When the Melodic Shepherds finally leave us at the forest's edge on the third day, I almost miss their haunting harmonies. Almost. The constant psychic probing made the hellfire in my chest burn with irritation, even through the ring's suppression.
"Well, there she is," Thorne announces, gesturing toward the horizon where massive stone walls rise like a promise of civilization. "The Citadel."
I lean forward on the cart bench, taking in my first view of what might be home for the foreseeable future. The structure is impressive even by the standards of someone who's witnessed cosmic architecture. Concentric walls of pale stone rise in tiers, each one higher than the last, creating a layered defense that would make military engineers weep with joy. Towers punctuate the skyline at regular intervals, and even from this distance, I can see the glint of what might be magical wards shimmering across the surfaces.
"Bigger than I expected," I admit, mentally calculating how long it would take me to tear through those walls if necessary. Old habits die hard.
"Aye, she's grown considerably since I first started making these runs," Thorne says with obvious pride. "The outer districts especially. Used to be just the human quarter in the center, but now..." He gestures to the sprawl that extends beyond the main walls, neighborhoods of varying architecture clustered around the central fortress like barnacles on a ship's hull.
As we approach the main road leading to the city gates, the traffic increases dramatically. Merchants with carts similar to Thorne's but loaded with goods rather than nightmare-forest supplies. Travelers on foot or riding creatures that range from almost-normal horses to things that definitely evolved in environments hostile to human life. Everyone heading toward the promise of safety the Citadel represents.
"Remember," Thorne says quietly as we join the flow of traffic, "keep that ring on tight. City guard doesn't take kindly to surprises, especially ones that might cause panic among the general population."
"I'm aware," I reply, feeling the weight of the disguise more acutely now that we're surrounded by potential witnesses. "Any other helpful advice before we reach the gates?"
"Stick to the Crossroads Quarter until you get your bearings. The locals there are used to... unusual folk. And when the guard asks your business, just say you're a traveler seeking shelter. No need to mention Hell or five thousand years of imprisonment unless you want a one-way ticket to the Containment District."
That sounds ominous. "Containment District?"
"Where they keep the really dangerous residents," Thorne explains grimly. "Folks too powerful or unstable to mix with general population but not malicious enough to warrant execution. It's not a prison, technically, but you wouldn't enjoy the accommodations."
Great. Another version of cosmic containment, just what I was hoping to avoid. The hellfire in my chest flickers with irritation, and I have to consciously force it back down.
The city gates loom ahead, massive structures of wood and metal reinforced with what my enhanced senses identify as both physical and magical defenses. Guards in uniforms of deep blue stand at attention, checking credentials and questioning those who wish to enter.
"Papers?" one asks as our cart pulls up to the checkpoint.
"Supply run," Thorne replies easily, handing over a worn leather folio. "Twice monthly from the eastern settlements. This here's Kamen, picked him up along the road. Traveler seeking shelter."
The guard's eyes flick to me, assessing with the practiced efficiency of someone who's seen everything from legitimate refugees to disguised monsters trying to infiltrate the city. I keep my expression neutral, willing the ring to maintain its disguise under scrutiny.
"Purpose of visit?" she asks directly.
"Research," I reply, deciding that partial truth is safer than outright lies. "I'm a scholar interested in your libraries."
This seems to satisfy her. "Another one for the Crossroads, then," she says to Thorne, stamping something in his folio before handing it back. "Make sure he checks in with the Registration Office before sundown. New policy for all visitors."
"Will do," Thorne promises as the guard waves us through.
As we pass beneath the massive stone archway, I feel a tingle across my skin—magical wards scanning everyone who enters. The ring grows hot against my finger as it works to maintain my disguise against the probing magic, but it holds. Whatever Lilith embedded in this jewelry, it's powerful enough to fool standard security measures.
The city beyond the gates is a riot of activity and sensory input. Streets paved with actual cobblestones rather than dirt. Buildings constructed of stone and wood and materials I don't recognize, rising three or four stories in some places. People—humans and otherwise—going about their daily business with the casual acceptance that comes from long coexistence.
