I thought I was ready for the capital.
After everything we’d seen—glitched dungeons, corrupted beasts, Obsidian’s traveling chaos-wagon—I figured Maldon couldn’t possibly surprise me.
I was wrong.
The city didn’t just rise up from the horizon—it loomed. Towering black walls stretched skyward, like someone had tried to carve a mountain into a fortress. Spires clawed at the clouds, threaded with glowing veins of mana that pulsed like veins in a giant’s skin. The closer we got, the more unreal it felt.
And the noise—
Gods, the noise.
Shouts. Hooves. Wheels grinding on stone. Spells going off like firecrackers. Chatter in at least four languages, probably more. Magic sigils crackling to life and vanishing just as fast. It wasn’t just loud—it was alive.
There were dozens of people in the line already. Maybe hundreds. A winding queue of adventurers in dust-caked armor, merchants with overloaded carts, wide-eyed travelers clutching maps, and at least one bard halfway through a very enthusiastic song about the time he rode a giant chicken into battle. We joined the back of the line just as someone ahead got into an argument with a three-headed donkey. And not a single person batted an eyelid, like this was the most normal thing you could see.
I stared at it all, probably with my mouth half-open. “This is… a lot.”
Calla adjusted her pack beside me. “Welcome to Maldon.”
Garrick let out a low grunt of approval, eyes scanning the walls like he was sizing them up for weaknesses. “Feels like a fortress. Smells like a stable.”
Thorne just crossed her arms and clutched at her pack, “Bet there’s a pickpocket in this line every fifteen feet.”
I tried to play it cool, but the truth was—I’d never seen anything like this. Not even close. I’d grown up in villages so small they didn’t even bother with maps. Towns where the biggest event of the year was the harvest fair and the closest thing to a guard checkpoint was old Marla asking if you’d remembered your boots.
And now?
Now we were standing in a queue outside a city big enough to eat every place I’d ever known and still have room for dessert.
The line inched forward. I looked ahead, catching glimpses of the gate itself—flanked by towering stone golems, staring at the visitors with their blank faces. Magical glyphs pulsed above the arch, scanning everyone who passed beneath.
I felt a flicker of nerves. The orb in my bag gave a faint hum, like it could sense the magic thickening in the air.
“Think they’ll let Glint in?” I asked.
At my feet, the little creature chirped indignantly.
Garrick didn’t miss a beat. “If they don’t, we riot.”
Thorne smirked. “Finally. A cause I can get behind.”
We moved up a few more paces and beneath all the nerves, the noise, the chaos—there was this pull in my chest. That flicker of possibility.
This wasn’t just another stop on the road.
This was Maldon.
And it was the start of the next chapter on my journey.
 
We were next.
The line behind us stretched down the road like a lazy river of noise and dust, but up ahead—just a few feet of flagstone and ancient runes separated us from Maldon.
The two stone golems flanking the arch didn’t move, but I could feel their eyes on us—or whatever counted for eyes when you were made of rock and mana. Their heads were smooth, featureless, but still somehow… watching.
I swallowed hard.
Then the orb in my pocket twitched.
Not just a soft hum this time. It pulsed—sharp and sudden, like a jolt of static across my ribs. My breath caught. Sweat pricked at the back of my neck.
Okay. Stay calm. Act normal.
One of the golems shifted. Not much. Just a slight tilt of the head. But it was enough. Its gaze—if you could call it that—landed right on me. Not the group. Me.
My heart was pounding into my ribs like it was trying to tunnel out.
“Name and reason for entry?” a bored voice asked from somewhere slightly less terrifying.
A guard stepped forward, clipboard in hand, armored but casual—clearly more interested in trying to stay awake than picking fights. He gave us a quick once-over. His eyes skimmed past Thorne, Calla, and Garrick without much interest… then stopped on Glint.
He blinked. “Uh. What… is that?”
Glint chirped.
The guard raised an eyebrow. “Never seen a beast like that. Is it domesticated?”
Glint tilted his head, blinked slowly, and then—with all the dramatic timing of a practiced performer—climbed up Garrick’s leg, sprung off his shoulder and landed lightly on the guard’s.
The poor man yelped.
Glint rubbed his cheek affectionately against the side of the man’s head like a purring cat, tail flicking with smug delight. Then he nosed around the guard’s armor, sniffed once, and before anyone could stop him, fished a snack out of the man’s pocket and leaped gracefully back onto Garrick.
The guard just stood there, stunned, as Glint sat tall, victorious, crunching his stolen prize.
There was a beat of silence.
Then the guard burst out laughing.
“Well,” he said, rubbing his shoulder like it had just been knighted, “if that’s not the most charming little thief I’ve ever met.”
“Sorry,” I said, half-grinning despite the hammering in my chest. “He has… strong opinions about snacks.”
The guard waved us forward. “You’re clear. Welcome to Maldon. Try not to burn anything important.”
I didn’t move at first.
Not until I felt the golem’s attention shift away. Not until the orb in my pocket calmed, its pulse fading back to a quiet hum.
Then I took a calming breath. Slow. Shaky.
And stepped through.
We’d made it.
Maldon.
 
