Like hawks riding thermals, they circled the city, rising higher and higher. With each revolution, the distance around grew shorter until they were up against the austere stone base of the original elven fortress. The whimsy of colorful shops and the crowds of laughing revelers broke up at the foot of the gray stone. As if moving through a graveyard, people grew quiet and spoke in low, reverent tones, when they spoke at all. Despite the years, the citadel of Merredydd continued to inspire awe. The oldest elf in the city couldn’t recall its construction, and the battlements of Merredydd had not changed in a millennium. If the bloated city was the sad belly-fat of a retired warrior, the citadel was the eyes through which greatness still shone. The stronghold stood as a touchstone—a substantive link to the myths of the past—with walls that had seen war on a scale unknown in the modern world. This had been the home of heroes.

The gate lay open. Along with a handful of others, Farilane, Kile, and Sheldon slipped into a courtyard lined with marred wooden posts long ago used for sword practice by the famed Instarya warriors. She was confident these were not originals. The replicas were weathered to appear older than they were.

Acting as the seat of the governorship and administrative offices for the province, the stronghold had been treated as a shrine. It was the closest thing in existence to the legendary fortress of Alon Rhist, which had played such a monumental role in the Great War before being destroyed in the conflict. Merredydd was known as the sister fortress to Alon Rhist, which was fitting. Alon Rhist was named after the leader of the Instarya, and Merredydd was named after his younger sister, who had been named after her mother. The two strongholds even shared similar layouts.

All of this information had been gleaned by Farilane from previous visits since the Instarya were keen on boasting about their home. Unpleasant as it was to stand and listen to a pompous pedigreed Fhrey extol the virtues of his birthplace, Farilane had managed to see past the inflated praise. This is very close to how it would have looked to the defenders of Alon Rhist during the Battle of Grandford—minus The Classic Asica, of course. She wondered if an edict from the governor’s office had forbidden such mercantile mercenaries from setting up shop in the sacred heart of the city. Sikar had ruled the province for most of its existence, and such a reign left a solid stamp. His quirks became revered traditions, and from everything Farilane had heard, the veteran of the Great War was the proud sort who wouldn’t appreciate exploiting a reputation for coin. There was one exception, and Farilane had shamefully taken advantage of it the last time she had visited the city.

She had booked a tour.