The Road to Solgar

The air in Lumina was thick with the scent of pine and damp. Akhen moved through the quiet streets with purpose, his body a tapestry of fresh bruises and cuts. He ignored the curious glances from townsfolk, his focus fixed on a familiar sign hanging crookedly over a weathered door:

Torvin’s Arms & Oddities.

He pushed the door open. A bell chimed weakly.

From behind a cluttered counter piled high with blades, hilts, and unidentifiable scrap metal, an old man with wild white hair and eyes like chipped flint looked up—and immediately dropped the spearhead he was polishing.

“By the bleeding sun—Akhen? Why the hell do you look this beat up?”

Torvin didn’t wait for an answer. He rushed forward, his gait uneven but quick, pulling Akhen into the dim light of a hanging lantern. His wrinkled hands turned Akhen’s face, inspecting the wound on his shoulder, the darkening bruise along his jaw.

“Sit. Now.”

Akhen didn’t resist. He’d known Torvin since he was a boy hiding from his own name. The old man’s shop had always been a place of quiet truths and sharp edges.

Torvin cleaned the wounds with practiced efficiency, dabbing a stinging tincture of moonwort and spirit-root. He said nothing as he worked, but his eyes missed nothingnot the stiffness in Akhen’s shoulder, not the dried blood crusted under his nails.

When he was done, Akhen reached for his pack.

“I need you to look at something.”

He drew the blade slowly. It caught the dim light strangely, as though swallowing it rather than reflecting it. The metal was dark, almost liquid in appearance, and the edge seemed to shift when not looked at directly.

Torvin’s breath caught. He took the sword with reverence, his fingers tracing the unusual fuller , not carved or forged, but grown, like the vein of some metallic beast.

“I’ve seen this kind of work only once before,” the old man murmured, more to himself than to Akhen.

“In a book older than this kingdom. They called it a scimitar—a curved blade made for severing more than flesh.” He shook his head. “But this… this is different. The balance is all wrong for a scimitar. The geometry is… aggressive. Unforgiving.”

He turned the blade over, squinting. “Where did you find it?”

“It found me,” Akhen said quietly.

Torvin met his eyes, and for a moment, the usual sharp humor in his gaze faded into something graver.

“There are weapons that choose their wielders, boy. And there are those that simply wait for the right hands to do wrong with them.”

He handed the sword back. “I don’t know what this is. And if I don’t know, you won’t find anyone in Lumina who does.”

Akhen accepted the blade, the weight of it familiar and alien all at once. He sheathed it without another word.

As he stepped back into the fading daylight of Lumina’s streets, he ignored the lingering ache in his side and reached into his satchel. His fingers closed around the cracked leather of his map tube.

If Torvin didn’t have answers, then there was only one place left to look.

Somewhere even the old man’s books couldn’t reach.

‘The leather of Akhen’s pack groaned softly as he tugged it open, fingers brushing against the folded, time-worn parchment that lay within. For a moment he hesitated, as though even touching it might summon the weight of everything it represented. Then he drew the map out carefully, shaking away the dust of the desert that clung to it like a ghost unwilling to release him. The parchment cracked faintly in his grip, and there, inked in faded crimson, was the mark that burned at his thoughts more than any wound, more than any scar,

Solgar.

The name seemed to pulse under his touch, a heartbeat of ink and memory. It wasn't just a place—it was a promise. A reckoning.

Now, alone beneath a sky bruised purple with dusk, Akhen traced the route with a calloused finger. Past the high Dunes, through the Valleys, right into the heart of the city.

And now, that mark on the map had called him forward, through deserts and across rivers, past broken temples and abandoned towns swallowed by silence, always toward this , toward Solgar.

The transition was as subtle as it was profound. With each step, the air grew heavier—not with heat, but with the scent of damp earth and distant rain. The ground softened beneath his boots, trading pale sand for dark, rich soil. Brittle shrubs gave way to hardy, deep-rooted grasses, then to the first scattered trees, their branches reaching like weary travelers finally finding rest.

