The Shattered Crowns

Mirak sat motionless, trapped by his own thoughts as much as by the ropes and shackles. His memories churned in a relentless torrent, dragging him deeper into despair. He saw Akash again—his friend's outstretched hand reaching toward him, eyes wide with panic, before he disappeared into the raging waters. Daenys' scream echoed in his mind, followed by the searing heat of the flames that had consumed the ship. He could almost hear Winter's voice, cold and unrelenting: I warned you.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He had left the village to escape the monotony of his old life. To chase something bigger. To grasp a power beyond his understanding. Instead, he had destroyed everything—and everyone—he cared about.

His heart pounded as his thoughts spiraled. His body tensed against the ropes, his remaining hand curling into a fist. His skin prickled, a strange sensation crawling across his arms and shoulders, as if the Lunar Storm itself were trying to seep into his body.

He focused on the sensation, desperate for anything to distract him from his memories. It was faint at first—a pull in his chest, like a thread tugging at something deep inside him. Slowly, the sensation grew stronger, becoming a steady, rhythmic pulse that matched the storm's howling winds. It was everywhere—in the mist, in the air, in the ground beneath him.

Mirak's breathing hitched. He could feel it now, this strange force surrounding him. It was a tempest of energy, wild and unyielding, yet it felt oddly familiar. Like a melody he had heard long ago but couldn't quite place.

"Pull the storm, and it will answer," Winter's voice echoed in his mind. "You need to be brave if you wish to touch Atta."

Atta. The word lingered in his thoughts, heavy with meaning. Was this the power she had spoken of?

Mirak closed his eyes, willing himself to focus. The memories still clawed at the edges of his mind, but he pushed them aside. He reached for the storm, for the swirling energy that called to him. His body trembled as the pull grew stronger, the pulse of the storm vibrating through his very bones.

For a moment, he thought he had it. He could feel the energy responding to him, bending to his will. He reached deeper, desperate to grasp it. But then it slipped away, vanishing like smoke between his fingers.

Mirak gasped, his eyes snapping open. He was met with the same scarred landscape, the same swirling mist. Nothing had changed.

His chest heaved as frustration consumed him. He had been so close—so close to something he didn't even understand. The failure cut deeper than any blade.

Pathetic, a voice hissed in his mind, low and mocking. It didn't belong to Noom or Brog, but it was sharp and cruel, like a dagger pressed to his throat.

"What did it cost?" the voice taunted. "Your friends' lives, of course. She warned you, but you didn't listen. And now they're dead. Because of you."

"No," Mirak whispered, shaking his head. "It was an accident."

"Accident?" the voice sneered. "You're a coward. A pathetic creature who thought he could grasp the power of the sun. How wrong you were."

The voice laughed, cold and malevolent, its mocking tone cutting through Mirak like shards of ice. He clenched his teeth, fighting against the rising tide of despair.

"No," he growled, louder this time. "I can fix this. I can—"

"Fix it?" the voice interrupted, dripping with scorn. "How? By calling on the storm you barely understand? By fumbling through the scraps of power left behind by those greater than you?"

The words struck a nerve. Mirak's chest tightened, his breathing uneven as the voice continued its assault.

"Do you even remember what you reached for on that ship?" the voice asked. "Do you remember the fire? The destruction? You reached for power, but you destroyed everything. Everyone."

It paused, letting the weight of its words settle over him.

"You killed them, Mirak. You killed Akash. You killed Daenys. And for what? A flicker of power you couldn't even hold."

"No!" Mirak shouted, his voice cracking. He thrashed against the ropes, his body trembling with rage and grief. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that!"

But the voice wasn't finished. "Do you want more, Mirak? More than that tiny sliver you grasped for? I can offer it to you. I can give you what you truly seek. Knowledge. Power. The truth."

The voice lowered, becoming almost seductive. "All you need to do is seek me out. Find the gem that is not a gem, hidden in the depths of a rock born from heresy. Bring it to me, and I will show you more than you could ever imagine."