"Welcome to the Citadel," Thorne says, guiding his not-horses through the crowded streets with practiced ease. "Capital of what passes for civilization in this realm."
I take it all in, cataloging details with the precision of someone who spent millennia observing the intricate structures of Hell. The layout appears roughly circular, with major avenues radiating from what I assume is the central district. Different sections of the city have distinctly different architectural styles, presumably reflecting the needs and preferences of their inhabitants.
"The human quarter is in the center," Thorne explains as we travel down one of the main thoroughfares. "Surrounded by the more... compatible non-human districts. The Scaled Quarter for the lizardfolk, the Twilight District for the night dwellers, and so on. The Crossroads Quarter is that way—" he points toward an area where the buildings show a mishmash of different styles "—where folks from other realms tend to gather."
"And this Registration Office I need to visit?"
"Near the central market. We'll pass it on the way to the Crossroads. I need to deliver these supplies first, then I can help you get settled if you'd like."
I consider the offer. On one hand, having a guide who knows the city and doesn't seem terrified by my true nature would be valuable. On the other, I've spent five thousand years learning to rely only on myself.
"I appreciate that," I say finally. "At least until I find my bearings."
Thorne nods, seemingly unsurprised. "Figured as much. You seem the type to prefer independence, but even the most capable traveler can use a friendly face when landing in a new realm."
The cart winds through increasingly crowded streets, passing markets where vendors sell everything from familiar produce to items that defy easy classification. I spot what appears to be a shop specializing in dimensional artifacts—objects with that particular shimmer that marks them as coming from elsewhere. Something to investigate later, perhaps.
We eventually arrive at a large warehouse where Thorne's supplies are expected. While he handles the business end of things, I take the opportunity to observe the locals more closely.
The diversity is striking. Humans make up perhaps half the population I can see from my vantage point, but they interact with obviously non-human residents with casual familiarity. A woman with scaled skin purchases bread from a human vendor without any sign of tension. A being composed mostly of shadow negotiates with a merchant over the price of what appears to be glowing crystals. Children—human and otherwise—play together in a small square.
It's everything I advocated for before my imprisonment. Coexistence without fear or artificial separation. The sight stirs something in my chest that isn't hellfire—something dangerously close to hope.
"Quite a sight, isn't it?" Thorne says, returning to the cart. "Took centuries to build this kind of tolerance, mind you. Wasn't always so peaceful."
"What changed?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Necessity, mostly. The forest keeps pushing in, year by year. More tears opening, bringing both refugees and threats. Folks figured out pretty quick that fighting each other just made it easier for the real monsters to win."
A pragmatic approach to tolerance. Not ideal, perhaps, but effective.
"Now then," Thorne continues, climbing back onto the cart, "let's get you registered before sundown. The penalties for missing that deadline are unpleasant, even for someone of your... particular capabilities."
As we make our way toward the central district, I find myself actually looking forward to whatever comes next. This realm, for all its dangers and complications, offers something I haven't had in a very long time: a fresh start.
That is until a beggar with a knife stops infront of the cart, "Give me all of your gold and I won't gut you."
I laugh as I look at the beggar. "If you wanted gold you should get a job."
The beggar's knife gleams dully in the afternoon light, more rust than steel. Not exactly the fearsome weapon he seems to think it is.
"I ain't asking again," he snarls, his voice carrying the distinctive slur of someone who's been drinking something stronger than water. "Gold. Now."
Thorne reaches for his crossbow, but I place a hand on his arm. "I've got this."
I slide from the cart, landing lightly on the cobblestones. The beggar's eyes widen slightly as he takes in my full height. The ring maintains my human appearance, but it can't hide the way I move—the predatory grace that five thousand years in Hell burned into my muscle memory.
"Look," I say, keeping my voice low and reasonable, "you don't want to do this. Not with me."
The beggar laughs, a harsh sound like breaking glass. "Think you're tough, pretty boy? I've gutted men twice your size."