The gates swallowed us like the mouth of some sleeping titan, and on the other side—
Noise. Light. Life.
Streets teeming with people, wagons, spell-slingers, hawkers shouting the virtues of everything from enchanted boots to invisible cheese. The buildings climbed in layers, woven with bridges and runic walkways, windows glowing with pale light.
And above it all, suspended on nothing but air and sheer audacity, a massive glowing sign hovered in the sky:
CHAMPION’S DUEL – THIS SATURDAY – TIER SIX ARENA – BLOOD, GLORY, NO REFUNDS
My mouth hung open.
“Okay,” I said, slowly turning in a circle as the chaos flowed around us. “This is… a lot.”
Thorne snorted. “What, not like the village square back home?”
“I think the village square back home had two goats and a fountain that smelled like feet.”
A kid ran past us at top speed with a paper bird flapping madly behind him. Glint twitched like he wanted to chase it. Garrick reached out and gently caught him by the scruff. “Later.”
I turned back to the group, stomach growling loudly enough that Thorne gave me a healthy dose of side eye.
“Alright,” I said. “I vote we find food before I pass. Maybe a place to stay, too. Feels like we’ll be here a while.”
Calla nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s a good idea. And lucky for you, I’ve been here before.”
She pointed down the main road, past the crowd of enchanted instruments now fighting over who got to play louder.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Maldon’s split into tiers,” she said. “Seven of them. Think of it like a spiral stacked on top of itself—each district sits higher than the last, and each one gets more… refined.”
“Meaning expensive,” Thorne muttered.
Calla shrugged. “Also that. Outer ring is where we are now—Tier One. Markets, smithies, street performers, cheap inns. Not always the cleanest, but lively. You’ll find the best food out here, if you don’t mind the occasional side of grime.”
“I grew up with rats in the pantry,” I said. “Grime is basically nostalgia.”
She continued, leading us deeper into the street. “Tier Two is craftsmen and traders. Better quality gear, enchantments, specialized shops. Three is guilds and academies. Magic halls, alchemist circles, that sort of thing. Tier Four’s where the richer folks start to show up—merchants, minor nobles, private healers. Tier Five and Six are for the big names. Political families, master Chosen, arena fighters. And Seven? That’s the Spire. Government, Chosen Guild HQ, high arcana. Most of us never get past Tier Four.”
We passed a stall selling wands shaped like candy canes, a man juggling flaming knives, and what I was pretty sure was an actual talking frog trying to convince people to buy insurance.
“So,” Garrick said. “We’re aiming for food and a bed. Any recommendations?”
Calla smiled. “If we hang left two streets up, there’s an inn I’ve stayed in before. It’s affordable, stable, and has the best sweetbread this side of Tier Three.”
My stomach rumbled in enthusiastic agreement.
“Lead the way,” I said. “And maybe walk fast. I think that frog is trying to sell me volcano insurance.”
We melted into the city’s current, swept forward by color, scent, sound—and the distinct feeling that the real story hadn’t even started yet.
 
