Chapter 96: City of Ash and Gold
Ryn smelled Ashenveil before he saw it.
The caravan had been moving south for nine days — fourteen travelers, six wagons, two Gnoll outriders, and a Minotaur caravan master named Durgan who spoke exactly once per day and always about road conditions. The Iron Road had carried them from the Northern Reach border through Thornpost, through the Frostmarch waystation network, through the rolling grasslands of the central provinces where the landscape shifted from tundra to temperate so gradually that Ryn only noticed the change when he realized he hadn’t been cold for three days.
Then the smell hit.
Smoke. Not woodsmoke — a hundred different smokes. Coal fires and cooking fires and forge fires and the acrid tang of something chemical that burned the back of his throat. Mixed with that: animal dung, roasting meat, tannery acids, fresh bread, sewage channeled through stone drains, and underneath it all, the particular ozone-sweet scent that Ryn didn’t recognize but that every resident of the capital would have identified immediately.
Stonesteel. The smell of heated stonesteel alloy, leaking from the forge district’s ventilation shafts, so constant and so pervasive that the entire city smelled faintly of hot metal.
"There," said the woman sitting across from him in the wagon — a Kobold trader named Pix, four feet tall, buried under a stack of sample cases. She pointed south with a claw.
Ryn looked.
The Grand Cathedral.
He’d been told it was tall. He’d been told you could see it from three days out. He hadn’t believed either claim, because buildings didn’t work that way — stone had limits, gravity had rules, and three days’ distance was a thing you said to make travelers feel like the destination was closer than it was.
The Cathedral was visible from three days out. It rose from the center of the city like a blade driven into the earth — iron-grey stone and black iron framework climbing into the sky in tiers of Gothic arches and buttressed spires. The central tower terminated in an iron structure that held the Cog-and-Flame, and the symbol caught the midmorning sun and reflected it back as a point of amber light that was visible against the clouds.
Below the Cathedral, the city spread.
Ashenveil. One hundred and fifty thousand people. Capital of the Sovereign Dominion, seat of the Eternal Anvil, heart of a civilization that spanned twelve provinces and forty-two territories. From the wagon, Ryn could see the city walls — thirty-foot curtain walls of reinforced stone, patrolled by soldiers in stonesteel armor — and beyond them, the skyline. Multi-story buildings of grey stone and dark timber. Tower clusters marking the noble quarter. Smoke columns from the forge district. The green smear of the Garden Ring — a band of parks and orchards that separated the inner city from the outer wards.
And at the city’s western edge, catching the light like a second sun: the Sovereign Lake.
The reservoir was visible from the caravan road as a flat expanse of silver-blue, too regular to be natural, bordered by stone embankments and dotted with piers. But it was the shape at the lake’s edge that made Pix lean over and tap Ryn’s arm.
"First time seeing one?" the Kobold asked.
Ryn squinted. From this distance — maybe four kilometers — the shape was indistinct. A dark mass on the embankment, twelve meters of something that caught the light unevenly, patches of iridescent scale reflecting the morning sun in flashes of gold and oil-black. Three protrusions rose from the mass at different angles. Ryn’s brain tried to categorize them: statues? Rock formations? Some kind of industrial structure?
Then one of the protrusions moved.
It lifted. Turned. A triangular silhouette with golden points that might have been eyes oriented toward the east, tracking something Ryn couldn’t see. Then it settled back down.
"That’s the Hydra," Pix said, her amber eyes bright with the particular Kobold excitement that came from proximity to divine engineering. "Gorthan’s Legacy, they call it. Two hundred and fifty years old. The oldest divine creature in the Dominion. Maybe the oldest divine creature anywhere." She was rummaging in her sample cases, producing a battered brass tube — a collapsing spyglass, trade-grade, the lenses scratched but functional. "It lives at the lake. Has for — I don’t know. Seventy years? Longer than my grandmother’s been alive. The Warden keeps it there because the water helps regulate its body temperature. Divine creatures run hot, apparently. Something about the divine core."
She handed Ryn the spyglass.
Through the lens, the Hydra crystallized. Three heads — each one the size of a cart, scaled in overlapping plates of oil-black and deep gold, resting on the stone embankment with the boneless relaxation of a predator that had nothing to fear. The central head was the largest, its jaw armored with ridged plates that looked like they could crush stonesteel. The second head — slightly smaller, with a crest of razor-edged scales along its crown — rested against the central head’s neck in what looked almost affectionate. The third head was different: smaller than the others, its scales a shade lighter, with a texture that seemed newer, smoother. Less scarred.
