The next couple days passed without major event.

We passed through the forest and moved through another mountain path, one that sloped gradually upwards this time. We moved through a beautiful cavern of ice crystals that had everyone oohing and ahhing as the crystals caught the light of the sun that came through holes in the ceiling and the walls. The cavern air shimmered in a rainbow of color, and I could feel the tension that had dominated our party for days now begin to relax.

But the healing sparkle of the natural wonder soon passed after we eventually left the cave behind. After navigating a few forks in a new path, we came to a large snowy clearing. To either side, we saw nothing but barren white, but in front of us loomed the grandeur of yet another mountain. Goran led us right up to the base of that granite façade. He placed his hand on the mountain face, and I felt the heat slowly radiating from the place he was touching.

He stepped back, and the stone face of the mighty peak swung open, the earthen door reminding me of the entrance to the Glasrock mine. Two guards had pushed open the door and eyed us newcomers with interest and trepidation. They were clearly younger than Goran, with hair that was the same deep midnight as their skin. They were clean shaven, facial features angular as if they were chiseled out of dark marble. Their physiques were like Goran’s, though they were slightly shorter. They also had the same hairstyle, a wave of hair that cascaded to a midpoint on their backs, before being tied up in a single bun. They carried long obsidian spears, in contrast to his wicked curved blade.

They nodded with respect at our escort but eyed us with a combination of suspicion and curiosity. They let us pass, though, standing to either side of the entranceway without a word. We passed into a closed off cavern that was lit by small orange lights placed intermittently in the ceiling. From further away, we thought these lights were lanterns, but upon closer inspection we saw that they were small round orange bulbs that were decorated with strange writings. Victor and I ogled the strange devices as we followed Goran down the tunnel and into the city within the mountain.

We stepped into an enormous cavern and our eyes grew wide as dinner plates at the sight of the hidden city.

The walls were lit by rows of ovular orange lights like the ones that we had left behind in the entranceway, tiers of stone walkways leading up to a ceiling that was so high it was shrouded in darkness despite the mystical lighting. There were patrols of guardsman on those walkways, along with a smattering of civilian traffic, but the real bustle was to be found in the city proper that spread out in front of us.

Numerous square stone buildings lined the main avenue right in front of us, though there were sporadic constructions with high stone spires that were tipped with more orange bulbs. These bulbs poked out from various scattered places all around the city, peppering the cityscape with high orange stars that stood out against the black and grey stone buildings. Where the light of these spires was insufficient, there were little pillars of rock that sported smaller and lighter versions of their sunset-colored elder brothers on the walls and spires of the saffron and black municipality. Some of these larger buildings had extremely tall cylindrical pylons that reached all the way up to the eaves of the cavern, and I wondered in awe what their purpose was.

Night had begun to fall outside, but there was still plenty of activity on the major streets. Street vendors sold strange looking meats and groceries, the smell of the exotically spiced street food and the sizzle of their grilles drawing small crowds around each stall. Storefronts displayed unique assortments of weapons and items that were decorated with the same strange writings that we saw on the lights around us. I found my eyes drawn to a menacing looking set of serrated short swords made from a strange blue metal that was positively covered in incomprehensible glyphs. Next to those was a smooth and reflective black cube with entirely different glyphs roaming around its edges while glowing orange.

Maegar children roamed the streets and alleyways, laughing and playing with balls and sticks, sometimes being yelled at by irate adults trying to go about their business. It was also done in a language I could not understand, though one that flowed musically and naturally from one syllable to the next in a river of sound, with a few strategic pauses thrown in for emphasis.

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Some of the adults shared the hairstyles of the guards back in the cave, long but tied into a single bun. But most of them had either short cut hair or longer, more elaborately braided hair, the former sported by masculine looking Maegar while the latter was favored by the more feminine figures. These denizens were shorter than their warrior counterparts, though still taller than your average person for the most part. By and large, they also possessed a similar skinny frame as well, though they lacked the same powerful muscle.

There were numerous young adult warriors who mostly patrolled the streets with weapons or beelined for businesses that seemed to sell alcohol. Music and riotous yelling thundered from those establishments, their noise mixing with the sounds of short haired males arguing and bartering with each other near the vendor stands and in the shops. Some of the women joined them in their bargaining or carried some of the younger and fussier children home. But most the most prominent sound was the sound of clanging hammers and huffing bellows from the plethora of smithies that perforated the city, their ringing metalwork crowning the song of the Maegar home.

The cities energy filled the cavern, compelling us to stop and stare at it for a while, feet glued to the floor and eyes wide at the spectacle. I felt Goran chuckle from beside us and say:

“A pleasant sight, isn’t it? Welcome to Mahria, home of the Maegar people for many centuries.”

I nodded mechanically, still a bit dumbstruck at the exotic visage, before turning to look at him.

“It’s a beautiful place Goran, but we should rest after such a long journey. Is there any place for guests to stay?”

The rest of us gave some choked noises of surprise, before looking at me in surprise and horror. I knew that everyone wanted to look around and explore the city. So did I, quite frankly, and my heart ached at the missed opportunity to look inside those weapon shops and investigate that strange writing. Victor was the worst offender, looking at me with pleading and pained eyes. But he knew full well that we needed some rest, just as much as I did. We might feel a spike of adrenaline now, but long weeks of travel had taken a toll on all of us, especially the non-warriors. I addressed the others before he has a chance to answer:

“I know, I know. I want to explore and learn too. But the city isn’t going anywhere. We, on the other hand, are more tired than we realize. Let’s rest and get organized first.”

When I finish, Goran comments to answer my question:

“It is usually the responsibility of the Maegar who has invited the guests to personally host them. Our guest houses are few, and chiefly reserved for very wealthy visitors. Thus, you will stay at my residence. Follow.”

With that, we followed him through the alleys of the business district toward what I imagined was the residential area. We took in as much of the city as we could as we ambled down its’ smooth obsidian roads. As we walk, Julia looks at Goran with a smile and comments:

“I’m jealous that you get to live in and look at a city this beautiful and fun every single day!”

He looks back at her with the ghost of a smile on his craggy face:

“It is I who envies you. A person only gets to see Mahria for the first time once. Enjoy it.”

We did just that as we entered the residential district. This was emptier, since many were either still working or partying, but there were some who were on their way home from work or doing chores around the house. A few of the Maegar women waved kindly to us from balconies where they were folding newly dried laundry while watching the streets below. We waved sheepishly back and continued down the street.

I noticed that there was almost no one with Goran’s hairstyle or physique walking the street. The men here had a different character from either the guards or the vendors in the town square. They were shorter and squatter, and their biceps bulged with latent physical power. Though most were surprisingly rather round in the midriff. Where Goran had been built for swift and deadly movement, these men looked like they had been constructed for crushing boulders in one hand. Their hair was also cut short in the back, yet many sported bushy beards in the front. Before I could ask about the differences, though, he seemingly sensed the question and said:

“Normally, we reside according to occupation, with warriors sleeping in the warrior district while craftsmen live in the crafts district. For various reasons, I am something of an exception. I live in the home of a blacksmith friend of mine, along with his family. Do not worry, though. It is a large house with plenty of rooms for guests.”

“Are most of these men blacksmiths?”

He nodded, and we continued. Eventually, we stopped in front of a large stone building with a sloped black roof, in contrast to most of the other square houses. This building was also significantly larger than the others, with a pleasant light grey front that was almost white. The façade was crowned with a large saffron ovular light in between the slopes of the roof, shining down on a large walled balcony. The door to the house was a dark black wood, its edges glowing with a soft saffron light from within. Goran approached it and knocked briskly.