Chapter 15 – The Underground City

The subterranean wind carried the scent of pure water and ancient metal as Arlen stepped onto the platform. His fingers tightened against the railing, his knuckles white from the pressure.

And then he saw it.

Aurion.

It wasn’t a city. It was a miracle carved from stone and light.

The Light Crystals didn’t just glow—they sang. Deep blues like the desert night sky, vibrant greens like the rare plants that sprouted after sandstorms, golds like the first rays of sunlight cutting through the dunes. Their light danced on the walls of the colossal cavern, casting moving constellations, as if the roof of the world itself were a living sky.

The buildings…

Arlen swallowed. Nothing about it followed the logic he knew. Towers rose in impossible spirals, bending like branches in the wind, but made of a material that seemed both stone and liquid. Arched bridges spanned the gaps between the buildings, thin as spiderwebs but solid as mountains. And the rivers...

"By the gods..."

The waters did not flow on the ground. They snaked through the air in suspended currents, crystal liquid flowing in invisible paths, feeding fountains that gushed upward, against gravity.

"It is..."

Arlen tried to speak, but his voice was gone. His chest ached, as if his heart was beating too hard to fit between his ribs.

Aeloria stood beside him, her eyes reflecting the glow of the city.

"Amazing?"

He could only shake his head. No words were enough.

"Aurion was not built, Arlen. It was dreamed." His finger pointed to the center, where the tallest tower pierced the space, almost touching the ceiling of the cavern.

“The Core. The heart that keeps all of this alive.”

Arlen felt the Maker’s Amulet vibrate, as if recognizing something.

Stepping down into the streets was like falling into a dream.

The ground beneath his feet was warm, pulsing slightly, as if breathing. The Aurians passed them by—some tall and slender like Aeloria, others shorter, with skin the color of pearl or pale blue. All wore flowing robes, the symbols embroidered on them glowing faintly.

A small child, no older than six, bumped into him as she chased after a floating sphere of light. She stopped, staring at Arlen with curious eyes—eyes that were pitch black, with no whites, no irises.

“You came from outside?” Her voice was a musical bell.

Arlen froze. How to respond?

Aeloria intervened, running a hand through the child’s hair.

“He came from far away, yes.”

The girl smiled, showing perfect teeth that were a little too sharp.

“The one upstairs always comes in smelling like a storm.”

And then she ran off again, laughing as if she had made the best joke in the world.

Arlen looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

“What did she mean by ‘smelling like a storm’?”

Aeloria didn’t answer directly. Her eyes were fixed on the Core.

“You haven’t felt it yet, have you? The weight of the air here is different. Purer. Older. Your body is still used to the world up there—to the violence of the elements, to the bitter taste of raw magic.”

Arlen took a deep breath. She was right. The air here was… easier. As if each breath filled him with something he hadn’t even known was missing.

“They look at me like I’m a ghost,” he murmured, noticing the Aurians’ discreet glances.

Aeloria finally looked at him.

“You are. A ghost from their past. From their future. From your own future, Arlen Sharim.”

The Amulet of the Creator burned against his chest again.

And somewhere, deep within the impossible city, something responded.