No, you haven't, I think. But I've disemboweled cosmic entities that could swallow this entire city without noticing.
The hellfire in my chest flickers with anticipation, and I feel the ring grow warmer as it works to suppress my true nature. This would be so much easier if I could just let the disguise drop for a moment—show this fool exactly what he's threatening. But that would defeat the purpose of maintaining a low profile.
"Last chance," I offer instead. "Walk away. Find someone else to rob."
"Fuck you," he spits, and lunges forward with his pathetic excuse for a knife.
Five thousand years of combat training doesn't just disappear because I'm wearing a magic ring. I step aside with casual ease, catching his wrist as the knife passes harmlessly through the space where I was standing. One quick twist—careful, so careful not to use my full strength—and the weapon clatters to the cobblestones.
The beggar howls in pain as I apply just enough pressure to make my point without breaking bones. His knees buckle, and suddenly he's kneeling before me, arm twisted at an uncomfortable angle.
"I tried to be reasonable," I say softly, leaning down so only he can hear me. "But you should know something—the last person who threatened me is still screaming in a pocket dimension where time moves very, very slowly."
It's not exactly true—the Council members I dismembered are definitely beyond screaming at this point—but the sentiment stands. The beggar's face goes pale, and I can smell the acrid scent of fear sweat rising from his unwashed body.
"I didn't—I'm sorry—please—" he stammers.
I release him and step back. "Go. Find a different line of work. This one doesn't suit you."
He scrambles away without looking back, disappearing into the crowd that had gathered to watch the confrontation. I notice a few of the onlookers nodding with approval, while others eye me with newfound wariness. Word will spread about the newcomer who handles himself well in a fight. Not ideal for keeping a low profile, but better than the alternative of revealing my true nature.
"Nicely done," Thorne says as I climb back onto the cart. "Though I'm not sure threatening eternal torture was strictly necessary."
"Old habits," I reply with a shrug. "At least I didn't kill him."
"Low bar, but I'll take it." He flicks the reins, getting the not-horses moving again. "Though you might want to work on your people skills if you're planning to stay here long. The Citadel runs on social connections as much as coin."
"I'm not exactly here to make friends."
"Maybe not, but you'll need allies at minimum. No one survives here completely alone, not even beings who can terrify nightmare creatures with a glance."
He's probably right, though I'm reluctant to admit it. Five thousand years of isolation and torment doesn't exactly prepare you for social niceties. Even before my imprisonment, I was better with theories and principles than with actual people.
We arrive at the Registration Office just as the sun begins its descent toward the western horizon. The building is surprisingly nondescript—three stories of pale stone with narrow windows and a single blue banner hanging above the entrance.
"I'll wait with the cart," Thorne offers. "These bureaucrats get twitchy when too many people crowd their precious space."
I nod and approach the entrance, where a bored-looking guard checks visitors before allowing them inside. He gives me a cursory glance, clearly more interested in finishing his shift than in proper security.
"Purpose?" he asks, stifling a yawn.
"New arrival registration."
He points toward a door on the left. "Intake room three. Forms are on the desk. Fill everything out completely or they'll make you start over."
The intake room is small and stuffy, with a single desk and uncomfortable-looking chair. Forms made from some kind of parchment are stacked neatly beside an inkwell and quill. Very medieval, though I suppose dimensional rifts don't exactly prioritize technological consistency.
I sit down and examine the forms, noting with interest that they seem designed to accommodate a wide range of beings. Questions about "natural form," "realm of origin," and "dietary requirements" suggest the Citadel really does deal with visitors from across the dimensional spectrum.
I fill out the basics honestly enough—name, general appearance (as presented by the ring), purpose of visit. For "realm of origin," I simply write "distant." For "special abilities," I go with "enhanced strength and durability," which is true if dramatically understated.
When I reach "expected duration of stay," I hesitate. How long am I planning to remain here? Until I find a way back to Caleif and the Academy? Until the ring's disguise inevitably fails and I'm forced to flee or fight? Until I get bored and decide to tear my way through dimensions regardless of the consequences?
