.
Deciding not to touch philosophical matters, I look out the window. Sunset rays gently touch the top of the watchtower, above which flies the flag of modern Cridear.

—An oak tree? Such a direct hint at the dynasty?
—Not quite. —my interlocutor smiles slightly. —When I first stepped onto native soil after the cataclysm, it resembled a multicolored canvas of dead earth. That was the forever-lost old Cridear; this symbol marks the beginning of a new Cridear. And as long as not a single compatriot's roots have been torn from the red earth, we shall certainly rise high with the sunlight, mightier than before.
Weaving around the post, we soon hit a tall stone wall, and our path is blocked by gates adorned with coats of arms.
—Welcome to Oak Cliff. —the former count introduces modestly.
Compared to Folkvang and the ancient imperial fortresses, the "gates of Cridear" cannot boast either indestructible fortifications or legions of thousands of guards. Nevertheless, it is evident that considerable effort of soul and body was invested in the construction of the outpost.
—..And this fortress is indeed named after father. —explains the mountain ruler. —So that, like him, it would always protect loved ones like a rock and instill peace and hope in their hearts. I became passionate about this "project" shortly after learning of the destruction of my homeland. Back then I couldn't imagine how useful the invested resources would prove in these turbulent times of collapse and discord.
Oak Cliff remains the only "accessible" path shielding the mountain country from the rest of the world. The fort's primary task is warning and alerting residents of potential dangers, yet in mountainous terrain it serves as an advantageous strategic point for defending the narrow pass against superior ground forces, while surrounding peaks complicate maneuvering for any air vessels lacking dragon wings...
Toward us from the gates comes a mighty-looking dark-haired warrior, a fearsome two-handed sword in his scabbard.
—Buben, chief of Cridear's guard and my deputy. —shakes hands, introducing me to the stern mountaineer.
After a brief dialogue in the local dialect, the king of the mountain issues several short orders to his comrade, and himself, leaning on his cane, invites me inside the fort.
—..Were it not for the water school, I'd be riding in a wheelchair before meeting the goddess. —he explains, as if reading my thoughts.
—Old injury?
—Calcit meat grinder. —shrugs. —For every defense, a countermeasure exists.
They say that after returning from the front, Count Chegver devoted himself entirely to hard labor, brick by brick building the new Cridear alongside everyone else. This latter devotion to his father's convictions, however commendable, took its toll on the mountaineer's health.
Passing the outer fortifications, we find ourselves in a wide inner courtyard where squads of young fighters practice combat skills.
—Warriors of the Balder school. —the knight-count briefly explains.
At the sight of their instructor, the students immediately form a line and only continue training after a permissive nod.
—Is it true that you admit only those pure of heart and soul to this ancient art?
—I'd like to hope so. Unlike my mentor, I have no desire to desecrate the memory of glorious Eir and her comrades by teaching this dangerous craft to every passing scoundrel.
—They say applicants must undergo an initiation duel against you, during which you somehow determine not only their combat skills and character traits, but also affiliation with robbers, bandits, pirates, and other ill-intentioned individuals?..
—People will say anything. —my interlocutor waves it off.
—And what about Magrel?..
—My affairs in the kingdom are currently managed by Trefa. We have no enemies in the kingdom, and Cridear's doors are open to all who seek martial valor.
Noting the tactical cunning of partially pulling one of the most effective combat schools into defending his homeland, I follow the host beyond the fortress walls, where in the last rays of the setting sun the rebuilt Cridear opens before my eyes. Neat little houses are scattered across the mountain plain, farmlands stretch for miles ahead, livestock grazes in meadows, green palisades shelter winding paths between homesteads.
A sharp gust of mountain wind makes me involuntarily shiver.
—Careful, you might catch cold. —draping his Calcit-made cloak over my shoulders, says the descendant of Chega. —Shall I give you a small tour?
—That's why we started this. —I nod gratefully.
To save time, I expected to ride on wheeled transport, but the ruler of Cridear seemed pleased with the idea of walking through his native lands.
—Movement is good for health. —he reads my thoughts again.
—And what's that smoke over there? —I point to bright glimmers hiding in the darkness at the far end of the highlands.
—Royal mines of Magrel. —the former Knight of Carneol again gets away with a brief explanation.
—Ah, so rumors about discovered deposits of "Anuzish sweat" in the Cridear mountains have been confirmed?
—I've always said our country is rich not only spiritually. —the mountaineer seems to attach little importance to the discovery.
—So what does it mean — selling off your homeland's resources to a former usurper, and also inviting the risk of invasion from those greedy for mineral wealth? —I decide to boldly catch out my patriotic interlocutor.
—You're right. —after a moment of silence, the elder disarms me with his answer. —The me of twenty years ago would probably agree with you. But one day I came across an interesting cycle of imperial chronicles and realized that alone in our world one cannot survive. Like mortals, empires are born and vanish into oblivion, and one man in the field is no warrior. Except Erephir, of course.
—So then?..
—Our new agreement with Queen Lunamaria isn't some political secret. Cut off by Magrel from the sea to the west and north, Cridear naturally needs economic and military support. And if for peace and prosperity I, like the previous queen, must do something unthinkable in the memory of my ancestors, I am ready to pay that price.
The next part of the journey, the mountain politician delves into explanations of details of political cooperation with the kingdom, but to preserve the target audience's time, we'll move this monologue to the appendix!
From our conversation we are distracted by melodic rhythms and the din of cheerful voices coming from a small roadside tavern:



—"Reza". —I read on the sign.
—Named after mother. —the mountain chieftain nods. —It may seem "unworthy" for some tavern, but it was precisely from this that the new Cridear grew, so for a hearth giving warmth and homely comfort to any weary traveler, I could find no other name.
Holding the door, the gentleman, not devoid of manners, lets me inside the establishment, where merry dances to folk musicians' performance are just wrapping up.
—Father, you're back! —a young spirited singer throws herself around my companion's neck in one bound.
—My youngest, Tiya. —beaming with a warm smile, the mountain chieftain introduces the girl. —Named her in memory of my sister, and as luck would have it, she too decided to tie her life to music. Sometimes that's how it happens by the goddess's will. Though in voice she certainly takes after her mother.
Rising from benches, other patrons surround the master of Cridear in a semicircle. Among them I discern native mountaineers; but far more foreigners, mainly from neighboring Magrel.
—Come on lads, play us something special for the road. —the ruler claps his mighty palms.
And so again wonderful live music flows like a river, and I, a married lady and mother of two children, find myself dancing in a cavalcade of dancers forgetting everything in the world. Even the aging ruler limps along in time to his daughter's performance.
—..I don't recall such "concerts" in old Cridear. —I later remark to my interlocutor.
—New people and old traditions sometimes birth amazing things. —he notes philosophically, continuing our evening walk.
—How many Cridearians survived the dragon raid? —I dare to ask the pressing question.
—..Less than one in ten. —not without bitterness in his voice, the descendant of Chega satisfies my curiosity.
An awkward silence hangs in the air for a moment. Passing the emptied market square, we soon find ourselves before a modern-style newly built structure surrounded by a trimmed natural hedge.
—First Academy of Philosophy of Cridear, or APC. —the founder proudly introduces us. —Only recently opened and few students so far, but we're actively establishing ties with Magrel partners and hoping for a good influx of foreign students in the new year.
—Hm, somehow didn't expect to see something like this here, though knowing your people's history it's hardly surprising. —I nod understandingly.
—Having spent my youth in the capital of the former empire, I concluded that the best way to pass on my homeland's traditions is to combine them into a format understandable to modern society. —explains the mountain guardian. —Everyone knows Cridearian philosophy is the most sensible in the world, for only our thinkers are protected from mental illness and suicide, yet it must be admitted that strict asceticism, meditation, and self-restraint suit nowhere near everyone. Here you can participate in debates, learn something new about our world, or simply immerse yourself in the rich culture of Cridear.
Walking around the academy's perimeter, I notice a stone statue of a thinker in lotus position before the main entrance.
—A tribute to my Teacher and all philosophers of my homeland. —my perceptive companion hastens to answer. —Even now I strive to follow their wise advice.
—Interesting combination of traditional and modern views. Some might call it trying to sit on two chairs. —I cut him off with a new remark.
—You haven't seen the Oza Chegver School yet. —the overlord of the heights chuckles in response, pointing with his cane somewhere to the opposite side of the plateau. —In my travels I realized how sad it is: not having the simplest general education. Were it not for my older sister's lessons, I wouldn't be here with you now.
—Curious, how much does Cridearian education cost nowadays?
—For Cridearians — by passport rather than origin — free.
—Really? —I let out a surprised laugh. —Perhaps medicine too?
—Exactly right. —the mountaineer genuinely marvels at my sarcasm. —I'm generally not fond of money, but alas, in today's market economy one cannot do without it.
—Just don't tell me fairy tales about a perfectly built system of mutual aid and support...
—Alas, the past model proved unviable over the centuries. —the mountain reformer didn't argue. —Not all original Cridearian culture could be restored, so in the foundation of statehood I had to play by commonly accepted rules.
—Then where do budget funds come from? Surely super-profits from duties on "sweat" extraction? Or good connections with the Magrel crown and years of donations?
Smiling meekly, the money-disliker neither confirms nor refutes my assumptions.
Rounding a low hill, we find ourselves at the foot of a winding stone staircase leading to a regular granite platform, atop which looms the silhouette of some symbolic structure.
—What god-fearing country would go without a Church. Would you care to climb up? —offers the kind-hearted host.
Struggling up the endless steps, I need several minutes to catch my breath. My interlocutor, meanwhile, doesn't seem winded at all.
—You Magrelians need to spend more time outdoors. —the hardened mountain dweller decides to chide me. —Sitting cooped up in your offices, suffocating on machine fumes.
Approaching the edge of the ledge, I survey with mild admiration the surroundings dimming in the night gloom. My hand reaches for the camera and a modest shot is born:

"Cridear"
Finally tearing myself away from admiring natural serenity, I find the interviewee tidying up in the little church.
—Captivating view, isn't it?.. —he nods knowingly at me.
—Indeed, one couldn't find such a peaceful vista in the kingdom. —I agree with his observation. —But surely the same picture must have grown stale for you over the years?
—Not at all. —the builder shakes his head. —Every time I behold the fruits of mine and my comrades' labors, my soul fills with light as if for the first time.
—How little we sometimes need for happiness... —an unexpected reflection escapes my lips.
—See, you're already imbibing Cridearian culture yourself. —the ruler of this small but very proud distinctive land smiles paternalistically. —However, with your permission, I suggest we head back now, lest my mistress grow angry over a cooled dinner.
I nod in agreement, preparing to conclude the interview, but my interlocutor invites me to join their family table:
—Refusing hospitality to a dear acquaintance is the highest insult to a mountaineer's honor. Since you invited yourself for an interview, you won't get away from us without a couple extra uevs.
Demurring for a minute for propriety's sake, I accept the kind-hearted host's invitation.
—I heard you gave away part of your holdings to friends from "Carneol"? —I inquire along the way. —Or for example about...
—Now-now-now. —the veteran of the Calcit campaign interrupts my verbal stream. —For information you're interested in, you'd better address the direct recipients directly. —he cuts off my bold attempts to shamelessly pry into others' stories unrelated to the agreed Cridear topic.
At the doorstep of Sir Chegver's dwelling, we are greeted... not by his wife at all, but by an imperial-looking whiskered beast.
—Meet Sirya. —the host introduces me.
The animal meows back with a displeased tone.