The voice faded, leaving only the sound of the storm and the pounding of Mirak's heart. He slumped against the ropes, his body exhausted, his mind racing.

What had he just heard? Was it real, or had the storm driven him mad? He didn't know. But the voice's final words clung to him, haunting and cryptic.

The next few days were a blur of exhaustion and monotony. Mirak was dragged through muddy fields, over hills, and along ruined paths, his body barely holding together. The slavers spoke in low tones as they trudged onward, their words in Kavish becoming clearer to Mirak with each passing day.

Noom had begun teaching him the basics of the language—if only to increase his value at market. Kavish was a harsh, guttural tongue with twenty-five consonants and an entirely unfamiliar sentence structure. It was unlike the common Astadish he had grown up with, and learning it felt like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

"Speak it constantly," Noom ordered as they walked. "Think in it, dream in it, breathe it. You don't learn it, Publici, you die on the walls."

Mirak bit back his resentment, nodding silently. He forced himself to repeat the unfamiliar words and phrases, his one hand clutching a small notebook filled with scribbled notes. Noom and Brog corrected his mistakes with sneers and the occasional slap, but he endured.

Every night, when the Lunar Storms returned, Mirak would practice in secret. While the slavers slept, he would reach for the Atta, drawing on the storm's energy. It was slow and painful, the pressure building in his chest until it felt like he might burst. But each night, he held it for a little longer, controlled it a little better.

It wasn't much. But it was something.

After days of travel, they finally reached the coast. The sight of the ocean stole Mirak's breath.

Blue stretched endlessly before him, the waves glimmering under the sun's light. Steam rose from the water in wisps, carrying the faint scent of salt. For a moment, Mirak forgot his pain, his chains, his shame. Tears welled in his eyes.

"So this is it," he whispered. "The ocean."

Brog tugged at the chain, pulling him forward. But for the first time, Mirak resisted. He stood rooted in place, staring at the vast expanse of water.

"Kaphetpi memenalp," Brog muttered in Kavish.

In common, he added, "Sunreachers nearby."

Mirak's gaze shifted. Far in the distance, small boats hugged the channel's waters. The slavers cursed, muttering about pirates and trouble, but Mirak barely heard them. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the ocean stretched beyond sight.

For the first time in days, his heart stirred with something other than despair. A faint spark of hope.

The boats Mirak had seen grew smaller as the group moved inland. The ocean soon became a distant whisper on the wind, and with every step, the looming walls of Koona came closer into view.

They towered over the landscape, rising like the teeth of some great beast, a seamless expanse of stone and resin that seemed to defy nature itself.

Noom whistled in appreciation. "Thirteen walls, each one stronger than the last. Not even an army could breach the twelfth. Imagine the resin it took to build them!" He turned to Mirak, his grin wide.

"Take a good look, Publici. You'll be seeing plenty of Koona from the inside."

Mirak didn't respond. He was too focused on the walls, their sheer scale overwhelming him.

Thirteen concentric circles, each enclosing a district of the city, with the palaces of the aristocracy rising at the center. The closer they drew, the more details emerged: the texture of the resin-coated stones, the faint shimmer of light reflected off the walls, the banners fluttering high above the gates.

"Straight to the fourth district for us," Noom continued. "Be ready to show off that Kavish you've been learning. Nobles'll pay good resin for a Publici who can read and write."

Mirak didn't react, though his mind raced. His lessons in Kavish had been rudimentary at best. He could piece together basic words and phrases, but forming coherent sentences was still a struggle.

Would it be enough to avoid being sent to the walls? Noom's threats lingered in his mind—he'd seen the gaunt, broken Publici who manned the gates. He couldn't survive that. He wouldn't survive that.

As they crested the final hill, the outermost wall of Koona came fully into view. It was monstrous, dwarfing the caravans waiting in line to enter. Farmers and traders moved among the crowds, their wagons loaded with goods. The fields surrounding the city stretched far and wide, golden with crops ready for harvest. The farmers glanced up as the slavers passed, their expressions ranging from disdain to open hostility.

