The nation of Ashelia was unlike anything the world had ever seen. It had no king, no ruler seated upon a throne. Instead, it was built by the hands of its people—united through hardship and harmony.

At its heart stood the first great city, a testament to the strength of the Ashelian people. Its stone roads, much like those used by the Romans in later eras, stretched across the land, weaving through bustling streets lined with homes made of sturdy stone foundations and wooden walls. The rooftops, crafted from wooden planks, shielded families from the elements, creating a city both strong and welcoming.

At the city's core lay the grand plaza, a vibrant hub where life flourished. Here, merchants sold food, tools, and daily necessities, while craftsmen—blacksmiths, carpenters, and tailors—plied their trade, ensuring that the city never lacked in resources. Even simple eateries, serving fresh meals, had begun to emerge, bringing warmth and comfort to the people.

Beyond the commercial district, the housing district stretched outward, providing homes for the 20,000 Ashelian citizens. Further still stood the military district, where warriors trained in preparation for unseen threats, and the administration district, where scholars and elders worked to maintain order.

As Ashelia grew, so did its challenges. With each new generation, the past risked being forgotten. The teachings of Ashel and Lunara, the lessons of Miran, Edros, and Althea, could not be allowed to fade.

And so, laws were written. The first guards were appointed, not to rule over the people, but to ensure their safety and stability. Disputes were settled with wisdom, not force, and the foundations of a civilized society began to take shape.

For now, Ashelia flourished in peace.

But peace was never meant to last forever.

In the vast, growing expanse of Ashelia, there were no towering castles, no grand walls to fortify the city—only districts, carefully planned, still under construction. The administration district, located in the north, was where Miran, Edros, Althea, and the elders guided the city's development. They worked tirelessly, ensuring that Ashelia's growth remained steady and that knowledge was preserved for future generations.

To the east, near the sacred resting place of Ashel and Lunara, vast farmlands were cultivated. Many believed that planting crops near their graves would bring a bountiful harvest, as if the spirits of their forebears watched over them.

Despite their progress, the people knew that Ashelia could not be built in mere days or even years—it would require generations. They had to plan for the long-term, for survival, and for the unknown dangers lurking beyond their lands.

One evening, in the dim glow of the administration district, Edros placed a rough sheet of papyrus onto the stone table, smoothing out its delicate surface.

"This..." he muttered, turning to Althea, "...will change everything."

Althea, inspecting the crude paper, nodded in agreement. "It is fragile, but it will allow us to record our knowledge far better than stone or wood."

A young scholar, listening nearby, hesitantly spoke up. "But Elder Althea, this paper tears easily. If we cannot preserve it, how can it hold the weight of our history?"

Edros chuckled. "That is why we must improve it. One day, we will make something stronger. For now, we must be careful."

It was then that Edros and Althea made a crucial decision—the construction of an academy, a grand center of learning. This academy would not only teach magic and mana control but also serve as a repository of their history, storing knowledge for the generations to come.

Miran, watching over a group of scholars attempting to harness mana, overheard their discussion and walked over. "An academy?" he mused. "That is an ambitious dream."

Althea smiled. "Ambitious, yes, but necessary. We must teach our people. Without knowledge, what separates us from the wild beasts?"

Miran stroked his beard in thought. "Then I will teach those who wish to wield mana. But they must learn discipline. We do not yet know its full power."

The scholars around them murmured in agreement. The academy would be the first of its kind, and it would shape the future of Ashelia.

While the elders and scholars worked on knowledge and governance, the first-generation—the direct sons and daughters of Ashel and Lunara—gathered in a separate chamber.

They excluded Miran, Edros, and Althea from this meeting, for the three had become more like elders, guiding the younger generations rather than standing among them as equals.

The discussion was heated.

"We cannot just rely on knowledge alone," one of them argued. "What happens when the Forgotten return? When invaders come? We need more than books and spells!"

Another spoke up. "We need walls. Not just any walls—fortifications that will withstand the test of time."

"But how do we build walls this grand?" a younger member asked, uncertainty in his voice. "We don't have the numbers or materials yet."

A woman, one of the older first-generation members, stood. "If we want Ashelia to survive, we must think of everything—food, defenses, even leadership. We don't have a king, but we need some form of rule to make decisions swiftly in times of crisis."

Murmurs of agreement spread through the group. They were the first sons and daughters of Ashel and Lunara, the bridge between the old world and the new. It was their duty to ensure the survival of their people.

A final voice spoke, clear and decisive.

"We must work together. Walls, farms, an academy—it is not a single task, but all of them combined that will ensure Ashelia's survival."

