Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 54: The Sky and Oblivion

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.

As I stepped through the door, I was immediately enveloped in a controlled warmth, almost pleasant—nothing like the suffocating streets or the brutality of the forges. The interior was vast, carved from smooth stone, the walls lined with glowing copper lines forming esoteric patterns pulsing slowly. The floor, tiled with polished obsidian, reflected the lights suspended from the ceiling: large floating metallic spheres emitting a steady golden glow, flameless.

At the center, a wide circular black steel reception desk, decorated with hand-engraved runes, served as a counter; behind it, a refined demon, dressed in an ash and gold toga, with a smooth voice and piercing gaze, welcomed guests with a calm but assured tone. Around him, low armchairs of tanned leather from unknown beasts, braziers embedded in the floor providing gentle warmth, and spiral staircases leading to private floors whose wrought iron railings seemed to observe the newcomers.

The atmosphere was hushed, controlled, luxurious—the kind of place where words weigh heavily, gazes cut deep, and gold opens doors before titles.

I stepped up to the receptionist, calm, confident. He assessed me with a professional eye, without arrogance or servility.

— Do you have a suite?

— Yes, of course. The top floor.

His voice was steady, perfectly practiced, and his discreet smile didn’t hide the pride he took in uttering those words.

— It’s a full floor, one hundred square meters carved from the densest rock, with several rooms: main bedroom, secondary bedroom, rest area, private library, personal thermal baths, and a balcony with a view of the southern lava flows. A private elevator leads directly there. No other guest has access, of course.

— How much per night?

— 3.5 zarn.

I pretended to think, then replied without hesitation:

— I’ll stay: 10 varkh for the month. Is that alright?

He blinked. A beat of silence. He was taken aback—for a split second. Then he recovered, flawlessly.

— Yes, that’s perfect, dear sir.

I handed him the 10 varkh. He took them carefully, weighing them with his eyes without betraying the slightest emotion. Then, in a smooth gesture, he pointed to a sliding steel door embedded in a wall adorned with red-gold filigree.

— The elevator is waiting. Top floor. The staff has already been notified. Welcome to the Sanctuary of the Burning Spine.

I nodded and stepped toward the elevator, Lysara beside me, silent as a white shadow.

The elevator opened with a soft hiss, revealing a circular cabin with dark glass walls set into a lattice of finely engraved magical alloys. Runic symbols lit up in a circle on the ceiling, casting a gentle, shifting light, like the embers of a sacred fire. The floor, made of smooth black metal, was barely warm underfoot, engraved at its center with a stylized demonic seal, likely a guarantee of magical stability.

No buttons. Just a murmur from the receptionist behind us:

— Top floor.

And the cabin rose silently, carried by an invisible force. Outside, through the glass, we saw the inn’s inner workings pass by: glowing conduits, private balconies, suspended forges where high-ranking clients sipped distilled drinks between negotiations.

Then, after a smooth ascent, the cabin stopped with supernatural softness. The door opened onto our suite. A warm breath, scented with black spices and rare minerals, welcomed us.

The entire floor opened before us, carved like a private cathedral into the rock’s flank. The floor was made of obsidian slabs, bordered with hand-woven rugs depicting scenes of ancient battles. Wide arches supported the ceiling, adorned with bas-reliefs animated by faint magical glimmers, depicting the birth of Zagnaroth in fire.

To the right, a vast rest area: deep dark leather couches, a volcanic stone coffee table, an alcove with a library of books bound in skin and iron. Further in, a personal pool fed with thermal water, carved directly into the floor, overlooked by an oculus revealing the stars.

Two bedrooms. I took the larger one—not out of pride, but because it naturally faced me. It was circular, with polished stone walls, a wide bed, heat-fabric sheets, and an eternal fire in the hearth. A small armory was even hidden in a recess.

I turned to Lysara and indicated the other room, a bit smaller, but equally refined.

— That one’s for you.

She simply nodded, without argument, and headed there silently. I lingered for a moment in the doorway, gazing at the glowing walls, breathing in the steady warmth, letting my shoulders drop.

— At last... a real roof.

And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t have to sleep with a weapon in hand. I collapsed onto the bed like a man who had just crossed three hells. And that was true.

The warmth was steady, almost gentle. The room, silent. No screams. No monster. No smell of blood or sulfur. Nothing. Just me. The fire. The calm.

I stayed there for a few minutes, staring at the engraved ceiling, the red lines pulsing slowly like a sleeping heartbeat. And I thought of everything I had been through.

The Xylorath. Death. The God. The slug. The lava. The madness. Cassandra. Lucas. Lysara.

I placed a hand on my chest.

— All that... and I’m still here. Ahahah...

I started to laugh. A low laugh, slightly bitter, slightly real.

— Isn’t life magnificent?

A smile stretched across my lips. Tired, but sincere.

I sat up.

— Alright. The calm before the storm.

This moment was only a respite, but a respite I intended to use well. Purchases, equipment, plans. I had work to do.

I got up, walked slowly across the suite, and gently knocked on Lysara’s door.

Not a word. But she opened it. Silent. Always upright, always impassive. But I could see deeper now.

I gave her a soft smile, looking her in the eyes.

— Think about everything you might like. Items, weapons, clothes, books... anything. Whatever you want.

I paused. And added, more quietly:

— You’ve earned it. And I’ll get it for you.

She didn’t reply. But she didn’t close the door. Not right away.

She nodded.

— I’m going to bathe. You’ll go after me... then we’ll look for a place to eat.

I walked toward the thermal pool, slowly, as if drawn by a quiet, silent force. I removed my kimono, folded it without haste, then set my satchel on the floor, within reach, as if I could never fully let my guard down.

Steam rose gently from the pool, warm, perfumed with a subtle metallic essence, reminiscent of volcanoes... but without the threat.

I dipped one foot into the water. Then the other. And finally, I let myself sink.

The contact was immediate. Total.

The warmth enveloped my body like a forgotten embrace. Muscles relaxed. Pains quieted. Mental scars stopped weighing.

Maybe that was true magic: feeling nothing. No pain. No fear. No guilt.

I tilted my head back, leaned against the smooth stone edge, and looked up.

The stars.

Through the large oculus in the ceiling, they sparkled in a dark sky, strangely peaceful, as if they had been waiting for me.

And there...

I thought of nothing.

Not of Cassandra. Not of Lysara. Not of the winged creature. Not of Zagnaroth. Not of this world. Not of this God. Not of Lucas.

Nothing.

Just me. The warmth. And the sky.

At last.

The world could burn. Just for tonight... I was at peace.

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