"Best keep moving," Brog muttered, jerking Mirak's chain. "People don't like Publici."

Mirak's lips twitched into a bitter smile. As if he needed the reminder.

A farmer shouted from the side of the road. "A one-handed Publici? Useless! Don't need that kind of bad luck near my fields."

Mirak's shackles grew uncomfortably warm, the needles inside his arm pulsing faintly. He scratched at them absentmindedly, the irritation gnawing at him as much as the farmer's words. He stumbled as Brog yanked the chain harder, and the slaver sneered down at him.

"Careful, Publici. You'll lose more than a hand if you cause trouble."

It took hours for the caravans ahead to be processed, the line moving at a snail's pace. Mirak watched in growing dread as the massive gates of the thirteenth wall creaked open. Publici, their faces hollow and their bodies gaunt, strained against heavy wheel mechanisms to pull the gates apart. Chains rattled as they worked, their malnourished frames trembling under the effort. Others dragged thick iron chains attached to the gate's interior. The whole process was grueling, the gate's sheer weight evident in every agonizing motion.

"Look close, Publici," Noom said with a mocking grin. "That'll be you if no one buys you. The wall Publici don't last long—most die within a month. The shackles get harvested, and their bones get dumped somewhere no one cares about."

Mirak said nothing, his eyes fixed on the workers. He could feel their suffering as though it were his own. Was this what awaited him? The thought made his stomach churn. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay silent.

Winged guards descended from above as the gates fully opened, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. They landed with practiced grace, their sickle-like weapons hanging at their sides. Their helmets, fashioned to resemble the faces of avian creatures, obscured their features, but their presence radiated authority. The guards moved methodically, inspecting the caravans and their occupants.

"Speak only when spoken to," Noom hissed. "And don't do anything stupid."

When it was their turn, a guard approached, his eyes scanning the group with disinterest. Noom stepped forward, speaking in Kavish. "Publici for trade, saki."

The guard clicked his tongue. "To the fourth district, then. Where are your rings?"

Noom hesitated for only a moment before pulling out a silver ring. Brog followed suit, though his ring looked more tarnished.

The guard eyed the rings, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet. "Good enough," he said curtly. "Be on your best behavior. No dealings with nobles above the fourth district." He gestured for them to pass but added, "And next time, bring proper papers. The Captain might be lenient, but not all of us are."

As they passed through the gates, Mirak couldn't help but glance back at the Publici who had labored to open them. Their eyes were dull, their faces blank. They didn't even look up as the gates creaked shut behind the caravan.

Koona rose like a monument to ambition and control, its thirteen concentric walls cutting into the landscape like colossal rings of power. From the distance, the city seemed to float above the rolling farmland, its towering walls shimmering faintly in the sunlight. Resin veins glinted like threads of gold and silver woven into the deep green stone, giving the walls an otherworldly sheen. Each ring enclosed a district more privileged than the last, with the innermost circles reserved for the richest and most powerful. The entire structure exuded authority, its sheer size a reminder that nothing entered or left Koona without the city's permission.

As Mirak, Noom, and Brog drew closer, the outermost wall dominated the horizon. It stood impossibly tall, dwarfing the surrounding farmland. Farmers toiled in the fields, their backs bent under the weight of their harvests. The golden crops seemed to ripple like waves in the wind, but the scene was far from idyllic. These fields were lined with Publici, chained in clusters, dragging rusted tools through the earth with aching limbs. Overseers on horseback patrolled the periphery, shouting orders or cracking whips at the slightest delay.

A farmer near the road spat into the dirt as the group passed, his gaze fixed on Mirak. "A one-handed Publici? Worthless," he sneered. "Better to send him to the walls now and be done with it."

Mirak ignored the man, but his shackles grew warm against his wrists, the needles embedded in his veins throbbing faintly. He scratched at them, wincing as Brog tugged the chain hard enough to make him stumble.

"Eyes forward, Publici," Brog growled. "You'll get enough looks without gawking like a fool."

They reached the edge of the line waiting to enter the thirteenth gate, and Mirak's breath caught.