I finally write "indefinite," which seems both accurate and noncommittal.
The last section asks about "known associates within the Citadel." I start to leave it blank, then reconsider and write "Thorne (Cartman)" as my only contact. Better to have someone vouching for me, even if our association is less than a day old.
I return the completed forms to the desk at the front of the building, where a clerk with four arms and violet skin takes them without comment. She stamps several sections with practiced efficiency, then tears off a portion and hands it to me.
"Temporary residence permit," she explains in a bored voice. "Valid for thirty days. Find permanent housing before it expires or face deportation."
"Deportation to where, exactly?" I ask, genuinely curious about how they handle dimensional refugees.
She looks up, all four of her arms pausing in their perpetual motion. "Outside the walls. Where you choose to go after that is your concern, not the Citadel's."
Efficient if not particularly compassionate. I pocket the permit and exit the building, finding Thorne exactly where I left him.
"All registered?" he asks as I climb back onto the cart.
"For thirty days, at least. After that, I either need permanent housing or a one-way ticket back to the forest."
"Plenty of time to get settled." He flicks the reins, guiding the not-horses back into the flow of traffic. "Now let's find you a place in the Crossroads Quarter before it gets dark. The night brings out different residents, and not all of them are welcoming to newcomers."
As we travel toward the Crossroads, I notice the city's atmosphere shifting with the approaching sunset. Certain shops are closing while others are just opening. The population on the streets is changing too—fewer humans, more beings with features adapted to darkness. Eyes that reflect light too brightly. Skin that seems to absorb shadows. Movement patterns that suggest different relationships with gravity than what I'm used to.
"The night shift," Thorne explains, noticing my attention. "Some residents only come out after dark. Part of the Citadel's compromise system—everyone gets time to conduct their business in the conditions they prefer."
It's a clever solution to the problem of housing species with fundamentally different needs. Another example of the pragmatic coexistence this realm seems to have developed.
The Crossroads Quarter announces itself with a dramatic shift in architecture. Where the central districts feature a consistent style of sturdy stone buildings, this area looks like someone collected structures from a dozen different worlds and crammed them together with minimal concern for aesthetic harmony.
Rounded domes next to angular towers. Buildings that seem to defy gravity alongside squat structures that burrow partially into the ground. Materials ranging from familiar wood and stone to substances that shimmer with otherworldly properties.
"Home sweet home," Thorne says with a wry smile. "At least for those of us who don't quite fit elsewhere."
"You live here?" I ask, surprised.
"Twenty years hauling supplies through a nightmare forest changes a man," he replies, tapping his temple. "Can't quite relate to normal folk anymore. The Crossroads understands that better than most."
He guides the cart down a winding street toward what appears to be a central plaza. Despite the approaching darkness, this area remains active—perhaps even more so than during daylight. Lanterns of various designs cast multicolored light across the square, illuminating a marketplace that caters to tastes far beyond the human norm.
"The Night Market," Thorne explains. "Best place to find lodging that won't ask too many questions about where you came from or what you're really hiding under that handsome face of yours."
I ignore the implied compliment, focusing instead on the market itself. Vendors sell everything from conventional supplies to items that pulse with dimensional energy. Food stalls offer cuisine that ranges from recognizable meat on sticks to writhing tentacles served in glowing sauce. Potential customers include beings of every conceivable form, many wearing their own versions of disguises—some magical, some simply physical coverings that hide their true nature.
It's chaotic and loud and intensely alive in a way that makes the hellfire in my chest pulse with something almost like recognition. For beings that exist outside normal classification, this kind of controlled chaos might be the closest thing to home.
"There," Thorne says, pointing toward a three-story building with a sign depicting a doorway opening onto stars. "The Threshold Inn. Owned by a fellow named Marius who came through a tear about fifteen years back. Specializes in accommodating guests with unique needs."
He pulls the cart to a stop near the entrance, then hops down and secures the not-horses to a hitching post designed for creatures with varying anatomies.