"The venom head," Pix said, pointing at the third. "Lost it in the war — the one against the Rootmother. The Sovereign regrew it, but it’s not the same. My grandmother says the original could melt iron at a hundred meters. This one’s just... adequate."
"Adequate," Ryn repeated.
"You know. For a twelve-meter divine serpent that vomits corrosive poison." Pix took the spyglass back. "The Warden’s there too — see the minotaur sitting on the embankment? That’s Morthan Gorvaxis. Third-generation Warden. His great-grandfather bonded the creature when it was created. The family’s been the Hydra’s keepers ever since." She paused. "There’s a school for it now. The Warden Academy. They train handlers for all the divine creatures — the Gryphons, the Ironwyrm, the beast-hawks. It’s competitive. Harder to get into than the military academy, my cousin says."
Ryn lowered his gaze from the distant lake. He thought about the Gryphon that had crossed the sky three days ago, the bronze-and-gold creature whose shadow had covered the road. And now this — a beast the size of a building, sleeping at the edge of the capital like a guard dog the size of a house.
What kind of kingdom keeps creatures like that?
The kind that builds roads from the edge of nowhere to here.
The outermost structures were already visible in detail. Wooden warehouses. Livestock pens. Market stalls lining the approach road like teeth. And people. Hundreds of them, moving along the road in both directions — traders with carts, soldiers in formation, pilgrims in white carrying the Cog-and-Flame on wooden staffs, laborers hauling timber, a Minotaur pulling a stone-loaded sledge with one hand.
Ryn’s village had eighty-three people. His entire province had maybe sixty thousand, scattered across a territory the size of a small country.
This city had two and a half Coldhollow villages per street.
***
The gate took an hour.
Not because of any failure — the system was efficient. Too efficient. The line moved in a controlled flow through a processing corridor built into the gatehouse wall: stone counters, iron-barred windows, clerks in grey tunics stamping forms with the mechanical rhythm of people who had done the same action ten thousand times and would do it ten thousand more.
Ryn presented his travel token. The clerk — a Human woman with ink-stained fingers and the expression of someone who had stopped seeing individual faces approximately four years ago — checked the token number against a ledger, stamped his form, and issued a city entry permit. A small card of pressed vellum, stamped with the date.
14th of Ironfall, 250 AF.
"Academy enrollment?" she asked without looking up.
"Yes."
"Scholar’s Ward. Northeast quarter. Follow the Crucible Road east from the central plaza, take the third north turn at the Scriptist library. Registration office is open from dawn to midday, closed on Ordinsday." She slid the permit across the counter. "Welcome to Ashenveil."
She was already looking at the next person.
Ryn stepped through the inner gate and into the city proper.
The noise hit first. Not a single sound — a wall of sound. Voices in three languages. Cart wheels on stone. Hammers from the forge district, a rhythmic, industrial pounding that rolled across the rooftops like distant thunder. Somewhere, a temple bell — deep, resonant, the tone of a bell forged from stonesteel rather than bronze. Market hawkers shouting prices. Children screaming in play. The clatter of hooves on flagstone. A Gnoll howling — not combat, not distress, just a greeting call between two Gnolls on opposite sides of the street that made every Human in a ten-meter radius flinch.
And above it all, the occasional shadow of a Gryphon. Two of them, circling the city in wide arcs — not the border patrol Gryphons that Ryn had seen on the road, but city-circuit riders, their smaller mounts designed for urban surveillance rather than frontier patrol. They passed overhead every twenty minutes, so regular you could set a clock by them. Nobody looked up.
Five races. On the same street. At the same time. Under the same sky. Watched by the same golden eyes.
A Lizardman in the black-and-gold uniform of the city watch directed traffic at an intersection, his scaled hand raised palm-out to halt a Minotaur wagon while a column of Kobold laborers crossed. The Kobolds carried timber bundles on their backs — each bundle twice their height, the wood strapped with iron bindings — moving in a formation so coordinated it looked choreographed. Behind them, a Human merchant argued prices with a Gnoll trader, both speaking rapid trade-Common with the ease of people who’d been arguing prices for years.