Up close, the gate was even more imposing than it had appeared from the hilltop. Massive slabs of green stone, etched with intricate carvings of flowing waves and storm clouds, formed the gate's frame. Its surface glistened with resin that pulsed faintly, as though the city itself were alive. The twin doors of the gate were fitted with enormous gears and chains, their metal dulled by years of exposure to salt air.

The mechanism was powered by Publici. They pushed against a massive wheel set into the ground, their gaunt frames trembling with effort. Another group pulled on thick chains attached to the gate, their bodies moving in unison like broken marionettes. Their faces were pale and hollow, their eyes dull with exhaustion. None of them looked up as the gates creaked open, inch by inch.

Above the gate, high on the wall, a row of armored figures stood watch. Their helmets were shaped like the heads of birds, with long, curved beaks and sharp feathers that jutted outward like crowns.

Their white wings were tucked behind them, the metal of their armor catching the sunlight in flashes. These were the Koona saki, the guardians of the city, and their presence was as cold and unyielding as the walls they patrolled.

The gates groaned loudly as they reached their full height, the sound reverberating through the air like a low growl. The waiting caravans began to move forward, their wheels crunching over gravel as they entered the city. As Mirak was pulled along, his gaze fell on the statue that stood to the right of the gate, half-shrouded in shadow.

The Lady of the Flesh.

She was carved from the same green stone as the walls, but her figure seemed to defy the cold, lifeless material. Her marble robes were intricately detailed, flowing like real fabric down to their tattered hems. She sat with her hands folded, her posture serene, but there was something haunting about her expression—calm, yet laced with unspoken sorrow.

Her face was split cleanly down the middle. The left side was smooth and flawless, her cheek soft and unmarred. But the right side was a grotesque vision of raw sinew and exposed bone, as though her flesh had been peeled away to reveal the anatomy beneath. One eye was an empty socket, while the other glowed faintly with a light that seemed to shift with the angle of the sun.

Her helmet matched the duality of her face. On the skeletal side, the metal was jagged and rough, corroded by time, with spiked edges that jutted outward like thorns. The fleshed side was polished to perfection, its surface smooth and reflective. A crimson line ran down the center of the helmet, dividing the two halves like a wound that had never fully healed.

At her feet, beggars knelt in prayer, their hands raised toward her. Most of them were Publici, their bodies as broken as their spirits. Some were missing arms, others legs. One man's face was so disfigured that his mouth barely moved as he whispered his prayers. Resin flakes lay scattered at the base of the statue, offerings from the desperate.

A gaunt woman near the front of the group clutched a strip of tattered cloth in her hands, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Oh, Lady, bless our broken flesh. Let the tides rise and carry us to freedom. Take us into your embrace."

Mirak's gaze lingered on the statue, a knot forming in his chest. He wasn't sure what unsettled him more: the grotesque beauty of the carving, or the fervent desperation of the beggars who worshipped it.

"Idiots," Noom muttered under his breath. "The Lady of the Flesh isn't going to save them. No goddess is. The only thing that talks in this city is resin."

Brog, surprisingly, walked up to the statue and dropped a few resin flakes into the pile. He knelt briefly, murmuring, "Bless our blood."

Noom scowled. "You're as foolish as they are, Brog. Praying to a statue isn't going to make you rich."

Brog shrugged, standing. "This is Koona. Our lessers could become our greaters tomorrow. Best not to risk offending a goddess, real or not."

The words stirred something in Mirak, though he didn't know what. He turned his gaze back to the Lady's glowing eye. It seemed to meet his stare, holding it for a fraction too long, before the line jerked forward and Brog dragged him along.

As the gates of the thirteenth district loomed over him, Mirak glanced back one last time. The statue stood unmoving, but he couldn't shake the feeling that its fractured gaze was still on him, watching.

Inside the thirteenth district, the walls pressed in around him, their height casting long shadows over the crowded streets. Buildings leaned into one another, their walls stained with soot and salt. The air was thick with the smell of fish, sweat, and burning resin, and the sounds of haggling merchants and crying children filled the streets.

