The temple cellar smells of dampness and old stone, but here, inside my mind, I hear the rhythm of rain. I see everything through the eyes of Leliana—a woman whose voice was woven of silk and steel, and whose laughter once warmed this world long before it was covered in scars. She doesn't just watch—she sings this story within herself, turning every movement of her companions into a ballad of the end of times.
Rain lazily licked the edge of the oak table. With a dull, wet thud, a soaked sack landed in the middle—all that remained of Milather's once-great collection. Dwight, whose eyes always burned with the feverish glow of a reformer, untied the rope with a sharp movement. The remnants of someone else's eternity rolled onto the darkened wood.
"The Shield is gone," Dwight stated curtly, sweeping a heavy gaze over the table. "That old codger Mangratum stole it after all. Hid it in his mountain."
Hank only winced almost imperceptibly, but there was no malice in his gesture.
"Fine. In the end, it’s not the shield that matters, but what we do with this world when we put it back in its place."
"The Boots are also gone," Lorelei added. She didn't touch the items; she sorted them with her gaze, as if weighing their very essence. "Lost somewhere on the roads. And... the sword is missing as well."
"Damn it," Dwight exhaled it like a curse. "I wanted the sword for myself. It knows how to argue so beautifully with kings."
"Only a trained army argues beautifully with kings," Hank chuckled, adjusting the collar of his worn cassock. "A sword is just a tool. It works when words run out."
Three items remained on the table: the Gloves, the Helmet, and the Cuirass. Each item seemed alive in the dim light. The Gloves seemed to breathe warmth, the Helmet caught an unnatural, echoing silence around itself, and the Cuirass almost imperceptibly "pulled" the gaze, as if its presence made the air in the room denser and heavier.
Lorelei slowly lifted the Cuirass by its edge. The oak beneath it groaned piteously, as if the wood were begging for mercy.
"None of you can handle this thing," she said evenly.
"We can't handle it?" Dwight smirked, but there was no certainty in his voice.
"You can't," Lorelei was as soft as a knife's edge. "You are the 'Head,' Dwight. This steel will eat you first. It demands a heart, which you barely have left behind your schemes."
She briefly pressed her palm to the inner plate of the cuirass and immediately jerked it back, as if burned by ice.
"I will take it for myself. Hide it where no one will find it. And I will never wear it myself."
"Then I’ll take the helmet," Dwight decided. He looked at me as if waiting for permission or asking for forgiveness. "It doesn't take strength; it simply muffles the world. It’ll be convenient not to hear the screams of kings through this visor."
I smiled at him with the corner of my lips, feeling the song inside me turn sad:
"Just don't stop hearing ordinary people behind that helmet, Dwight."
Meanwhile, Hank picked up the gloves—heavy, with narrow, almost jewelry-like engraving at the knuckles. The same dark metal gloves I would see on him three hundred years later at that cursed crossroads. He tried them on, clenched his fists—the leather inside creaked quietly under the pressure of the steel.
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"They fit my hands," he said simply.
"Who would've doubted it," Dwight snorted. "You do everything in this life with your hands anyway, monk. At least now you won't rub them raw against other people's jaws."
I stood slightly to the side, looking at this table like an old letter containing much bitter truth and not a drop of joy.
"I’m glad nothing of this is left for me," I said aloud. "I want to live until my music ends. I want to feel the world with my skin, not wear it like a heavy weight."
Dwight tightened the cord of his new helmet, swept his gaze over us all, and leaned his fists on the table. At that moment, he was no longer just our friend. He was a blueprint for the future.
"Then listen. 'States' as they are now have outlived themselves. Kings are just parasites who only know how to count other people's gold. I will raise a new, free place. A place without crowns. With the right of choice for everyone. Right here, from the chaos we have left."
"I’m with you," said Hank. And in that short answer were his beads, and his streets, and all those fights we came out of together.