—Oh wow, how cute! Can I pet him? —I'm already reaching my palm toward the cat when the Son of Oak cuts off my attempt:
—Sirrionych doesn't respect strange hands. We spoiled him with premium feed; now he could turn a person into a torch with a single fire shield...
I chuckle guiltily in response, though unwilling to test the truthfulness of this tale.
—Seems he really takes after his namesake. —the mountain dweller continues meanwhile. —Third decade already, and he flies like an airship.
To my utter amazement, the animal, as if to demonstrate what was said, smoothly lifts off the ground and soon disappears into the well-groomed garden.
In the spacious living room, Sanexa Chegver herself greets us:

—You look wonderful! —after a tiresome exchange of pleasantries, I pay the mountaineer's wife a compliment not without envy.
There's not a shred of idle flattery in my words: for a mother of four gracefully entering old age whose museum portrait adorns the exhibition of the "Miss Magrel 975" contest, the woman has retained much of her former beauty.
Smiling modestly, Sanexa mentions the wondrous properties of the Balder water school, as her husband did earlier.
—Fresh air and protection from ailments — there's your secret to eternal youth! —the Cridearian adds his five rems.
By our arrival, a luxurious table groaning with dishes of both traditional Cridearian and exquisite Magrel cuisine awaits us.
—It so happened that Sanexa taught me your royal recipes, and I told her about our dishes. —the gentleman pulls out a chair for me.
Not without curiosity, I note that dinner is set for only six persons. The second son of the Cridearian ruler arrives greatly late. Measuring me with an arrogant look, to his parent's visible displeasure he declares he's not hungry. The remainder of the feast passes in a friendlier atmosphere: father and mother, the aforementioned youngest daughter Tiya, and middle brother Ret create a cheerful and relaxed mood, though my trained journalistic eye doesn't miss a slight theatricality. Despite this, I don't miss the opportunity to eat my fill for free: when else will I get to enjoy another lord's hospitality?..
But the table empties of delicacies, and the host and I smoothly move to his study. Instead of the crowd of servants I expected, the younger children enthusiastically take up cleaning and washing dishes.
—Some tea, perhaps? —the healthy-lifestyle mountaineer politely inquires.
—Don't mind if I do. And thank you for the warm welcome. —I too don't neglect manners.
Fire plays in slow dance in the hearth, pale moonlight streams through the window, and a magnificent tea set sits on the table.

—A gift from Queen Naria's younger sister. —the knight satisfies my interest, pouring the hot drink. —She seems to rule Minua now?.. I can't even remember how it ended up with me. Strange thing, so many years have passed, yet I still sometimes can't shake the feeling that I wronged her somehow...
Taking a leisurely sip from priceless imperial ware, I notice on the wall a crown adorned with precious stones:

—Surely not, that very one?..
—Crown of Melesar. —rising from his seat, the mountain lord hobbles to the artifact and runs his palm over the dust-dimmed circlet.
—So all those stories about your being undead have a grain of truth?
My interlocutor measures me with an ambiguous look, as if expecting me to personally attest to these miraculous tales.
—I think centuries will pass and they'll stop believing in the last empress's divine power too. —he finally says. —Or possibly much sooner: just look at today's youth.
—Oh, this modern generation! —I chuckle in agreement from the vantage of my years.
—Everyone believes what they want. —the mountain chieftain concludes philosophically. —But for me, meeting that dark sorcerer turned out to be the most fateful event.
—It would be interesting to hear what it's like: gaining the curse of eternal life...
—You can read about that in my latest book. —the healed one remarks as if in passing. —There I also include part of translated records from my diaries. It will be far more accurate than rummaging through worn memories of many decades.
—I'll definitely familiarize myself with your works. —I promise.
—Still, it's ironic that the crown gifted by the empress bearing that sorcerer's name ultimately served me as temporary refuge from his very charms.
—I see you kept plenty of gifts from your service, Sir Chegver! —I cast a suggestive glance around the room. —An ordinary servant wouldn't dare hope for such a collection.
—From outside it may indeed appear so. —the elder shrugs. —Though I won't diminish the generosity of my patronesses either: those around me were very kind.
Setting down my cup, with permission I venture to reconnoiter the private quarters of the first Cridearian count. At first glance the study is sparsely furnished, but even in this simplicity a strict masterly order is felt. There on the wall hangs some tournament medal:

—Fifth place?..
—Unlucky to run into Erephir. —the knight sighs modestly. —Although I had decent chances...
—Oh come on! —I wave off such brazen claims regarding the famed champion of Carneol.
And there, in a glass sphere, rests an eternal flower:

—I've read about these. Amazing that you managed to preserve all eight petals!
—..That no one could be saved... —the host utters in a toneless voice.
—Hm, and what's this strange exhibit of outdated fashion doing here?..

—Two of Magrel's greatest masters put their hands to this curious item. —explains the leader of Cridear. —For me it's primarily a warm memory of those whose craft supported me through life's journey.
I reach the bookshelf, where behind glass an elegant figurine gazes at me proudly:

—Didn't think you were into something like this... And who's depicted here?
—Could be mistaken, but I believe it's the vanished symbol of sea and love. —scratching the back of his head, the collector explains.
A bit further I discover an exhibition of old family photographs.
—Wow, I recognize native Magrel!
—From our engagement, '75. —drawing level with me, the son of the mountains comments.
—Then that means Princess Ayano! —I feign surprise.
—Correct. Ever since she bound ours and Sanexa's souls before the mother goddess, Miko-sama has become an eternal close friend to our family. —adds the mountaineer with warmth in his voice.
—I can't help noting again your strong ties with the imperial family of that era! Probably raked in generous donations from there too?
—When good people gather together in the name of goodness, the world only benefits. —the former servant answers meaningfully.
—..And here I spot you with the Order of Carneol. —I dig up a creased frontline photograph.
—The only surviving photo I have from the southern campaign. —my interlocutor nods. —Had it not been for my comrades' support, separation from my beloved would have been absolutely unbearable. To this day I sometimes recall my return home from the front. When Sanexa met me at the doorstep with our son in her arms... Almost a pity this touching scene didn't make it into the chronicles.
Dabbing my eyes with the corner of a handkerchief, I move on to the next photos.
—Grand wedding, I must say!
—Yes indeed, all of Cridear celebrated, and beyond. —the elderly gentleman sinks into memories. —"Between us," due to invested funds construction was delayed by four months, heh-heh.
—Not very prudent of you! Hm, I see many familiar faces, care to list them?..
—Let them mention themselves, should they wish. —my interlocutor tactfully dodges again.
The next frame captures a small pleasure vessel:

—Isn't this the ship I saw moored in Magrel's port?..
—My dear wife was born to conquer the seas, and I would never forgive myself if I hadn't returned her once-lost dream.
Assuming "lost" here implies the forced relocation to Cridear rather than something serious from the past, I decide not to clarify my interlocutor's remark.
—I myself am not fond of sea "trips." —sighs the land dweller. —You never know when you'll hit an iceberg mid-ocean... So the "Storm" hasn't weighed anchor in a long while. But who knows, perhaps one day I'll entrust all my affairs to descendants and we'll sail off to deserved retirement to warm our bones on some paradise island.
—Descendants, you say? —I decide to seize upon the hot topic. —Then won't you share your plans for Cridear's future?
—Much has been done, but just as much lies ahead. Before indulging in dreams, one must secure a solid foundation for them.
—Still, you must have thought about it, haven't you? —I refuse to yield to the mountain philosopher's detached turns. —Cridear historically is a quite unique case: a devastated imperial colony handed over to sole control of a young count, then suddenly gaining political independence a couple years later. Should we expect election of a council of elders in coming years, maybe popular vote, or outright formation of the Chegver dynasty?..
—I'd rather fear another occupation. —the imperial governor shares his optimism. —Whoever continues the work of my entire life, I have no doubt it will be a worthy son of the mountains. —with the last words his gaze involuntarily slid to the scabbard of the two-handed sword.
—Like your eldest offspring, for instance? —I launch into journalistic counterattack. —According to my information, he left Cridear several years ago. Rumors circulate of a family conflict...
Frowning momentarily, the knight returns a serene expression to his face:
—My son chose a path of adventure similar to mine. And I wish him success on this difficult road.
—And what about the second child? —I recall the insolent lad.
—Bit early to write me off. Besides, it doesn't necessarily have to be someone from my family.
—Are you saying you have heirs outside marriage?.. —I ask with a sly expression. —Some envious types say that for a man so committed to reviving his homeland, four children and one spouse is rather few...
Judging by the deathly silence hanging in the room, I understand I've gone too far.
—You Magrelians may find this surprising, but after everything Sanexa and I went through, even the mere hint strikes me as outrageously offensive. —makes clear he has no intention of discussing this matter further.
I lower my head guiltily, not daring to meet eyes with the warrior who, according to legends, crossed swords with one of the Saints.
—Perhaps you're right, sorry... Then let's finish with the pearl of your collection. —I latch onto the luxurious blade.
—You mean the "Devourer"? —he draws from its sheath a gleaming flamberge shimmering with the light of sixteen runes.

—They say the project for this weapon was undertaken by the last empress herself, and three legendary masters contributed to its creation: Kreg, Erephir, and Orros. —I pick up the change of subject. —Supposedly this sword can read and absorb other souls...
—I won't conceal the great talent of the craftsmen you mentioned, however... Any weapon is merely an extension of its owner. —Chegver notes modestly. —In the hands of a worthy person, even a simple blade becomes a "Devourer," and for a worthless man even a priceless relic changes nothing.
—Easy to speak from the height of owning that very relic! —I chuckle in response.
—..There was a time when I'd gladly trade this sword for a good friendly piece of advice. —the mountaineer answers mysteriously.
On that note, our lengthy conversation comes to an end. I spend the night in the guest quarters of the Chegver house, and in the morning the ruler of Cridear presents me with a first edition of his book, then places me in the care of his deputy for the return trip.
—What can you say about the current political situation in the world? —having taken leave for the hospitality shown, I ask my final question. —The "Georgina Petals" treaty has sunk into oblivion, meaning the shards of the empire are shrouded in fog of uncertainty.
—I'm not too strong on current trends. —the two-meter pensioner shrugs apologetically. —Read newspapers too little. If going by gut feeling... The era of miracles has ended, and ahead awaits the era of humanity. And how we use it: to benevolently carve each other to pieces or jointly build something truly noble — history will show.
Leaving Cridearian lands, I notice at the gate a well-tended Memorial. And then a farewell, inspiring melody reaches my ears...



"Thus ends the astonishing story of Clin Chegver. Was the key factor luck or loyalty, naivety or diligence, or perhaps something else entirely? And what awaits the country and dynasty he revived in the future? I invite every reader to try answering this question independently."


—..The fantasies they invent, ugh. —the sailor grumbled, crumpling the paper and tossing it into the stove with the rest. —Good endings fit in three lines; wasted half an hour for nothing.
Exhaling a puff of smoke, he returns to the lonely deck to check the nets. Suddenly his gaze catches some regularly shaped object, and the cigar falls from his gaping mouth. Forgetting everything, he rushes to the prize, futilely tearing at thick twine with nails and teeth until he finds a knife in one of his pockets. After several minutes that seemed like eternity, an old, seaweed-covered suitcase is freed from captivity. Feeling the hollow beats of his weakening heart in his ears, the man removes the decrepit lock and opens the lid.
A piercing scream illuminates the deserted water surface for miles around. But whether it was a cry of great joy or absolute despair — shall remain a mystery.