But the statue stayed with him, its haunting form etched into his mind. He felt as though the Lady's fractured face was still watching, her glowing eye a reminder of something just beyond his understanding.

And somewhere, beneath the noise of the city, the storm of his thoughts, and the thrum of his shackles, he could feel it: a presence. It was subtle, but it was there. Watching. Waiting.

Soon, the presence whispered faintly, the word curling through his mind like smoke.

Koona's thirteenth district was a crowded, chaotic sprawl of noise and activity. Beggars lined the streets, their hands outstretched as they pleaded for scraps or resin flakes. Many wore wooden rings on their fingers, marking them as the lowest of the low. Others knelt in prayer before a large statue at the district's center—a depiction of a woman clad in tattered marble robes. Her helmet, split down the center, revealed a skeletal half on one side and a mass of flesh on the other.

The slavers moved on, dragging Mirak through the crowded streets. The towering walls of the thirteenth district loomed above, and beyond them, the walls of the twelfth district rose even higher. Mirak could barely make out the tops of the buildings beyond each wall, their roofs covered in colored tiles that reflected the light of the sun.

"Come along, Publici," Noom said. "Nine more walls to pass through before we reach the fourth district. Best look presentable by then."

As Mirak passed through the thirteenth gate and into the first circle of Koona, he realized the city was not a place of simple walls and streets—it was a layered behemoth, each ring a world unto itself. The walls were not just barriers but symbols, each representing a different face of the city's ambition. The slavers' earlier whispers about the "Land of the Walls" now made sense. Koona was not just a city; it was a statement—a promise of wealth for some and suffering for others. And as Mirak was dragged deeper into its heart, he could feel its pulse, a steady rhythm of trade, power, and cruelty.

The thirteenth district, the outermost ring, was the city's lifeline to the farmlands and the wilds beyond. It stank of sweat and soil, a sprawl of fields and ramshackle buildings where Publici worked from dawn to dusk under the watchful eyes of overseers. This was where the food for the city was grown and processed, the grain and livestock pouring in through the gates to feed Koona's massive population. Farmers lined the streets, their carts overflowing with produce, but the wealth they carried never touched their hands. They wore wooden rings—symbols of their low station—while resin, the true currency of Koona, flowed upward to the wealthier districts.

Beyond the thirteenth wall lay the twelfth district, which housed the city's sprawling markets and storage warehouses. Here, the smell of resin was overpowering, the raw material that powered Koona's economy stored in vast silos and vaults. Merchants crowded the streets, hawking goods from every corner of Lorian: cured meats, bundles of silk, crates of exotic fruit, and glittering baubles. The noise was deafening, a cacophony of haggling voices and clattering wheels. The merchants here were desperate, their brass rings marking them as those with just enough wealth to scrape by—but never enough to rise higher.

The eleventh district was where the craftsmen lived and worked. The air was thick with smoke and the sound of hammering metal as blacksmiths, leatherworkers, and resin shapers toiled in their workshops. Resin was heated in massive kilns, its pungent fumes clinging to every surface. The craftsmen wore copper rings, a step above the merchants, but their faces were lined with exhaustion. Their work fueled the city's growth, yet they would never enjoy its luxuries. Above their shops, precariously stacked apartments housed their families in cramped, soot-stained quarters.

The tenth district marked a shift. Here, the streets were wider, the buildings sturdier, and the people better dressed. This was the district of middlemen—brokers, traders, and minor officials who acted as intermediaries for the wealthy elites. They wore silver rings, and their homes, while modest compared to the inner districts, were a far cry from the squalor of the outer rings. Their wealth was built on connections, deals struck over goblets of wine and piles of resin flakes. The district hummed with an air of ambition, the people here perpetually reaching upward, clawing for a chance to break into the upper circles.