Akhen paused, breathing in the change. The wind no longer scraped at his skin like a blade; it carried the murmur of leaves and the distant call of a bird he hadn’t heard since childhood. He knelt, fingers brushing through cool blades of grass. Life had returned—not timidly, but boldly, as though the land itself had been waiting.

He knew then that this was no natural border. Something—or someone—had drawn a line in the earth. A line between death and life, between memory and hope.

And he had just crossed it.

Ahead, the path dipped into a shallow valley where the light fell like a blessing.

The path stretched long, winding through hills that gleamed faintly as though dusted in powdered jewels. Caravans passed him now, their wheels creaking under the weight of silks, spices, and raw gold bound for the markets of Solgar.

The merchants eyed him with suspicion at first—his cloak still heavy with sand, his eyes carrying the shadows of places they feared to tread. But their voices were hushed with reverence whenever the name Solgar slipped from their lips. To them it was not merely a country. It was the heart of the world, the jewel at the center of Bonewalker dominion.

Akhen walked on, his stride steady, the strange sword resting against his back. He paid the traders little mind, though he listened. Always listened.

One merchant, older than the rest, his face a roadmap of desert crossings, slowed his wagon as he drew near Akhen.

“You travel light for these roads, stranger,” he called out, his voice raspy yet clear. “Bandits grow bold near this area. They’d slit your throat for the boots on your feet.”

Akhen merely glanced up, his gaze level. “Let them try.”

The old man studied him a moment longer, then nodded slowly, as if recognizing something in Akhen’s bearing that the others had missed.

“You seek Solgar,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Akhen didn’t deny it.

“A word of advice, then,” the merchant said, leaning slightly forward. “The Bonewalkers tolerate no dissent. They see all. They hear much. Walk softly within their sight.

The air itself seemed to thicken with each step Akhen took toward Solgar. The road beneath his feet was no longer mere stone , it was a testament to dominion, paved with dark rock shot through with veins of shimmering ore that caught the light like scattered starlight. Every surface seemed to gleam with silent, imposing wealth. Soldiers clad in immaculate armor patrolled in steady, silent rhythms. Their helms were fashioned into expressionless bone-white masks that hid their eyes, leaving only the stern set of their mouths visible. They did not speak to him. They didn’t need to.

The further he went, the more he felt it—a pressure in the air, a sensation of being constantly observed. Not by the soldiers alone, but by something else. Something older. The land itself seemed to hold its breath under the weight of Solgar’s gaze. It was in the stillness of the trees, the hush that fell over the caravans as patrols passed, the way birds did not sing near the white-walled waystations.

He adjusted the unfamiliar sword at his back, its presence both a comfort and a provocation. This close to the heart of the Bonewalker reign, the blade felt more than unusual , it felt out of place.

Akhen kept his eyes ahead, his pace steady. He was close now. He could feel it in the tension humming in the air, in the way the soldiers’ masked faces turned slightly as he passed.

Solgar was near. And it was watching.

On the third evening, he crested a rise and saw it: the glimmer of Solgar in the distance. Solgar did not simply occupy the land , it conquered it. Towers clawed at the sky, sheathed in gold so brilliant it hurt to look upon. Rivers, blue as a deep-sea abyss, curved through valleys and under arches of sculpted stone. Along their banks, gardens thrived in colors that had no name in the desert , violet like twilight, crimson like heartblood, gold that seemed to move. It was lush, extravagant, almost violent in its beauty.

And the bridges… Each was a masterwork of art and arrogance. Great serpents of stone coiled across the waters, wings spread as if frozen mid-flight. Jewels were set into their eyes, their scales, their teeth , emeralds, rubies, sapphires , each gem catching the light and fracturing it into rainbows that danced upon the water below.

Akhen walked on, his heart both heavy and restless. The land around him grew stranger. Fields stretched wide , farmers moved through the fields with a quiet, rhythmic grace. Their tools were not of iron or wood, but of polished silver, gleaming as they turned the earth. Their homes, simple in shape, were roofed with tiles of gold leaf that caught the light. Even the wind felt different here , it carried not dust or the dry heat of the dunes, but the faint, melodic whisper of chimes.

