Krafcheten
Krafcheten — the sacred ground of warriors and adventurers.
A city where, even in the bitterest cold, the lights of the taverns never go out.
Born of countless legendary heroes and trailblazers, Krafcheten practiced no racial discrimination whatsoever. There was the well-known tale of the famous hero Zik, who insulted a nameless Orc warrior in passing and had his head cleanly severed for it. Pure strength was simply the value this city prized above all else.
And into that Krafcheten walked two figures.
"..."
A woman in a robe that hid her face, and—
"Hoo... phrr. Sss... hoo..."
—an Orc who stood well over two meters tall, armed with an axe and a greatsword.
Lakia moved only her eyes inside the robe, quiet and watchful. The Agnotu was a stranger thing than she had expected.
There was no sensation of her body vanishing. She still had hands. She still had feet. The cold still stung the tip of her nose, and she could clearly hear the frozen earth crunching under her boots. And yet people's gazes did not settle on her.
No — they did land. The guard standing at the gate with a spear saw her. The Dwarf pushing a cart glanced at the hem of her robe. A mercenary chewing dried meat by the roadside turned his eyes her way. But none of those looks stayed long. Like raindrops skimming a windowpane, their gazes touched her and slid right off.
That sensation unsettled Lakia a little. Being unseen was one thing. Being seen and leaving no trace cut far deeper.
"Are you all right?"
A low voice came from beside her. The voice belonged to Carnepisara; the face was an Orc's. And not just any Orc — the kind that made most people passing under the walls step aside without quite realizing why.
Broad shoulders. A thick neck. Short, rough black hair. Several heavy scars cut across his dark-green skin, and the fangs showing between his lips were threatening even when he said nothing. The axe at his waist looked like something Lakia would struggle to lift with both hands, and the greatsword on his back resembled less a blade than a slab of iron meant for folding people in half lengthwise.
Carnepisara breathed in that form with complete natural ease.
"Hoo... phrr."
"...Do you really have to make that breathing noise?"
"It is necessary if I am to look like an Orc."
"You've been wearing it so well it's starting to creep me out."
"I will take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't one."
Lakia muttered under her breath. Carnepisara smiled with an Orc's face. When the corner of his mouth lifted, a fang showed a little more. It was frightening — and that included the fact that Carnepisara was the one inside it.
The gates of Krafcheten were enormous. The walls, cut from the stone of black mountain ranges, were thick and high, ice clinging to them in places so that they shone white. Flags hung above the battlements — a black axe on a red field. Beneath that axe, the same sentence was carved in the languages of many races:
Let the strong enter.
People stood in line before the gate. There were beings it felt awkward to simply call people, too. An Elven mercenary with long ears tucked into a hat. A Dwarven merchant dragging an oversized pack on short legs. A beastfolk warrior a full head taller than any human. A human swordsman with bandages around one arm. And several Orcs like Carnepisara.
Looking at that scene filled Lakia with a strange feeling. The world beyond the gorge was far noisier, far rougher, and far more alive than she had imagined. They did not know dragons. They did not know Lakia. They did not know the gorge. But each of them was breathing their own breath.
The gate guard straightened a little the moment he saw Carnepisara. There was wariness in him. He took in the Orc's weapons and build first, then the eyes, and only then opened his mouth.
"Name."
Carnepisara answered shortly.
"Karg."
Lakia blinked inside the robe. He had made that up. Far too casually. But the guard nodded as if it were nothing.
"Purpose."
"Work."
"Mercenary?"
"Close enough."
The guard asked nothing more. Demanding long, complicated explanations from an Orc warrior was apparently not good practice even in Krafcheten. His gaze drifted toward Lakia for a moment. It blurred. He saw the robe. He understood she was a woman. He guessed she was Karg's companion. And then interest died.
"Companion?"
"Yes."
"Don't cause trouble."
"As long as no one starts it first."
The guard looked at Carnepisara a beat longer — then laughed.
"In Krafcheten, that's the hardest promise there is."
The gate opened. Lakia stepped through into the city.
The wind changed. Outside, the mountain air had been sharp. Inside the walls, the wind carried smoke, roasting meat, and the smell of iron. Footprints layered the snowy streets; warm light spilled from the windows of every building along either side. The roofs were buried in snow, but smoke never stopped rising from the chimneys, and somewhere under the main road hot water must have been running through pipes, because stretches of stone paving steamed, wet and breathing.
