The blue blocks were the answer to his prayers, the same anti-magic stone that had once chained him in Draemir. The Wanderer’s face lit up with relief. He began walking slowly, raising his lonely hand toward the massive walls. His walk turned into a stride, then a sprint; with each step closer, he felt his magic draining away. He finally reached the base of the structure, breathing heavily from the exertion and the rapid depletion of his power.
He followed the perimeter until the gates of Valoria loomed above him, carved with stern reliefs of warriors holding scales and swords. Beneath the archway, refugees huddled in the rain, pleading their cases to guards clad in silver-plated armor.
The Wanderer slowed his pace, moving close enough to listen to the exchanges.
"Sir, I came fleeing Draemir," a man told a guard. "Their madness of making a new empire almost killed us."
"We are aware of their experiments," the guard replied, taking a formal stance and leaning his spear forward. He raised his voice so all could hear: "All Draemiran refugees are welcomed! Have no fear, the god of light is merciful and just. Valoria’s gates are always open for those who are in need!"
Leaning against the cool stone, the Wanderer watched the guard’s almost theatrical performance. Valoria? he thought. When did I hear that name before? He shook the thought away. It didn't matter; staying here, where the stone dampened the Spiral’s hunger, was his best chance. But a new fear surfaced: these people were Draemirans. At least one of them might recognize the Hero of Draemir.
"Another refugee?" a voice cut through his thoughts.
The Wanderer reacted instantly, ducking his head between his shoulder and forearm to hide his face, looking at the speaker with a single eye.
"Don't worry," the man said, puffing out his chest. "No one seeking refuge gets rejected."
The Wanderer, still shielding his features, hesitated. "My face is... mutilated. It happened during the attack on Draemir."
"Those bastards!" the man exclaimed with the same flair as the gate guards. "They took your arm and your face." He sighed, laying a heavy hand on the Wanderer’s back. "You should take pride in your scars. You are a survivor."
The Wanderer took a few steps away, retreating from the touch. "I don't wish people to be disgusted by my face, nor do I want their pity."
"You sound like a true warrior," the man noted, his tone shifting to respect. "Wait for me here."
The armored man ran back toward the city, leaving the Wanderer standing alone in the rain. He glanced at the open road, thinking of running away, but the realization stopped him. Where else could he go where the roaring in his mind would stay quiet?
In a few minutes, the man returned, holding out a mask. "You can use this until you are confident enough to take it off," he said.
The Wanderer took it, turning it over in his hand. It was a festival mask, painted in bright colors, a mocking contrast to the grey ruin he had just left behind. He pulled it on and looked back at the man.
The man laughed at the silly face in front of him. "That’s my son’s mask, so don’t lose it."
The Wanderer nodded silently as the man gestured for him to follow.
As they approached the towering gates, a guard hurried toward them, snapping a salute. "Captain Zeek! We found a mage among the refugees."
Zeek’s face hardened into a mask of anger. He moved with sudden haste, and the Wanderer followed.
In a small clearing near the gate, a man was being pinned to the ground by guards. Standing over them was a figure in flowing white robes and a golden tabard with a large black sun. The figure held a staff topped with a crystal that buzzed.
Zeek slammed a fist against his armored chest in salute. "What do we have here, Mage Seeker?"
Behind his mask, the Wanderer flinched. Mage Seeker. The title echoed in his mind like a warning bell.
"I caught this man using magic," the Mage Seeker replied. "The nullstones purified the casting, but my wand detected the resonance."
"I have nothing to do with you Valorians!" the prisoner shouted. "I’m here looking for a monster who fled Draemir!"
Zeek planted a steel boot into the man’s side. "You are the only monster I see, heretic!"
The prisoner struggled against the guards, forcing himself upright. In that moment, the Wanderer caught a glimpse of the man’s face. It was the commander from Draemir, the man who had begged for death in the ruins.
The Wanderer stepped back instinctively, trying to vanish behind the line of armored guards.
"We don't care about your goals, Draemiran," the Mage Seeker said coldly. "Mages are not welcome in Valoria."
"This doesn't concern Valoria!" the commander spat.
Zeek drove a punch into the man's jaw. "You brought the filth of mana into our territory. Now it concerns us."
The Mage Seeker turned to the guards. "Take him to the altar."
"If you allow me, sir," Zeek intervened, "I want the refugees to witness this."
The Mage Seeker nodded. "As you wish."
Zeek turned back to the gathered crowd, his voice booming at the top of his lungs. "It is true that everyone is welcome in Valoria... unless you carry the curse of magic! Everyone will follow me now to see the fate of mages in this city. MOVE!"