No one stared at Ryn. No one cared that a Human boy in a patched cloak was standing in the middle of the street with his mouth open.
This was the part that broke him.
Not the scale. Not the buildings or the walls or the Cathedral spire cutting the sky. Not the divine creatures in the lake or the Gryphons in the air. The *normality*. The fact that five races shared a city and nobody thought it was remarkable. That a twelve-meter divine serpent slept at the reservoir and nobody stopped to stare. That bronze-winged creatures circled overhead and nobody looked up. In Coldhollow, a visiting Gnoll trader was a week’s worth of gossip. Here, a Gnoll was directing foot traffic and a Minotaur was delivering grain and a Kobold work crew was repairing a roof and a divine creature was napping at the lake and all of it was as mundane as breathing.
This is what two hundred and fifty years builds.
He didn’t think it in those words. He didn’t know the number. But the feeling was the same — the vertigo of standing inside something so much larger than yourself that your mind couldn’t hold the edges.
***
The central plaza was called the Anvil Square.
Ryn found it by following the crowd — which was easy, because the crowd moved toward the center of the city with the gravitational pull of a population that organized itself around a fixed point. The streets widened as he walked. Timber-frame houses gave way to stone-front shops. The shops became larger, more ornate — carved lintels, iron-worked signage, display windows showing goods that Ryn couldn’t identify. An apothecary with rows of glass bottles containing liquids in colors he’d never seen. A weaponsmith whose storefront displayed a stonesteel longsword on a velvet mount, the blade so polished it reflected the street like a mirror. A bookshop. A bookshop. Ryn had seen four books in his entire life. This shop had hundreds, stacked on shelves behind glass, each one bound in leather with the title stamped in gold.
One book in the window display caught his attention. A leather-bound volume with a bronze-stamped cover: THE WARDEN’S COMPANION: A Field Guide to Divine Creature Husbandry and Bond Maintenance, Third Edition. Below it, a smaller book: CREATURES OF THE DOMINION: An Illustrated Census for Young Scholars. The children’s book had a painting of the Hydra on the cover — all three heads, golden eyes, coiled on the embankment that Ryn had seen from the road. Rendered in bright watercolors for an audience of seven-year-olds.
They have textbooks about the creatures. They teach children about them.
In Coldhollow, divine creatures were legends. Things the beast-priests whispered about when the mead was strong. Here, they were curriculum.
Then the plaza opened.
Anvil Square was a hundred meters across — a vast expanse of cut stone centered on a fountain the size of a house. The fountain depicted a hammer striking an anvil, the impact casting sprays of water in every direction. The hammer was iron. The anvil was granite. The water was real — fed by an underground spring system that the engineers had routed through the city’s foundations.
Around the square: the institutions.
To the north: the Grand Cathedral. From the plaza, the building’s true scale became apparent. The central tower rose sixty meters — braced by flying buttresses that arced outward like the ribs of a stone giant. The entrance was a triple archway, each arch ten meters high, carved with scenes from the Creation Myth. The Burning Hammer banner hung from the tower’s face — massive, at least fifteen meters long, the multi-colored flames rippling in the wind.
To the east: the Iron Citadel. The royal seat. A fortress-palace of grey stone and black iron, less ornate than the Cathedral but more imposing — built for defense first and governance second, with arrow slits and murder holes integrated into the decorative stonework. The royal banner of House Veyrath — an iron crown on a black field — hung beside the Burning Hammer.
To the south: the Crucible Hall. Headquarters of the religious administration. Smaller than the Cathedral, more austere — a working building rather than a worship building. Priests and clerks moved through its doors in steady streams, carrying scrolls and ledgers.
To the west: the Market Hall. The largest indoor market in the kingdom. A long, barrel-vaulted stone building that hummed with the sound of commerce.
Ryn stood in the center of the square and turned in a slow circle. Four institutions. Four pillars. God, Crown, Church, Commerce. Arranged around a central point with a precision that felt deliberate — because it was. Everything in this city was deliberate. Every stone placed with intention. Every street angled for purpose. Every building positioned for function.