The road to the inn was a gauntlet of distractions, and I was losing.
Every corner turned into a sensory ambush—flashes of enchanted signage, the scent of spice-roasted meat curling through the air, and stalls piled with everything from crystal apples to boots that promised to “make you feel three inches taller in confidence, if not in stature.”
I trailed after the others, eyes darting between storefronts like a kid trying to read every book in a library at once.
“This place is ridiculous,” I muttered, half to myself. “I think I love it.”
Calla was already slowing down, head swiveling toward a crooked little shop tucked between two bustling taverns. A flickering sign hung overhead: Ink & Ether – Fine Tomes, Finer Quills. Her gaze locked on the display window, which proudly showcased a collection of quills suspended midair, each one scribbling notes, asking people to buy them.
She vanished through the door before anyone could stop her.
A minute later, she reemerged triumphantly, holding a long, green-and-gold quill that occasionally flared its feathers like a courting peacock. “It’s enchanted,” she said, pleased. “Corrects grammar in real time.”
“It’s also judging me right now,” I said, as the quill made a sharp tsk sound from her hand.
Calla smiled serenely. “Good.”
Garrick was next to wander. We passed a forge with its doors flung open, heat rolling out in waves, and the rhythmic clang of metal on metal echoing down the street like a heartbeat. A stocky smith stood behind the counter, hammering something into shape with the kind of casual power that made Garrick’s entire posture straighten.
He drifted toward the entrance like a moth drawn to a bonfire.
We gave him a minute.
He returned looking conflicted. “They have a hammer in there,” he said, voice reverent. “Runed. Weighted. Balanced. A real Warhammer.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So buy it?”
He grunted. “Costs more than I’d make in three lifetimes.”
“Even Chosen don’t have three lifetimes.”
“Exactly.”
Thorne, meanwhile, was trying her best to keep her attention on the path ahead. She kept her eyes forward, arms crossed, boots clicking a steady rhythm down the cobblestone.
At least until we passed a pawnshop with a dusty glass case in the window.
Inside, laid out like a holy offering, was a row of Chosen trading cards, each one gleaming under the flickering light of an enchantment. The top row of cards was even signed.
Thorne stopped. Froze.
Her eyes narrowed.
Her jaw tightened.
And then—with great, visible effort—she walked on.
Calla and I shared a glance.
I didn’t say a word.
And then we noticed Glint was gone.
“Wait,” I said, scanning the crowd. “Where’s—”
I caught a blur of motion out of the corner of my eye and turned just in time to see a fruit cart bobbing six feet above the ground, sailing along a set of invisible rails—and perched proudly atop it like a parade king was Glint, tail flicking, a piece of something juicy and purple hanging from his mouth.
The vendor gave chase half-heartedly behind it, yelling, “That’s not yours! Spit it out!”
Glint chirped in triumph.
I sighed. “He’s gonna get us arrested.”
And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the noise and color and overwhelming sheer life of the place…
I couldn’t stop grinning.
 
The tavern we finally collapsed into was called the Halfway Hearth, and honestly? It lived up to the name.
It looked like the kind of place weary travelers found by accident and remembered forever. The sign swung gently in the breeze, its paint faded but lovingly touched up—an iron hearth flared with dancing flames and a pair of boots drying beside it. Warm light spilled from the windows, casting gold across the cobblestones, and the door creaked like it was used to greeting people at the edge of exhaustion.
Inside, it smelled like spiced cider, roasting meat, and just the faintest trace of old magic—less “active enchantment,” more “someone once tried to clean the hearth with a spell and it’s still recovering.” The floorboards groaned but didn’t complain. The tables were scratched but sturdy. And the fire at the heart of the room crackled like it was glad to see us.
It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t spotless.
But it felt like the exact place we were supposed to be.
We got a table near the hearth—a big, circular booth with cushions that had definitely seen better days—and before we’d even finished sitting down, a menu popped into existence in front of us with a dramatic poof and a burst of confetti that vanished too fast to prove it’d ever happened.
“Please tell me that’s not normal,” I said, brushing glitter off my lap.
Calla gave me a look. “You live in a world with monsters made of fungus and you draw the line at enchanted menus?”
“I like my menus written, not weaponized.”
We started flipping through options, which—like everything else in the city—leaned dangerously into the “Why not?” category of culinary invention. A few jumped out immediately.
 
Maldon Firefruit Stew
Warning: Not liable for magical side effects.
 
Cloudbread with Pocket Gravy
Impossible to explain. Must be eaten to understand.
 
The Bagel That Knows Your Secrets
Declined. Politely.
 