The Wanderer began to tremble. His heart sank as he listened to Zeek’s proclamation. Should I run? He thought, his eyes darting toward the open road. I have to get out of here.
He began to turn, but Zeek intercepted him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Come with me," the Captain said, his tone almost gentle again. "Maybe witnessing this punishment will bring you some peace."
The Wanderer looked toward the horizon, calculating his chances of a break for freedom, but Zeek’s hand pushing him forward destroyed any hope of escape.
The guards dragged the Draemiran commander to a large, open square and forced him onto his knees.
"You fools!" the commander screamed, his eyes wild as he scanned the crowd. "I tracked him all the way here! He is among you! He might already be within your walls!"
The Mage Seeker stepped forward, the crystal on his staff glowing as it buzzed. "No one gets past us, heretic. Your lies won't save you."
An armored man with the greatsword stepped forward. He planted the tip of the blade into the ground and leaned his weight onto the hilt, raising his chin with cold authority as he surveyed the gathered refugees.
The Mage Seeker’s voice rang out, reciting a practiced litany. "For your blasphemous acts against our kingdom, your sins will be purified only by your blood." He gestured sharply to the executioner. "Carry out the sentence."
"That’s your justice?" the commander roared, struggling against his restraints. "To execute me without a trial? I am telling you, there is a monster nearby! Listen to me!"
His eyes scanned the crowd, darting from face to face until they locked onto the bright colors of the festival mask. Recognition flared in his pupils. "He is here! The man with one…"
The executioner’s blade whistled through the air, severing the sentence and the commander’s head in a single strike. A faint trail of energy escaped the corpse, dispersing harmlessly against the city walls.
The crowd began to drift away. They seemed largely unmoved, in Draemir, people were executed for much less.
The Mage Seeker frowned, tapping the crystal atop his staff with a gloved finger. Zeek leaned in. "Is there a problem, sir?"
"I think my staff needs calibration," the Seeker muttered, sounding more annoyed than concerned. "The buzzing should have stopped the moment the mana left his body."
The Wanderer acted quickly, drifting through the crowd, putting as much distance between himself and the altar as possible. He cast a final glance back to see the Seeker’s staff had dimmed.
He hurried back toward the gates, desperate to slip out before Zeek could find him again. Another Mage Seeker stood at the exit, scanning every refugee for traces of magic.
Damn it, he thought, pulling back into the shadows of a building. They’re going to find me sooner or later. I have to get out.
He moved along the inner perimeter, searching for another way out, but his heart sank with every turn. Mage Seekers were stationed at every entrance, their wands cutting through the grey light. He didn't fear death - death would be a relief - but he feared the Spiral. If he were backed into a corner, if a threat rose too high, the entity within would wake to defend its vessel, and he promised to never let it out.
Finally, he stopped. The unnatural peace he felt within these walls was too tempting to abandon. For the first time in an eternity, the roaring was a whisper. He decided to stay.
He walked deeper into the heart of Valoria. The city was a marvel of white marble and disciplined order. Busy markets overflowed with exotic goods, and soldiers moved through the streets assuring order.
Then, he felt an ache in his stomach - It wasn't the Spiral’s ravenous rage this time - it was simple, human hunger. He found himself smiling behind the mask. For a brief moment, he was just a man again.
He approached a vendor stall piled high with colorful fruits.
"Good morning, sir," the Wanderer said, his voice low. "Do you have some chores I can assist you with in exchange for some food?"
The merchant’s face curdled. He looked at the Wanderer's ragged clothes. "You filthy Draemirans have been circling me like vultures all day," he spat, waving a hand as if shooing a stray dog. "Get out of my sight before I call the guards."
The contrast between Zeek’s theatrical welcome and the reality of the streets baffled him before moving to another stall for food.
The Wanderer moved from stall to stall, but the result was always a wall of deep-hatred. Every request for work was met with a sneer; every plea for a crust of bread was answered with a threat to call the guards.
As he walked, the murmurs of the people followed him. The citizens of Valoria spoke of the Draemiran crisis with open loathing, or hid their venom behind thin, patronizing smiles.
He passed two men leaning against a white marble pillar.
"Look at the filth Draemir has brought to our door," one muttered, gesturing toward the Wanderer.
The other sighed, shaking his head. "If only our king weren't so kind-hearted. We wouldn't have to look at them."
"They are our enemies," the first replied, his voice hardening. "A city of filthy heretics. Mages or not, they should all be executed."
The Wanderer tightened his fist, Realizing that standing out would only lead to a confrontation he couldn't afford, he lowered his masked head and merged back into the masses of refugees. The murmured slurs weren't much compared to the relief he felt, but the seekers' threat loomed closer than he thought.