With that, they vowed to strengthen the city, knowing that the challenges ahead would only grow.

The construction of Ashelia's fortifications had begun. Under the leadership of the first-generation, laborers carved stones, gathered wood, and mapped out the city's first protective walls. The work was slow but steady, as they knew the walls would serve as both a shield and a symbol of their strength.

At the same time, the academy took shape. Scholars dedicated themselves to studying mana, documenting their discoveries, and refining their control over it. Miran, Edros, and Althea oversaw the teachings, ensuring that the next generations would be well-versed in both knowledge and discipline.

It was during this time that something unexpected happened.

From the south, past the open roads leading into Ashelia, a small group of travelers approached. They resembled humans, walking with grace and confidence, yet something was distinctly different about them.

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Their ears were sharp and elongated, tapering to fine points. Their skin, smooth and unblemished, bore a natural radiance. Their movements were calculated yet effortless, as if they belonged to the very wind that carried them forward.

The workers at the southern gate, still in the process of construction, were the first to notice them. The Ashelians, covered in dust and sweat, paused their work, gripping their tools with both curiosity and caution.

The travelers did not come empty-handed. One among them, a man with silver hair flowing past his shoulders, stepped forward and presented a basket of vegetables—fresh, vibrant, unlike anything found in Ashelia.

A worker hesitated before stepping forward, accepting the gift. The traveler smiled warmly.

"We bring gifts," he spoke in a voice both soft and clear, his accent unlike any they had heard before. "A gesture of peace. We come seeking an audience with the leader of this land."

The Ashelians, still wary but captivated by the visitors' beauty and unfamiliar presence, exchanged glances. Finally, one of the elders nearby nodded.

"Follow us. You may speak with the Elders."

The Elders of Ashelia gathered in the administration district, seated in a wide stone chamber still under construction. The Elven visitors stood before them, their posture straight yet their faces worn with exhaustion.

Miran, Edros, and Althea listened carefully as the Elves spoke of their plight.

"We come not only in peace but in desperation," said Faelion, the silver-haired Elf who had first greeted the Ashelians. "Our home, deep in the western forests, has fallen to invaders."

The Elders exchanged glances.

"Invaders?" Edros repeated.

Faelion nodded. "Strangers who speak a language we cannot understand. They came in numbers, wielding weapons of iron and fire. Our people had no way to fight back, and so we fled. But we cannot run forever."

Althea studied them carefully. "You—your people—do not use weapons?"

"We do," Faelion admitted, "but not as humans do. We were hunters, not warriors. We did not craft swords or build fortresses. We lived in harmony with the land."

Miran leaned forward. "Then how did you survive for so long?"

Faelion's expression softened. "We see spirits—the unseen voices of nature. They guided us, protected us. But against these invaders, even the spirits could not help."

The room fell silent.

After a long pause, Faelion continued.

"We come before you not to beg but to offer a trade," he said. "If you allow us to live among you, we will lend our skills. We are hunters, healers, and craftsmen. In return, we ask for shelter and protection."

Miran, Edros, and Althea turned to the gathered Elders. The decision was not to be made lightly. The Ashelians had only just begun to stabilize their own city. Taking in an entire people—especially ones who knew nothing of their ways—could pose a risk.

However, the youngest of the council, a man of wisdom beyond his years, stepped forward. His name was Rhaelor, the great-grandson of Miran.

"Their struggles are not unlike our own," Rhaelor said. "Were we not once scattered? Did we not also flee from the unknown? If we deny them now, are we any better than those who cast us from our home?"

The Elders murmured among themselves.

Rhaelor turned to Faelion. "You and your people are welcome in Ashelia. In time, we will teach you our ways, and perhaps you will teach us yours."

Faelion placed a hand over his chest and bowed. "You have our gratitude."

Thus, the first alliance between Ashelia and the Elves was formed.

The Elves, now settled in Ashelia, found themselves both amazed and uncertain. They learned of the Ashelians' history—the story of Ashel and Lunara, the fall of Orasis, and the birth of their nation. But as they listened, doubts lingered in their hearts.

"Our people have no such tales," whispered one Elf elder to another. "If the Ashelians were created by the Architect, then who made us? Where did we come from?"

This uncertainty troubled them, yet they had no answer.

Understanding their hesitation, Rhaelor took it upon himself to guide them, ensuring they felt welcomed.

"This land here is yours," he told them, leading them to an unclaimed stretch of land near the city's outskirts. "No Ashelian has laid claim to it, and none shall take it from you. Build your homes freely, and know that you are one of us now."

The Elves, though cautious, accepted the offer, and with time, their village within Ashelia began to take form.

