You’d have to see it to believe it, the way Elurinda sat perched high on its plateau, as though it had been placed there by hands far larger than ours. From the valley floor, the city didn’t just rise—it seemed to float, tethered to the earth by some invisible thread. The towers shimmered faintly even in the dim light of dawn, catching and holding whatever glow the sun scattered across the sky. At night, though—that was when it became something else. Something that didn’t quite belong to this world.
The buildings weren’t made from anything you’d recognize. No dull, weathered stone. No timber darkened by rain and age. The materials they used seemed to drink in light and release it again, softer, like a held breath let out slow. The surface wasn’t smooth in a way you could describe; it had layers, as if water had frozen mid-movement. A single glimmer could spark and twist, splitting into a dozen faint colors before vanishing altogether. It wasn’t gaudy, though. It didn’t demand your attention. It just existed, quietly magnificent, as though it had always been there.
It made you feel small. Not the kind of small that prickles your skin and makes you want to shout, to prove you matter. No, this was different. Standing in Elurinda was standing under the stars on a clear night. You didn’t need to matter because the world was bigger, and somehow, that was enough.
Elurinda wasn’t just a place where people lived. It was alive in its own way. If you were still—really still—you could feel it. The city would hum beneath your feet. The hum wasn’t loud; it wasn’t even sound, exactly. It was the way the stones beneath your feet trembled, faintly, like the city itself was breathing. The streets, the walls, the archways—they all seemed to lean upward, stretching toward the sky. And if you let your eyes follow, you’d swear the city was waiting. For what, no one ever said, but everyone felt it.
The people of Elurinda weren’t the ones you’d meet in market towns or fishing villages. There was something about them—sharpness, maybe. They didn’t waste time on idle talk or thoughts too small to chase. Every person there seemed to carry something in their hands or their mind, whether it was a tool, a scrap of parchment, or an idea so bright it made them walk faster, shoulders tight with purpose.
This was a city of scholars and dreamers. People who stared up at the stars and thought, what if? Some of them were mathematicians, carving sense from the chaos of the heavens. Others were artists, painting things that didn’t yet exist. All of them believed one thing, even if they didn’t say it aloud: the sky above them wasn’t just decoration. The stars weren’t scattered at random. They were maps, guides, even promises.
And Elurinda had tied itself to those stars. That’s why they were here—not just to live, but to see. To understand. To reach.
That week, though, things felt heavier. The air had a weight to it, thick but not oppressive, as if it was pressing the people into slower, more deliberate movements. Everyone noticed. Everyone felt it. But no one said much, because what could you say about something that didn’t have a name?
They called it the week of the alignment, though calling it that made it sound like something you could mark on a calendar and forget once it had passed. It wasn’t. It was something you felt first, somewhere deep, before you even noticed it. You could see it in the way people moved, quieter but more purposeful. In the way the markets were filled with merchants hawking their strange charms, each claiming to bring clarity or insight. In the way the artists worked longer hours, their hands smudged with paint and their walls filled with constellations so detailed you’d think the stars had come down to sit for portraits. Even the priests were different—no grand declarations, no booming voices. Just quiet murmurs, their prayers barely louder than the rustling of their robes.
The children knew it too, though they couldn’t have explained it if you’d asked. Their games faded, their shouts softened until they were no louder than the rustle of leaves in the school courtyards. You’d see them standing in small groups, their heads tipped back, eyes wide and searching. They didn’t laugh or point. They just watched, their faces set with a seriousness too heavy for their years. It wasn’t fear exactly, though you could mistake it for that if you weren’t paying attention. It was something quieter, something softer. Wonder, maybe, but the kind that keeps you still and silent, as moving might scare it away.
And then there was the Great Library. If the city outside had slowed, the Library had nearly stopped altogether. The sages hardly moved at all. They hunched over tables worn smooth by time, tracing the delicate lines of charts older than Elurinda itself, their elbows pressing into wood so soft you could almost see the fingerprints of those who’d come before.
The charts they studied weren’t ordinary maps. These were relics, pages so old they seemed to whisper of the hands that had traced them before. The stars they mapped were long gone, burned out before the stones of Elurinda had ever been laid. But the sages still followed their lines, over and over, recalculating until the numbers blurred. If you looked closely, you’d see faint grooves where older hands had pressed too hard, desperate to get it right. The ink they used was darker than night, sharp as glass when the lamplight caught it, and their fingers hovered just above the pages as though touching them might unravel the fragile web of truths they sought.
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When they spoke, their words were small, clipped, careful. They measured every syllable like it might cost them more than they had to give. These weren’t just scholars; they were keepers of questions that had no room for error. They were the ones trusted to pull the secrets of the sky from silence, to understand what the stars had written in a language only they could read. And they couldn’t afford to be wrong. Not now. Not with so much waiting to be set in motion.