I raised my eyes to Dwight. In my heart at that moment, the sun and the premonition of catastrophe were fighting.
"And I. I’d like to say I’m following your great ideas... But in fact, I’m following you."
"You will live less than a hundred years by our side, Leliana," Dwight warned quietly. In his voice was the sadness of eternity. "And I don't promise that you won't regret your choice."
"I will," I nodded, and the melody in my soul reached its highest note. "But I will regret it by your side."
Lorelei carefully packed the cuirass back into the sack and slung it over her shoulder as easily as if it weighed no more than fluff.
"And I’m heading to Phesia," she said. "My research will be more welcome there than your political storms. Magical batteries are the future, not an endless struggle with the ghosts of kings. Vellaris is your task. Mine is to save knowledge."
They stood there, four legends at a wooden table, making the choices that would break the world.
The vision shifted, and we were in a field.
The night air of the Forbidden Lands—not yet completely distorted then—was fresh. The Copper Cylinder in Leliana's hands hummed. Now I understand what it is. It’s not just a "map." It’s the metronome of reality.
"I will set the beat here," Leliana whispered.
The sound the artifact made vibrated in my teeth. The world around us froze for a moment. The wind stopped rustling the grass, the stars stood still. Leliana began to chant—the very melody she had bought with the blood of orphans. The cylinder picked up the rhythm, amplified it, and began to radiate a soft, amber glow.
This is how Summer Valley was born. A place where time goes in a circle, where winter cannot break through the barrier of an eternal song. It wasn't the mercy of the gods. It was a magical stabilization powered by a "battery" of absorbed souls.
"We saved them, Dwight," Leliana said, her face white as chalk, her eyes glowing with that same amber fire.
"We gave them a place for which we’ll have to burn in hell," he replied, putting on his helmet. "But that will be tomorrow. Today, we have Order."
Hank stepped out of the darkness. His new gloves clicked against his prayer beads.
"How much did you hear?" Leliana asked.
"Enough to understand: the two of you have argued with eternity again," Hank approached. "And enough to accept the truth. You are a Lich, Leliana. And you are Leliana. Both truths can live in one name. It cost you the entire chorus."
"It cost you—us," Hank nodded. "But this place... it will withstand the hunger of the world. Though your own heart won't stop hungering. Listen to my condition, Leliana. I will lead people here who are fleeing the Black Wolf. Those who can still be saved, I will return to the world. But those who only want to burn and kill... I will bring them to you. Purely. You will take their souls—so as not to take the souls of the innocent."
"A harsh choice, Hank. Но human. I accept."
They stood in silence, watching the first gentle streams of heat rise in the circle of grass.
"Will you give this place a name?" he asked.
"The Warm Place," Leliana said. "So that even someone who can't read maps knows where to go."
The Price of Order.
Key Lore Drops:
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The Artifact Split: We now know where the items went. Dwight (The Head) took the Helmet, Hank (The Hands) took the Gloves, and Lorelei (The Knowledge) took the Cuirass to Phesia.
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Leliana’s Secret: The reveal that Leliana is a Lich (or something very close to it) changes everything. Her "Warm Place" is literally powered by a metronome of souls.
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The Republic’s Dream: Dwight’s vision of a world without kings sounds noble, but as we’ve seen in the present, "Order" can be just as heavy as a crown.
Mechanic Highlight: The Copper Cylinder. In this world, magic isn't just "spells"—it's Rhythm and Stabilization. Leliana using the Cylinder as a metronome to keep winter away is a perfect example of the high-level Milather-tech we’re exploring.
Questions for the readers:
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Dwight’s Idealism: Do you think a "Republic without crowns" is possible in a world where gods and artifacts exist, or was he doomed from the start?
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Hank’s Pact: Is it "human" to feed a Lich with the souls of criminals to save a village, or is Hank just as guilty as the people he’s hunting?
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Helmet, the Gloves, or the Cuirass—sounds the most dangerous to you?
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