Eventually, we placed our orders with a cheerful waitress named Mira who had hair like spun copper and a smile sharp enough to file weapons on. She wrote everything down on a parchment that folded itself when she finished.
Naturally, Garrick ordered the firefruit stew.
“This might be the dumbest thing you’ve done since we met,” Thorne muttered.
“Spice builds character,” he said.
“I think it’s about to build a crater in your stomach.”
The food arrived with dramatic flairs of levitating trays and utensils that danced their way onto the table. The cloudbread was light enough to float unless you anchored it with a fork. The pocket gravy came in a hollowed-out pastry puff that spilled delicious chaos when bitten into.
I was halfway through mine, trying to get the timing right so it didn’t explode down my shirt, when I noticed the waitress approaching again. I straightened a little. Smoothed my collar. Wiped cloudbread crumbs from my chin with a confidence that said I am extremely cool and put together.
“Everything to your liking?” Mira asked, all charm and perfect teeth.
“Wonderful,” I said, flashing what I hoped was a roguish smile. “Though I think your menu forgot to list the most enchanting item in the building.”
Calla groaned aloud.
Thorne put her head in her hands.
Mira blinked. “You mean the Bagel? It’s off-menu now.”
I froze mid-smirk. “…Right. That’s. Yep. Totally what I meant.”
She winked. “Nice try though,” and walked off with the smuggest grin I’d ever seen.
Thorne didn’t even wait a full second before she said, “Well. That was tragic.”
“Truly a masterclass in social flailing,” Calla added, sipping her drink with unnecessary elegance.
“You’re both heartless.”
“Correct.”
Across the table, Garrick—who had just bitten into his firefruit—suddenly turned the color of a beetroot and let out a wheezing huhhhHHGG—KHHFFF
He tried to say something.
Anything.
He failed.
He reached for his mug, upended it, and then knocked over Calla’s by accident in the chaos. Glint, completely unaffected, leaped neatly into Garrick’s lap and reached across the table to snag an entire sausage off an unsuspecting patron’s plate while everyone was too distracted to notice.
“Is he okay?” I asked, watching Garrick’s soul try to exit his body through his nose.
Calla offered him a napkin. “He’ll recover. Eventually.”
“Why would you even order something marked with a magical hazard warning?”
Garrick wheezed out, “Character… building…”
We all burst out laughing—even Thorne, who snorted into her cider and tried to hide it behind a scowl that didn’t quite land.
It felt good.
Stupid and warm and alive in a way that made the city feel just a little less overwhelming.
For a while, we just sat there. Ate. Laughed. Listened to the music from a nearby stage where a bard was trying to juggle both lyrics and flaming torches. (He was better at one than the other.)
Eventually, I leaned back against the cushion, watching firelight dance across the mugs and plates, and let out a long breath.
“We really made it,” I said, mostly to myself.
Thorne nodded, nursing her drink. “So far.”
Calla tilted her head. “Still a long way to go.”
Garrick, voice raspy, muttered, “No regrets. Except the stew.”
I looked around the table, at the mismatched group of weirdos who’d somehow become my people. Then out the window, where the city hummed with magic and stories we hadn’t stumbled into yet.
“So…” I asked. “How long until we break something important?”
Thorne didn’t even blink. “Two days. Tops.”
I grinned.
“Sounds about right.”
 
A woman stepped through the archway, moving with a swagger that said retired rogue with knee problems and a grin sharp enough to have survived multiple assassination attempts. She wore a faded adventurer’s coat patched in at least four places, and her hair was a storm-cloud gray pulled back into a crooked braid. Her right eye was covered with a rune-inscribed patch that pulsed softly when she looked directly at you.
“Ah,” she said. “So you’re the ones renting the upstairs rooms.”
Her voice had the gravelly warmth of someone who’d shouted over too many battlefields and tavern brawls. She dropped a ring of brass keys on the table with a casual clink, each one shaped slightly different—one was curved like a fang, another looked suspiciously like a broken wand.
“I’m Essia. Owner, keeper, occasional bouncer. If something explodes in the building, I’d like at least fifteen seconds’ warning so I can grab the good plates.”
Thorne tilted her head. “Explodes?”
“City’s unpredictable. So are adventurers.” She gave Garrick a look. “You’ve got the look of someone who doesn’t read instructions and regrets nothing.”
He raised a brow. “Accurate.”
Essia beamed. “Knew it.”
She handed out the keys one by one, then paused, glancing toward the back window. “Oh—and word of warning, if you’re planning to do any poking around near the Archives? Keep your heads low.”
Calla stiffened beside me. Just a bit. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Essia went on like it was nothing. “Heard the flux wards have been acting up. Things floating when they shouldn’t. Sounds at night. Saw a scribe running full-tilt down the street last week with ink all over her face and no pants.”
“Why no pants?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Essia shrugged. “Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved.”
She gave the table one last approving nod, then turned on her heel and limped off toward the bar.
We dragged ourselves upstairs a few minutes later. The rooms weren’t much—wooden floors, small beds, a washbasin that may or may not have had a sense of humor—but they were clean, warm, and private. Which, in tier seven like this, was basically luxury.
Mine had a window that looked out over the rooftops. I opened it with a soft creak and leaned out a little, elbows resting on the sill.
Maldon was alive.
Not just loud—but moving. Glowing signs drifted on enchanted rails overhead. Firelight flickered in high windows. Somewhere in the distance, a spell sparked off—blue and bright against the dark. Laughter rose up from the alleys. Music from a street performer three floors down floated past. I could hear the faint clang of a duel being fought on a rooftop—not in fear, but for practice. Or maybe pride.
Glint hopped up onto the bed behind me, did a lazy circle, and flopped down with a soft chuff, tail tucked over his paws.
I didn’t move for a long while. Just listened.
The city didn’t sleep.
It shifted. It breathed. It waited.
And as I pulled the curtain halfway closed and lay back on the mattress, I felt it settle in my bones.
This city’s a monster all its own.
And tomorrow, we feed it our names.