But the Council—they were the city’s heartbeat. Twelve of them, seated like constellations around a center they never quite touched. These weren’t just the sharpest minds Elurinda had to offer; they were its center of gravity, the ones who carried the weight of everything the city had built and everything it hoped to become. For decades, maybe longer, they’d chased the same goal, turning it over in their thoughts as a stone polished smooth by time. Each one was a master of something most of us wouldn’t even know how to name, their words precise enough to cut through the thickest silence, but not cruel. Never cruel. It was more as if they spoke from a place the rest of us could only glimpse, a place we didn’t quite belong.
They gathered in the Grand Chamber of Stars, a space so vast it made the air feel thin. The ceiling above them wasn’t just a ceiling—it was a reflection, a perfect mirror of the sky outside. Every star, every flicker of light, every subtle shift was captured and held in its curve. If you stared long enough, you’d lose yourself in it. You’d forget where the room ended and where the heavens began. It wasn’t just a meeting place. It was something bigger, something that pressed on you gently but firmly. A reminder to look up. Always up.
And Nirion—he was something else entirely. People spoke about him as if he wasn’t born so much as conjured. As though the stars had chosen him before he ever set foot in the city. He carried himself in a way that made you believe it, too. He wasn’t tall or imposing, but when he walked into a room, people took notice.
He had this way of speaking. His voice wasn’t loud. He didn’t need to raise it. He never did. It was the way he spoke, measured and deliberate, that made you feel you were hearing something you’d remember for the rest of your life. When Nirion talked about the alignment, about the Orb they were going to create, it didn’t feel like an idea. It felt like gravity.
“They’ll call it the Orb of Celestial Essence,” he said during their final meeting before the alignment. “It will be a bridge, a way to touch what we’ve only dared to study.”
The words came from him with a quiet insistence, drawing people in without force. Nirion watched them carefully as he spoke—some leaning in, their faces alight with hope that bordered on hunger, while others shrank back, their silence taut with unease.
The room didn’t answer him, not in words. Instead, there was the faint sound of someone shifting, fabric rustling, a chair creaking as someone leaned forward, their shoulders tight, their faces caught between awe and unease. Others leaned back, their hands still, their eyes flickering like they were afraid to look too long.
This was Nirion’s gift—the way he could make something impossible feel real, but not safe. It could be seen it in the way their eyes moved, caught between him and the mirrored ceiling above, where the stars shifted so slowly it felt deliberate. Every faint glimmer and slow-drifting arc seemed to whisper soon. This wasn’t a theory anymore. It wasn’t an idea or a hope. It was close now, close enough to touch.
In the quiet, Nirion fought the shadow of doubt curling at the edges of his thoughts. Was he prepared for what would come next? Could anyone be?
But hesitation didn’t belong to the moment. He pressed forward, his voice steady. “The celestial alignment approaches. It’s not just a rarity—it’s a convergence of forces we barely understand. It’s our chance to touch the essence of what made us.”
The Council stirred, murmurs breaking the stillness. Some voices carried awe; others hesitated, weighed down by the gravity of the unknown. Nirion leaned into the shift, raising his voice, though it stayed measured, pulling them along. “Think of the knowledge this will bring us. The breakthroughs we’ve only dreamed of. We’re on the verge of becoming something more. The stars align,” Nirion said, the words low, deliberate. “We have a choice. Seize this moment, or let it slip into nothing.”
Not everyone in the Council was convinced. Doubt lingered at the edges of their expressions, the kind they didn’t want seen. A mouth pressed too tightly, a glance dropped just before it could lock with someone else’s. These were not people who made decisions lightly. Their whole lives were built on precision—measuring, calculating, planning—and they knew how to spot uncertainty, even in themselves. And yet, when it came to Nirion, doubt had a way of feeling akin to treason.
Avelyn, the eldest, cut through the silence like a blade. “And if it doesn’t work?” she asked. “If what we call creation brings something else instead?”
Her gaze swept the table, steadfast but not unkind. “The Orb is not a simple mechanism to pull apart and rebuild. It’s power—wild and unmeasured. We’re reaching for something that could undo us as easily as lift us higher.”
The stories say the others froze, their gazes dropping to the mirrored table between them, where their own reflections flickered faintly in the starlight. No one wanted to be the one to answer her. But Nirion didn’t hesitate. “It will work,” he said. And when he said it, the words didn’t feel close to a defense or an argument. They felt inevitable, as though the stars themselves had already spoken through him.
“This alignment,” he said, “is what we’ve waited for.” He lifted his hand, gesturing to the mirrored ceiling where the stars had begun to shift. The arc they formed wasn’t just beautiful; it was deliberate, so perfect it looked alive. “After generations of preparation, study and sacrifice, this is our moment. We cannot hesitate now.”
The silence that followed wasn’t agreement, but it wasn’t disagreement either. It was the kind of silence that settles in when people are caught in the gravity of something bigger than themselves. And Nirion didn’t push. He didn’t need to. That was another of his gifts—he knew when to let the quiet do the work for him.
So they voted. Not unanimously—stories say it never was unanimous—but enough. Enough to move forward. Enough to say yes. And with that, the Orb became something more than an idea.
The decision set everything into motion. They would carve the runes, bind the energy, and bring the heavens down to earth. There was no turning back now.