"Come on," he says, gesturing for me to follow. "Let's get you a room before the really unusual clientele starts arriving."
The inn's interior is surprisingly warm and welcoming, with polished wood floors and walls lined with artifacts from what appear to be multiple dimensions. A central hearth provides both light and heat, while tables of varying heights and designs accommodate patrons of different physiologies.
Behind a curved counter stands a man who appears human at first glance—tall and lean with silver-streaked dark hair. But as we approach, I notice subtle wrongness in his proportions. Arms slightly too long. Eyes set just a fraction wider than normal. Skin that doesn't quite move with his facial expressions as it should.
"Thorne!" he calls, his voice carrying harmonics that human vocal cords shouldn't be able to produce. "Twice in one month? The forest must be getting friendlier."
"Or I'm getting better at avoiding the nasty bits," Thorne replies with a grin. "Got a new arrival for you, Marius. Name's Kamen. Needs lodging that won't ask too-"
"many questions," Marius finishes, his too-wide eyes studying me with obvious interest. "Interesting. Very interesting."
I immediately tense at his scrutiny. Something about this innkeeper isn't human, despite his mostly convincing appearance. The hellfire in my chest flickers with warning, and I feel the ring grow warm against my finger as it works to maintain my disguise under his penetrating gaze.
"Just passing through," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Need a room for a while until I get my bearings."
Marius smiles, revealing teeth that are just slightly too perfect. "Of course. The Threshold specializes in accommodating travelers from... elsewhere. Particularly those who might have special requirements."
The way he emphasizes "special requirements" makes it clear he suspects I'm more than I appear. Either the ring's disguise isn't as perfect as I'd hoped, or this Marius has ways of seeing through such deceptions.
"Standard room should be fine," I reply, unwilling to confirm his suspicions.
"For now, perhaps," he agrees with another too-perfect smile. "Though we offer upgrades should your needs... evolve."
Thorne clears his throat. "Kamen's good people, Marius. Helped me through a rough patch in the Woods. Chimera sprites and Whisperers both took one look at him and decided to find easier prey."
Marius's eyebrows rise slightly. "Did they now? How fascinating." His gaze returns to me, more intense than before. "We don't often see travelers who can intimidate the forest's native predators."
I shrug, aiming for casual indifference. "Lucky, I guess."
"Luck," he repeats, clearly not believing it for a second. "Yes, that must be it."
He reaches beneath the counter and produces a heavy iron key attached to a leather tag marked with unfamiliar symbols. "Room twelve, second floor. Western exposure, reinforced floor and walls, proximity wards for privacy. Our most... structurally sound accommodation."
In other words, a room designed to contain beings with destructive capabilities. Wonderful.
"How much?" I ask, suddenly realizing I have no local currency.
Marius waves a dismissive hand. "First three nights are complimentary for new arrivals from beyond the forest. City policy to help integration. After that, we can discuss terms."
His generosity makes me immediately suspicious, but Thorne nods as if this is standard procedure. "The Citadel takes integration seriously," he explains. "Better to help newcomers find their footing than have them desperate on the streets."
Practical as always. I'm starting to appreciate this realm's approach to governance.
"Thank you," I tell Marius, accepting the key. "I appreciate the accommodation."
"My pleasure," he replies, those too-wide eyes still studying me with uncomfortable intensity. "The Threshold exists to serve those who have crossed from elsewhere. Do let me know if you require anything... special during your stay."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Thorne claps me on the shoulder, his weathered hand a surprisingly comforting weight. "Well, I should be getting on. Got deliveries to finish before full dark." He lowers his voice slightly. "I'll come by tomorrow if you'd like. Show you around the Quarter, introduce you to some folks who might be helpful."
The offer is tempting. Despite my natural inclination toward independence, having a guide who understands this realm would be valuable. "I'd appreciate that."
"Good man." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Oh, and Kamen? Try not to terrify the other guests. Marius runs a respectable establishment."
"I'll do my best," I promise, though we both know how quickly that could change if circumstances push me.