It was all undeniably beautiful. Yet with every breath, Akhen felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze. This was not peace. This was perfection—imposed, unvarying, and absolute.

As Akhen stepped fully into the heart of Solgar, the world shifted around him. The road beneath his feet widened into a grand avenue, lined on both sides by towering statues of Bonewalker kings and queens, their stone eyes gazing forward with cold authority. Between them, fountains surged—water arcing in impossible, glittering curves, defying gravity as it rose and fell in perfect silence, scattering light into countless rainbows.

To his left and right, palaces rose like dreams given form. Domes sheathed in gold caught the sun with blinding brilliance. Nobility drifted through the crowds like rare birds, silks rippling in hues Akhen had no name for. Their cloaks were heavy with pearls and threaded silver, and even their laughter seemed polished, effortless. Children wove between the adults, their laughter bright and clear.

No one looked at Akhen directly, yet he felt their awareness like a chill. His travel-worn cloak, his dust-stained boots, the quiet weight of the strange sword on his back—he was an anomaly here. A shadow in a world of light.

Even the art spoke of dominance. Elaborate murals stretched across entire walls, painted in stark pigments of blood-red and burnished gold. They depicted scenes of conquest: armored Bonewalkers standing atop mountains of skulls, their banners raised over burning cities, their hands gripping chains that bound kneeling kings.

Akhen stood motionless, his gaze locked on the statue that dominated the skyline. It was more than a monument , it was a declaration carved in stone and ambition. The figure towered, faceless and formidable. The absence of a face felt intentional , not out of reverence, but because power this absolute needed no identity. It simply was.

The sword in the statue’s hand wasn’t merely held , it was plunged deep into the base of the monument itself, as though pinning the earth in place. The shield on the other hand had the bonewalker emblem on it .

Akhens eyes drifted to the inscription:

“He Who Bound the World in Order.”

For a long moment, Akhen could only stare, the noise of the city fading around him. The grandeur of Solgar, the wealth, the beauty , it all narrowed to this single, terrifying truth. This was not a city built on peace. It was built on victory.

People paused only to lay offerings in neat, sorrowful rows at the base of the statue: polished gems, gold coins, even weapons and banners taken from long-vanquished enemies. Each item a tribute. Each one a silent admission of defeat renewed daily.

Akhen stood apart, his presence an unspoken rebellion. He did not bow his head. He did not look away.

The deeper Akhen ventured into Solgar, the more the city’s splendor sharpened into something severe, almost sacred. Nobles of the lesser Bonewalker houses glided through the wide, immaculate streets in carriages of ivory.

Military officials moved with chilling synchronicity, their armor not merely functional but ornate, etched with scenes of historical subjugation. Their masks were no longer simple bone, they were masterpieces of carving, depicting serene, almost divine expressions, yet their eyes remained hollow, watchful. The higher their rank, the more intricate the mask, the more still their presence.

Akhen moved like a shadow through the gleaming streets, his senses sharp, his presence almost swallowed by the overwhelming grandeur. He watched everything. The way commoners stiffened as a noble’s carriage passed, bowing not out of respect, but reflex , a deep, automatic gesture that looked more like surrender than reverence. Laughter died when soldiers walked by. Conversations hushed. Eyes remained downcast.

The air itself seemed to thicken the closer he drew to the inner districts. It was heavy with the scent of rare blossoms and cold stone.

And then the walls rose before him.

Great gates, fashioned to look like the arched ribs of some colossal beast, stood partially open. Through them, Akhen could see manicured gardens where trees grew in perfect symmetry and fountains flowed without sound. Beyond lay the estates of the Bonewalker subfamilies—lesser branches of the ruling dynasty, yet still powerful enough to make kings kneel.

Akhan paused at the edge of the crowd, his fingers brushing against the worn parchment hidden within his cloak. Before him stretched the inner layer of the city.

Yet Akhen knew , this was only the surface.

The true heart of Solgar lay deeper. The inner circle. The source.

Akhen knew, with a certainty that burned in his blood, that he sought more than just the sword's secret here. He was here for a truth buried deeper than any weapon, a piece of himself lost to time. Without another moment’s hesitation, he stepped forward towards the inner layer.