The ninth wall marked the boundary of Koona's shipwrights and sea trade. This district was dominated by two sprawling ports that extended into the ocean like great arms embracing the tides. The first port was utilitarian, its docks lined with massive cranes and scaffolding where ships were built and repaired. The second port was a place of wealth and elegance, reserved for the rich merchants and nobles who traded in silks, spices, and jewels. The district reeked of salt and tar, the scent of the ocean mingling with the sweet, intoxicating perfumes of imported goods. Shipmasters with gold rings barked orders at their crews, while lesser merchants scrambled to secure deals in the shadow of towering masts and billowing sails.

Beyond the ninth wall, the city grew even more refined. The eighth district was the domain of artisans—painters, sculptors, musicians, and poets who crafted beauty for the city's elite. The streets were lined with galleries and theaters, their exteriors adorned with intricate mosaics and carvings.

This was a place of culture, where nobles strolled arm-in-arm to admire the latest works of art or commission statues to immortalize their vanity. Resin here was spent freely, flowing like water as the rich competed to outshine one another.

The seventh district housed the bureaucrats and scholars of Koona. Its streets were quieter, lined with libraries and academies where the city's laws were written and its history recorded. Resin flakes glinted in the sunlight, embedded in the scrolls and tomes carried by robed scribes. The people here wore platinum rings, their wealth matched by their influence. They were the ones who kept the city running, calculating taxes, issuing decrees, and ensuring the balance of power remained firmly in the hands of the upper echelons.

The sixth wall was a fortress, separating the city's working heart from its beating soul. The sixth district housed the resin mines, a sprawling network of tunnels that descended deep into the earth. The mines were the source of Koona's power, the resin extracted here fueling the city's economy and its political dominance. The air was heavy with dust and the stench of sweat, the workers—mostly Publici—laboring under brutal conditions. Guards patrolled the mines, their presence a constant reminder of the city's unyielding grip. This district was a place of shadows, where ambition and cruelty intertwined.

The fifth district was the outermost circle of the aristocracy, where the lesser nobles lived in grand estates surrounded by manicured gardens. Their homes were built from imported marble and adorned with gold leaf, their wealth on full display for all to see. The nobles here wore gold rings, their fingers heavy with jewels. They dined on delicacies from across Lorian, their banquets lasting late into the night as they schemed and gossiped over goblets of wine.

The fourth district, where Mirak now stood, was a nexus of wealth and trade. Its streets were paved with smooth cobblestones, and its buildings, taller and more ornate than those of the outer rings, were trimmed with polished resin. This was where the city's wealthy merchants gathered, their ships docked in the ports below, their goods displayed in lavish market stalls. The scent of salt and spice filled the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of resin. Nobles from the fifth district frequently visited, their carriages rolling through the streets as they sought out exotic wares or struck deals with the merchants.

The inner districts loomed beyond, their walls rising higher and higher, like barriers to a world Mirak would never touch. The third district was home to the Didacts, Koona's most powerful families. The second district housed the palaces of the High Lords, their golden spires visible even from the outer rings. And at the very heart of the city was the first district, a mysterious place known only as the Seat. None but the highest of the elite were permitted entry, and rumors of its purpose ranged from divine communion to unspeakable rituals.

Koona was a city of layers, each ring a step on the ladder of ambition. But for Publici like Mirak, it was also a prison. The higher he looked, the more the walls seemed to close in, the weight of the city pressing down on him like a physical force.

Mirak barely registered the changes. His thoughts were consumed by dread, each step bringing him closer to his sale. The slavers had dressed him in plain, clean clothes, and Noom's instructions played over and over in his mind: Don't speak unless spoken to. Stand tall. Look presentable. He bit the inside of his cheek, anger and frustration bubbling under his calm façade.

When they finally reached the fourth district, Mirak was overwhelmed by the sheer grandeur of it. The walls here were made of sea-green stone, inlaid with veins of resin that shimmered in the sunlight. The streets were paved with smooth cobblestones, and the buildings were tall and ornate, their windows framed with polished metal. The scent of the ocean was stronger here, carried on a crisp breeze that seemed to sweep away the filth of the lower districts

Noom grinned as they entered the bustling marketplace. "This is it, Publici. The fourth district. Let's see what the merchants and minor lords think of you."