After Thorne departs, Marius gestures toward a narrow staircase at the back of the room. "Your quarters await. The dining area serves food until midnight, should you require sustenance. We cater to a variety of dietary needs."
I nod my thanks and head upstairs, feeling his eyes on my back the entire way. Whatever Marius is, he's definitely more perceptive than he lets on. I'll need to be careful around him.
Room twelve is at the end of a curved hallway lit by lanterns that emit a steady glow without visible flame. The door itself is solid oak reinforced with bands of what appears to be the same cold iron as my knife. The symbols carved into the wood match those on my key tag—protective wards, if I'm interpreting them correctly.
The key turns smoothly in the lock, and the door swings open to reveal a surprisingly comfortable space. A bed large enough to accommodate beings considerably bigger than human standard. A desk and chair built with similar considerations for size and weight. A washbasin with running water—an unexpected luxury. A window overlooking the Night Market, its glass etched with more protective symbols.
Most telling are the subtle reinforcements built into the structure itself. The walls are thicker than necessary for a standard room. The floor feels solid enough to support several tons. Even the ceiling has been strengthened with crossbeams that appear decorative but serve a clear structural purpose.
A room designed to contain beings with extraordinary capabilities without making it obvious that's the intent. Clever.
I set down my meager belongings—just the pack Lilith provided and the cold iron knife—and move to the window. Below, the Night Market pulses with activity as darkness fully claims the city. New vendors have appeared, selling goods that apparently can't be exposed to sunlight. The clientele has shifted as well, with an increasing number of beings that clearly evolved for nocturnal existence.
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to belong here. To be just another refugee from another realm, finding my place in this diverse community. The thought is both appealing and terrifying. Five thousand years of isolation and torment doesn't prepare you for integration into any society, let alone one as complex as this.
The ring on my finger pulses with warmth, reminding me of the precarious nature of my disguise. How long before it fails? Before something pushes me too far and the hellfire breaks through? Before the residents of the Citadel discover exactly what kind of being has taken up residence in their midst?
I turn away from the window and sit on the edge of the bed, which creaks but holds my weight easily. For the first time since arriving in this realm, I have a moment of genuine privacy to process everything that's happened.
Dimensional tear. Nightmare forest. Musical guardians. A city of refugees and monsters living in pragmatic coexistence. It's almost too much to comprehend, even for someone who's witnessed the architectural impossibilities of Hell's deepest circles.
And somewhere, in some other realm entirely, Caleif is presumably still at the Academy, possibly searching for a way to find me. Or perhaps time moves differently between realms, and I've been missing for minutes rather than days. Or years. Or centuries.
The uncertainty gnaws at me, a feeling worse than physical pain. Five thousand years in Hell taught me to endure torment, but this kind of separation—this not knowing—is something else entirely.
I'm pulled from my brooding by a knock at the door. Instantly alert, I move silently across the room, one hand reaching for the cold iron knife before I remind myself I'm supposed to be maintaining a low profile.
"Yes?" I call, keeping my voice neutral.
"Evening meal," comes the reply—a voice that's definitely not Marius, higher-pitched and slightly musical. "For new arrivals. Complimentary."
My enhanced senses detect no immediate threat, though there's something not-quite-human about whoever stands on the other side of the door. But that describes most of the Crossroads Quarter's population, so it's hardly cause for alarm.
I open the door to find a young woman—or something approximating one—holding a covered tray. Her skin has a subtle blue tint, and her hair moves slightly despite the absence of any breeze. Water elemental, perhaps, or something similar.
"Marius thought you might appreciate not dining in the common room your first night," she says, offering the tray. "New arrivals sometimes find the diversity... overwhelming."
"Thoughtful of him," I reply, accepting the food. It smells surprisingly good—roasted meat and vegetables with spices I don't recognize but find appealing.
The server smiles, revealing teeth that come to slight points. "He has a knack for understanding what guests need, often before they know themselves." She glances past me into the room, her eyes lingering on my sparse belongings. "If you require additional accommodations, don't hesitate to ask. The Threshold prides itself on adaptation."