A Lizardman veteran sat on the fountain rim, eating a meat roll with the comfortable patience of someone who’d been sitting on that rim for decades. His left arm was missing below the elbow — a war wound, based on the burn scarring. On his chest, stitched into his worn jacket: the Cog-and-Flame. Beside him, a small girl — Human, maybe six years old — kicked her feet and ate a sugar roll, completely uninterested in the architecture that was making a Northern Reach boy forget how to breathe.
"First time?" the veteran asked. He’d noticed Ryn standing motionless. Must have been a common sight — travelers arriving in the capital and short-circuiting.
Ryn nodded.
The Lizardman gestured with his meat roll toward the Cathedral. "Go inside. Everyone does, first day. See the statue." He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. "But don’t touch the base. The priests get upset."
"The statue?"
The veteran looked at Ryn the way you look at someone who’s asked what the sun is.
"The First Forge. Krug." He said the name the way you say the name of someone who built the ground you’re standing on. Not worship. *Recognition*. "They say the stone’s warm. I’ve touched it — when the priests weren’t looking." He flexed his remaining hand. "It *is* warm. Warmer than stone should be. The old timers say it’s the Sovereign’s presence — that his power’s been growing so long that even the statues feel it now."
He paused. Glanced toward the western edge of the square, where the Market Hall’s roof didn’t quite block the view of the lake. "You see the Hydra on the way in?"
Ryn nodded. "From the road."
"Magnificent, isn’t it?" The veteran’s voice changed — softened, the way a soldier’s voice softened when they talked about something that had saved their life. "I was at Thornpost when the Frostmarch border collapsed — thirty years ago, border skirmish, nothing like the real wars. But I saw the Gryphon Flights come in. Four of them, out of the dawn, gold feathers catching fire in the light. They hit the enemy flanks before our infantry even formed up." He touched the stump of his missing arm. "Lost this to a Howlist axe. But the Gryphons bought us time to fall back. If they hadn’t — well." He shrugged with his remaining shoulder. "I feed the Stormhawks at the Citadel now. Little ones. No bigger than a normal hawk, but blessed — their eyes can see a rat at two kilometers. They carry messages for the military. Fast. Smart." He smiled, which on a Lizardman involved more teeth than Ryn was comfortable with. "My granddaughter wants to be a Warden. She’s eight. Already reading that creature textbook — the one in the bookshop window. Knows the name of every Gryphon in both Flights."
The girl tugged his sleeve. "Grandpa, I want another roll."
"You’ve had two."
"I want three."
The veteran stood. The interaction was over — not because he was rude, but because a six-year-old’s appetite didn’t pause for tourists. He dropped a copper Iron Mark onto the fountain rim.
"For luck," he said to Ryn. "Coldhollow, right? The accent." He didn’t wait for Ryn to confirm. "Long way from home, son. But you’re here now. That’s the hardest part."
He walked away with the girl, who was already negotiating for a fourth roll as a contingency.
Ryn looked at the copper Mark on the fountain rim. The Burning Hammer on one side. The denomination — one tenth of a Mark — on the other.
He picked it up. Turned it in his fingers. Then put it in his pocket next to the iron travel token.
Two pieces of metal. One from the border. One from the center.
Both carrying the same hammer.
***
He went inside the Cathedral.
The doors were open — always open, from dawn to midnight, because the Grand Cathedral of Ashenveil was not a fortress and it was not a private hall. It was a public building. The largest, most expensive, most architecturally ambitious public building in the kingdom, and anyone could walk in at any time and stand in the presence of the god who built everything outside.
The interior was darker than the plaza — natural light filtered through stained glass windows set high in the walls, casting pools of amber and gold and deep crimson across the stone floor. The ceiling was vaulted, forty meters high at the central nave, supported by columns of grey stone carved with spiral patterns that made them look like they were turning slowly in the light. The air smelled of incense — not the cheap pine-resin incense from Coldhollow’s shrine, but something richer, layered, the kind of scent that had been designed by someone who understood that smell was memory.
The stained glass drew his eye. Most of it depicted scenes from the Creation Myth — the swamp, the first forge, the palisade. But one window, on the western wall, was different. It showed the Hydra.
Three heads, golden-eyed, coiled around a shield bearing the Burning Hammer. The glass captured the creature in a moment of divine fury — lightning arcing from the central head, the venom head striking downward at an armored serpent wound in living wood, the screaming head raised to the sky with jaws spread wide. Beneath it, a minotaur in Warden’s leather rode the creature’s back, one hand locked into the thorn grips, the other pointing forward.
