High above the magnificent, ringed city of Atlantis, Bergelmir's fingers brushed the cold stone of the Great Tower—stone he had laid with his own hands when the world was still young—and for the first time in twenty-five millennia, he feared for the safety of his people. Atlantis gleamed beneath the starlit sky, its concentric rings connected by glittering channels of water that caught and reflected the silvery glow like liquid mirrors. The city pulsed with life, a jewel suspended in the dark, each ring symbolizing centuries of progress and unyielding ambition. Yet, amidst the grandeur, an unrelenting dread crept into Bergelmir’s heart.
How fragile it all feels tonight. The thought pressed on him, unwelcome and persistent. The world he had built from dreams and resolve now seemed to tremble at the edge of an abyss he could not see.
Tonight, the city thrummed with energy, its pathways and waterways teeming with jubilant revelers. Laughter and music rose on the wind, wrapping around him in a bittersweet embrace. Though he’d passed the mantle to his son Haldor long ago, the people’s reverence for him had hardly diminished. He could feel their anticipation below, an unspoken acknowledgment that, while Haldor held the title, Bergelmir remained their cornerstone. He still felt like their protector—like an elder brother guarding his siblings or a shepherd vigilant for unseen wolves lurking in the shadows. Yet, a disquiet gnawed at him, relentless in its doubt.
Can I truly keep them safe? The question dug deep, embedding itself like a thorn in his conscience.
He leaned heavily against the stone, seeking its solidity as if it could anchor his spiraling thoughts. The flickering lights below seemed to dance in rhythm with his memories—each flame a testament to the countless souls who had been touched by Atlantis’ enduring legacy. The people were different now, more carefree, perhaps too assured of their permanence. Yet the spirit of Atlantis, the unyielding will that had seen them through countless trials, remained, defying the passage of time as he himself did.
Bergelmir had never seen war. He was no warrior, but he was a leader forged by the fires of hunger and the relentless toil of building a civilization from dust. His strength lay in guidance, in the art of sustaining peace and fostering resilience. But what if peace isn’t enough this time? The notion chilled him.
The anniversary of Atlantis’ founding—24,999 years. The number resonated with a strange finality, like a bell tolling the end of an era. For most, it was an age beyond comprehension, a span of time lost in the haze of legend. But for Bergelmir, every century was a chapter in an unending tale, each era a lesson written in blood, sweat, and stone. He’d witnessed Atlantis rise from a cluster of makeshift shelters to the awe-inspiring city of light it was now. He’d guided them through the harshness of hunger, relentless toil, and the quiet victories that marked their resilience. And now, even though he was no longer the sovereign voice that guided them, they insisted he give the speech for the upcoming celebration.
They don’t see it. They don’t see the shadow looming on the horizon, he thought, fingers tightening around the ledge. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, familiar but suffocating. Why now, when everything should be a celebration of our endurance?
Haldor had understood, wise beyond his years and without a trace of bitterness. Bergelmir’s son carried the same fire, tempered by a patience that Bergelmir himself had only learned after countless struggles and costly lessons. The Atlanteans revered Haldor’s measured strength, but it was Bergelmir they looked to when doubt crept in, for he was the pillar that had never crumbled.
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They think I am unshakeable, Bergelmir mused, brushing his hand over the braids in his beard. The familiar texture grounded him, a ritual that felt as old as Atlantis itself. The dark hair, streaked with silvery gray, fell past his shoulders, carrying the weight of centuries. They see strength, but strength wavers. They don’t know how I’ve doubted, how fear has seeped into the cracks.
From this vantage, he could see all of Atlantis—the Great Tower standing proudly at its heart, the concentric rings spreading outward, each connected by the gleaming channels that reflected the night sky. This tower was more than stone and mortar; it was a symbol of humanity’s audacity to challenge time itself. Built upon the foundations of the earliest settlements, it reached skyward as if to defy the heavens. Every stone whispered tales of their victories, their losses, and the sacrifices that had carved this city from the very earth.
His thoughts turned to Aryabhata, the wise seer whose warning had disrupted the council’s recent meeting. Why didn’t they listen? The memory of Aryabhata’s fervent plea played over in his mind—the urgency in his voice, the way his hands trembled as he pointed to the star charts, eyes blazing with conviction.
“The heavens have changed,” Aryabhata had said, his voice ringing through the chamber. But Odin, ever the skeptic, had scoffed, his retort slicing through Aryabhata’s words like a cold wind.
Odin's brow furrowed, the smirk on his lips wavering for an instant. "And tell me, Aryabhata, what would you have us do with such knowledge?" His tone retained its edge, but the slightest flicker of doubt crept into his eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared.
Bergelmir’s jaw clenched at the memory. Odin—his cousin, once a steadfast friend, now a force he barely recognized. When did your ambition become your blindfold? Bergelmir wondered. Odin’s dominance in the council had grown over the years, respected but heavy-handed, and while his leadership was often effective, it left little room for doubt or dissent.
Poor Aryabhata, Bergelmir whispered to the wind, the words tinged with regret. He knew Odin’s game—how he manipulated discourse with a subtle hand, how he silenced even the boldest with a look. Yet Aryabhata was no ordinary advisor. His mind was a map of constellations, always searching for patterns others missed. He had built the observatory himself, far from the city’s light, where he could ponder the mysteries of the universe under an unbroken canopy of stars. What he had seen this time, though, had shaken even him.
What was it that had Aryabhata so afraid? Bergelmir searched the horizon as if the answer lay hidden in the night sky. The wind carried the chill of foreboding, a sense that unseen gears were already turning.
Odin may dismiss him, but I can’t. If Aryabhata is right—if the cycles he spoke of are true—we face more than a festival marred by doubt. We face a reckoning.
He turned his gaze westward, to where Aryabhata’s observatory stood as a lonely sentinel on the mountain plain. The isolation of that place now seemed almost prophetic. Aryabhata, what have you found that the stars would try to hide? The unease grew, coiling tighter with each heartbeat. He could feel the pulse of the Prime Crystal, secured within its guarded sanctum below. Its subtle hum seemed louder tonight, as if echoing the disquiet in his soul.
The preparations for the festival were in full swing, the millennia-old celebration that marked Atlantis’ founding, but even as the city below burst with life, Bergelmir felt the shadow lengthen.
Will this be the last time the lights of Atlantis shine so brightly? The question loomed, heavier than any stone he had ever lifted. And as he turned away from the breathtaking view, stepping back into the shadows, the whisper of doubt followed him, refusing to be silenced.