Chapter 54: The Sky and Oblivion
As I passed through the gates of Zagnaroth, the air changed. It was denser, filled with soot, molten metal, tension. The ground echoed with each step, a blend of polished black stone and beaten metal slabs. The city was alive.
A world of iron and fire. Organized, oppressive, magnificent in its own way. And in its streets, several races coexisted. I saw ash-skinned dwarves, carrying barrels of ore. Demonic species with twisted horns, sometimes with scaly skin, beings dressed in leather and chains, others masked, walking hunched under inhuman loads.
But one race dominated. They were seen everywhere. In the markets. In the forges. Guarding the walls. Sitting on steel balconies, or standing, watching the others. The demons of Zagnaroth.
Humanoid. Tall. On average 1.80 meters. Their skin was dark, almost black, but streaked with glowing cracks, as if an inner fire was trying to escape. They radiated a natural heat, perceptible from several meters away. They needed no armor. Their mere presence already deterred provocation.
Some wore mail dipped in fire, others were bare-chested, their skin steaming, wielding white-hot weapons—swords, maces, spears. Each blow they struck could burn, slice, or melt. Their eyes were often red, yellow or white, glowing in the alley shadows.
None of them looked weak. None appeared lost. They were at home. And everyone else knew it. I observed them in silence, my gaze drifting from one to another. They didn’t look at the other races. They tolerated them. Like one tolerates a useful tool as long as it doesn’t creak. They walked in groups. Or alone. But never unarmed. Never vulnerable.
Surely the ruling species of Zagnaroth... I thought silently, as Lysara walked by my side, her face hidden beneath our camouflage.
My first objective was simple: find a roof. For a few days, maybe more. And now that I was rich, might as well enjoy it. I had much to do here.
I wandered the dark streets of Zagnaroth, the starry sky above laden with floating ash, the red lanterns flickering under blasts of heat. And that’s when I saw it.
The inn stood like a raw jewel carved from volcanic rock, massive and elegant at once, a structure of polished black stone inlaid with metallic columns glowing from within, wafting plumes of steam scented with mineral oils; its windows, long and narrow, were adorned with ancient demonic carvings and cast red and gold glimmers onto the street like a burning hearth; above the entrance, a hammered steel arch bore the emblem of a flaming phoenix, a symbol seen everywhere in this city.
And everything in the architecture—from the glowing patterns embedded in the ground to the sculpted spikes in the building’s corners—whispered luxury, respect, and danger.