Gorthan. The First Warden. Riding the Hydra into the Battle of the Eastern Marsh against Demeterra’s Thornwyrm.
The glass was beautiful. Amber and gold and deep green, the light filtering through it casting the war scene across the Cathedral floor in pools of color that moved as the sun tracked west. Worshippers walked through the light without noticing — they’d walked through it a thousand times. But for Ryn, it was the second time today that a divine creature had stopped him in his tracks.
They put it in the glass. In the church. The creature isn’t just a weapon — it’s part of the story. Part of the faith.
Pews lined both sides of the nave — dark wood, polished to a sheen by two centuries of hands and knees and whispered prayers. Worshippers sat or knelt in scattered clusters. An old Human woman with her eyes closed, lips moving silently. A Kobold family — two adults, three children — kneeling together in perfect posture, the children’s tiny claws folded over their hearts. A Minotaur soldier in parade uniform, sitting alone in the back row, staring at the altar with an expression that was either devotion or exhaustion.
And at the far end of the nave, behind the altar: the statue.
Ryn stopped walking.
Krug. The First Forge. Carved from a single block of granite that had been quarried from the original Remnant settlement and transported to the capital seventy years after his death. The statue stood eight meters tall — a Lizardman in priestly robes, holding the Shepherd’s Stick in his right hand and the Cog-and-Flame symbol in his left. The face was serene. Not peaceful — serene in the way that a mountain is serene. The expression of something that has been here longer than you and will be here after you leave.
The stone was warm.
Ryn felt it from five meters away. Not heat — warmth. Ambient, sourceless warmth that radiated from the statue the way sunlight radiated from a window, except there was no source. The granite glowed faintly from within — a deep amber light that pulsed with a rhythm Ryn couldn’t identify.
It’s breathing, he thought, and then immediately told himself that was stupid, because statues didn’t breathe.
But the warmth pulsed. Slow. Steady. And the eyes — carved granite, lifeless stone — seemed to follow him as he moved to the left, then the right.
He knelt. Not because he was told to. Not because anyone was watching. Because his knees made the decision without consulting his brain — the same way his mother’s knees bent every morning before the shrine in Coldhollow, the way his grandfather’s knees had bent before a different god in a different time. Some responses were older than thought.
Right knee. Left fist over heart. The posture he’d seen but never committed to.
The warmth intensified. Not painfully — like stepping into a room where someone had been keeping a fire. The kind of warmth that made you realize you’d been cold for a long time without knowing it.
The Sovereign’s presence grows stronger each decade. The veteran’s words. Not a theological statement. An observation. The observation of a man who’d touched the statue and felt what Ryn was feeling now — the weight of something vast and attentive pressing against the stone the way water pressed against a dam.
Ryn knelt for three minutes. He didn’t pray — he didn’t know the Ordinist prayers yet, and the Howlist prayers didn’t feel right here. He just knelt, and felt the warmth, and looked at the face of a Lizardman who’d walked from a swamp two hundred and fifty years ago with twenty-three believers and a voice in his head.
When he stood, his knees were shaking. Not from the posture. From the understanding that had settled into his chest like a stone dropped into water.
The statue was warm because something was in it. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Something was looking through that granite with the focused attention of an intelligence that spanned a kingdom of a million souls, and for three minutes, the smallest fraction of that attention had settled on a boy from Coldhollow who’d knelt without being told to.
Ryn walked back into the sunlight on unsteady legs.
The plaza was the same. The crowd, the noise, the merchant stalls, the sugar-roll girl and her one-armed grandfather probably on roll number five by now. A Gryphon’s shadow crossed the square — routine patrol, twenty-minute interval. The world unchanged.
But Ryn was different. Not converted. Not persuaded. Not preached to or instructed or pressured.
Touched.
He looked up at the Cathedral spire. The Cog-and-Flame burned in the afternoon light. Behind it, in the western sky, a second Gryphon banked over the lake — and at the lake’s edge, the dark mass of the Hydra shifted, three heads lifting briefly to track the creature overhead before settling back into stillness. God’s beast watching god’s beast.
What kind of god builds a road from the frozen edge of nowhere to here, and makes a statue that I can feel in my chest, and keeps creatures that old watching the sky?
He didn’t have an answer. But he was going to find one.