One day, as Rhaelor walked through the newly forming settlement, he came across a young Elven woman, kneeling beside a group of children. Her silver hair cascaded down her back as she patiently taught them how to weave baskets from reeds.

She worked tirelessly—caring for orphaned Elven children, tending to the weak, and helping her people find their footing in this new land.

Rhaelor watched in silent admiration before stepping forward. "You work harder than anyone here."

The young Elf looked up, startled at first, then smiled. "Someone must."

Rhaelor knelt beside her, picking up a reed to mimic her technique. "What is your name?"

"I am Vaelora," she answered.

"And your father?"

She hesitated for only a moment. "He was once our leader, before the invasion forced us to flee."

"You are the daughter of the chief?" Rhaelor realized.

Vaelora simply nodded. "Titles mean little now. We all work to survive."

Her words struck something deep within him. Despite her status, she worked with humility, never once raising herself above others.

As the days passed, the integration of the Elves into Ashelian society was not without challenges. Though they did not hate each other, their customs and ways of life often clashed.

Elves valued nature, believing in harmony with the land, while Ashelians sought to shape it to their needs.

Ashelians honored their ancestors and the Architect, but the Elves had no history to guide them.

The Elves saw the spirits of the world, which the Ashelians could not, leading to misunderstandings and suspicion.

Tensions grew. Arguments broke out in the markets, in the fields, even within homes where Ashelians and Elves worked together.

Seeing this, Rhaelor stood before his people and pleaded:

"Enough! We must not let differences divide us. If we wish to survive, we must find a way to live together."

His words calmed them, but the issue remained.

For Ashelia and the Elves to truly coexist, a solution was needed—one that would unite both peoples without erasing their identities.

And so, Rhaelor vowed: "I will find a way."

of the moon casting shadows over the Elven district. Rhaelor, though exhausted from the day's struggles, had chosen to rest in a small wooden house at the very edge of the Elven housing district. The home was simple—a wooden bed, a single table, and a chair—but it was enough.

Earlier, Vaelora, the daughter of the Elven chief, had urged him to stay at her home instead.

"Your house isn't even finished yet," she had insisted. "At least sleep somewhere proper."

But Rhaelor had respectfully declined.

"It would not be right, Vaelora," he had said. "You are the daughter of your people's leader. I cannot impose."

And so, he lay in his humble home, resting on a bed of wood softened by a pillow filled with chicken feathers.

As dawn approached, a gentle voice stirred Rhaelor from his sleep.

"Rhaelor," the voice called, soothing and powerful.

His eyes fluttered open, and as his vision cleared, he saw a figure seated at the wooden table beside him. A man in white robes, radiating a presence unlike any other.

The moment Rhaelor recognized Him, he threw himself to the ground, pressing his forehead to the dirt floor.

The Architect.

"Rise, Rhaelor."

The voice carried no anger, only warmth. Hesitantly, Rhaelor lifted his head, his heart pounding.

"I am here to guide you," the Architect said, his gaze unwavering. "You have taken responsibility for these people, have you not?"

"Y-Yes, my Lord," Rhaelor answered, his voice trembling.

"Do not be afraid," the Architect reassured him.

Then, He lifted a scroll, sealed with a golden emblem.

"Take this," the Architect said, stepping forward and placing the scroll in Rhaelor's hands. "This holds the true history of the Elves—their origin. The same origin as your people."

Rhaelor's breath caught in his throat.

"The same origin?" he thought. "Then the Elves are..."

Before he could speak, the Architect placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

"You have now seen Me in this form," He said, His voice unwavering. "And for that, you shall be my servant."

Without hesitation, Rhaelor lowered his head. "I am willing, my Lord."

But then, the Architect spoke words that shook him to his core.

"Then, I ask you to marry all the unmarried Elven women. For you shall be their king in the future."

Rhaelor froze.

"What?" he blurted out, his voice breaking.

The Architect remained calm.

"Marry the daughter of the Elven chief first. She will be your first wife."

"But, my Lord—I..." Rhaelor struggled to find words. "I am not suitable for this. Why must I do this?"

"You are not yet ready, but remember this command." The Architect continued, "This scroll can only be read by that girl, Vaelora. When the sun rises, give it to her. When she finishes reading, marry her."

Rhaelor felt his body tense. His heart pounded in his chest.

He looked down at the scroll, his grip tightening. "Marry Vaelora? Marry all the Elven women? Why?"

But before he could ask further, the Architect removed His hand, and His form dissolved into radiant white particles, vanishing into the air.

Rhaelor was left alone.

Alone, with a divine command and an uncertain future.