Lakia stared at it all, half dazed. In the gorge, the night was loud with breathing. In Krafcheten, the night was loud with voices.
Laughter. Curses. Bargaining. Song. The clash of weapons. Somewhere in the distance a dull impact rang out — someone fighting — and a heartbeat later a cheer erupted from one of the taverns.
"Did someone die?"
Lakia asked quietly.
Carnepisara twitched an ear — an Orc's ear. That, too, looked natural.
"No. About three teeth, I would guess."
"How do you know that?"
"By the sound."
"You can tell that kind of thing?"
"Live long enough and you learn all sorts of things."
Lakia said nothing. Live long enough and you learn all sorts of things was an annoyingly convenient line.
The city streets were wider than she had expected. But even the wide ones were packed with people and beasts and carts and weapons. In front of a smithy a Dwarf hammered red-hot iron, while a human apprentice beside him shoveled ice into a bucket. A beastfolk adventurer in leather armor haggled with a swaying tail; across the way an Orc bought a sausage the size of his own forearm and bit straight into it.
Watching that, Lakia murmured without meaning to,
"He eats well."
"Orcs do."
"Could you eat that right now, Teacher?"
"It is possible."
"I'd rather you didn't."
"Why?"
"Because you'd look far too natural doing it."
Carnepisara laughed low. Two human mercenaries passing by heard the sound and quietly gave them the road. Watching their reaction, Lakia understood again: Carnepisara's disguise was working. Working too well. People did not doubt him. They simply judged him dangerous. And in Krafcheten, dangerous things walking the streets did not seem rare.
No one picked a fight with Carnepisara over his race. The weak simply kept clear; the strong met his eyes briefly; a few who liked a good scrap lifted the corners of their mouths, saw the axe, and quietly set their interest aside.
Lakia found it remarkable.
"They really don't discriminate."
"This city looks less at race."
"Is it a good place?"
Carnepisara was silent a moment.
"Rather than a good place — a place with clear standards."
The words were short. Lakia did not understand them at once. But she thought she soon would. Krafcheten looked less at race. It looked at strength instead. That did not mean it was a city that never bullied the weak. It meant it was a city that did not casually touch the strong.
Lakia slowly swallowed that difference inside her robe. Absence of discrimination was not the same as kindness. Equality was not the same as warmth. Before this city asked what race you were, it asked whether you could survive. The question was rough. But it was honest.
Carnepisara pretended not to see the expression on her face. He walked ahead. An Orc's stride was heavy. The ground trembled faintly under it. Lakia kept pace beside him and took in the city.
Tavern signs caught her eye. A red axe. A boiling horn-cup. A severed long tail. At that last one Lakia nearly stopped walking.
"What is that."
"A sign."
"The name."
"Commercial exaggeration."
"Does it mean they cut off a dragon's tail?"
"Most likely a large lizard's."
Lakia glared at the sign. The wooden dragon was uglier than expected. The wings were wrong, the eyes looked stupid, and the tail was needlessly long. If anyone looked at that and believed it was a dragon, these city people truly did not know dragons. It annoyed her a little.
"It's ugly."
"A picture that would anger a real dragon, yes."
"I'm already angry."
"You, Lady Lakia?"
"As a mother."
Carnepisara nodded once, very briefly, with an Orc's face.
"A righteous anger."
Lakia smiled a little at that. She was glad the smile came. She was still afraid — but not only afraid. The city was strange and loud and rough, and yet somehow she could not look away.
On a street corner, children were play-fighting with wooden swords. One thrust out his chin and growled, doing an Orc impression; another held up a wooden shield and played the hero. Then the would-be Orc slipped and fell. The children around him laughed. The fallen one laughed too.
Lakia watched. Human children. One beastfolk child. One Dwarf child. Mixed together. They did not know dragons. They did not know Lakia either. But the way they fell and laughed looked a little like the baby dragons in the gorge.
She pressed her lips together lightly.
"What is it?"
Carnepisara asked.
"Nothing."
Lakia spoke without taking her eyes off them.
"Just... realizing they're alive."
Carnepisara did not answer. That silence, once again, was a little welcome.
The closer they drew to the city center, the brighter the tavern lights became. At the end of the main road lay a vast circular plaza, and at its heart stood a monument that looked as if it had been cast from melted broken swords, axes, and spears. Names were carved into its base. Some scripts Lakia could read; some she could not. Human tongue. Dwarven runes. Coarse Orcish markings. Fine Elven lines. Symbols like the claw-marks of beastfolk tribes. All of them cut into the same stone.
Carnepisara spoke.
"The names of the pioneers who died in Krafcheten."
"Regardless of race?"
"Yes."
Lakia looked up at the monument. Before death, race grew faint. Even in a city that worshipped strength, the names of the dead were carved into the same stone. That fact sat strangely heavy.
"Is the hero Zik there too?"
"He is."
Carnepisara jerked his chin toward one side of the plaza. A small statue stood there — a headless human warrior. Lakia blinked.
"They actually made a headless statue?"
"Its educational effect is excellent."
"What a terrifying city."
"A city with a good memory."
Zik. A famous hero. The man who insulted a nameless Orc warrior in passing and had his head cleanly cut off. When Lakia first heard the anecdote she had thought it a little exaggerated. Seeing the statue, she understood. Krafcheten was not ashamed of that incident. It had set the fact that even a hero could die for crossing a line into the city like a rule.
Lakia looked at Carnepisara in his Orc form.
"So that's why you came as an Orc?"
"In this city, an Orc warrior is excellent identification."
"Identification made of fangs and muscle?"
"And an axe."
"That's the worst."
"It is efficient."
Carnepisara was perfectly unbothered. Lakia wanted to press a hand to her forehead again, but held still for fear the robe would slip.
Then it happened. The door of a tavern beside the plaza slammed open. Hot light, the smell of liquor, and the scent of roasting meat poured out together, and a huge laugh exploded from inside.
"An Orc!"
Someone shouted. Lakia stiffened for an instant — but there was no hostility in the cry. Welcome, interest, and drink, all mixed together. A red-bearded Dwarf at the door waved at Carnepisara.
"Hey, big friend! If you want an arm-wrestle, come in! The pot's good today!"
Lakia looked at Carnepisara. He turned his head with complete natural ease.
"I have a companion at present."
"A companion?"
The Dwarf's gaze swung toward Lakia. It landed. It blurred. He furrowed his brow — then lost interest almost at once.
"Whatever! Come by later!"
The door shut. Lakia let out a small breath. Carnepisara spoke to her, low.
"The Agnotu is functioning well."
"I hate how it feels."
"The better the secret art, the worse it tends to feel."
"Don't trash Elven craftsmanship yourself."
"An honest description."
Lakia gripped the edge of her robe a little tighter. She was here. She was clearly here. And yet people would not remember her. The feeling of having stepped one pace back from the world. It was freedom, and at the same time it was lonely.
She did not put that loneliness into words. Instead she followed Carnepisara down a street lined with taverns. There were even more people here. A wounded adventurer walked leaning on a companion's shoulder. A woman with a scar at the corner of her eye was selling a sword. An Orc and a human sat at the same table tearing into meat. A Dwarf and a beastfolk argued over a bar tab, then both suddenly laughed and clinked cups.
The world was complicated. There were too many smells to divide it into good people and bad people. Liquor. Blood. Sweat. Roasted meat. Leather wet with snow. The smell of being alive.
Lakia breathed it all in, slowly. And she thought: I don't know these people. Not yet. So I have to look.
In that moment, another voice carried from the far end of the street.
"You hear about Rusting Harpoon?"
Lakia's feet stopped. Carnepisara stopped too. Two adventurers at a tavern window were talking in low voices.
"Some magic-tower accident, I heard."
"Catastrophe-class fire beast, they said."
"Nonsense. What I heard was different. There was a witness."
Lakia clenched her hands inside the robe. Rusting Harpoon. The burned village. Milia. Something deep in her chest tightened, slow and hard.
Carnepisara faced forward with an Orc's face. His expression did not change. Only his voice dropped very low.
"Lady Lakia."
Lakia did not answer. The adventurer's voice went on.
"Know what he said he saw?"
The sound of a cup set on a table.
"Said he saw a dragon."
The tavern lights were still bright. The street was still loud. People still laughed, ate, fought, and went on living. And standing in the middle of it all, Lakia understood for the first time.
The world outside the gorge had already, long before she came to see it, begun to move toward her children.