"I'll keep that in mind."
She nods and turns to go, then pauses. "Oh, and welcome to the Citadel, traveler. Whatever you're running from or looking for, I hope you find peace here."
Before I can respond to this unexpectedly perceptive comment, she's gone, moving down the hallway with a grace that confirms my suspicion about her non-human nature.
I close the door and set the tray on the desk, examining the food with cautious interest. My enhanced body could probably neutralize most poisons, and after consuming Lilith's strange venison stew, I'm less concerned about the potential effects of alien cuisine.
The meal proves excellent—rich flavors balanced perfectly, portions sized for someone with an enhanced metabolism. Another indication that Marius knows more about his guests than he lets on.
As I eat, I consider my next steps. Thorne's offer to show me around tomorrow provides a starting point. The Citadel's libraries might hold information about dimensional travel or at least accounts from other travelers who found themselves stranded in this realm. The Adaptation Guild he mentioned could help me find more sustainable ways to exist here without relying on a magical disguise that's already showing signs of strain.
Most importantly, I need to establish myself as someone unremarkable enough to avoid unwanted attention but formidable enough that the local predators—both literal and figurative—decide I'm not worth the trouble.
A delicate balance, but one I've navigated before. Before my imprisonment, I spent centuries moving between realms, adapting to local customs and expectations while pursuing knowledge that crossed dimensional boundaries. Of course, that was before Hell transformed me into something that exists beyond normal classification. Before the hellfire and the armor and the rage that burns constantly beneath my carefully maintained control.
I finish the meal and move back to the window, watching the Night Market below. The diversity of beings going about their business would have been unimaginable in most realms I've visited. Entities that would be mortal enemies elsewhere haggle over prices and share tables at outdoor cafés. Humans brush shoulders with creatures that could probably devour them without effort, yet violence seems remarkably absent.
Something about this place resonates with what I tried to teach before my imprisonment—that artificial separation between different types of beings serves no one but those who profit from fear and division. The Citadel seems to have figured out what so many other realms haven't: that pragmatic coexistence benefits everyone involved.
Of course, that philosophy will be tested the moment my disguise fails and they discover exactly what kind of being they've welcomed into their midst. A being forged in the deepest pits of Hell, capable of tearing through dimensional barriers and dismembering cosmic entities when properly motivated.
The hellfire in my chest flickers with restless energy, and I feel the ring grow warmer as it works to suppress my true nature. I need to be careful. Need to maintain control. Need to find a way to exist here without bringing destruction in my wake.
Because for all its dangers and complications, this realm offers something I haven't had in a very long time: a chance to relax.
For the first time since I arrived in this bizarre place, I feel something close to peace. Not the mind-numbing emptiness of Hell, but actual, genuine calm. Maybe it's the solid walls around me, or the distance from that nightmare forest, or simply having a moment to breathe without something trying to eat me or read my thoughts through musical harmonics.
I move away from the window and stretch out on the bed, testing its durability. It creaks but holds my weight without complaint, even when I shift my body density slightly—a habit from Hell that's hard to break. The ceiling above me bears subtle reinforcement patterns that someone put considerable thought into designing. Not prison-grade, but definitely built with "difficult" guests in mind.
Smart.
A soft knock at my door interrupts my inspection of the room's containment features. I sit up, instantly alert. "Yes?"
"A word, if I may." Marius's voice, with those strange harmonics that human vocal cords shouldn't produce.
I consider ignoring him, but that would only delay whatever conversation he's determined to have. Better to establish boundaries now than have him poking around later.
"Come in," I call, making sure the ring's disguise is firmly in place.
The door opens to reveal the innkeeper, his too-wide eyes taking in every detail of the room before settling on me. He carries a bottle and two glasses, apparently anticipating a longer conversation than I'd prefer.
"I hope the accommodations are satisfactory," he says, closing the door behind him with a precision that suggests he's acutely aware of his own strength. "The Threshold prides itself on meeting the needs of all travelers, regardless of their... unique requirements."
"The room is fine," I reply, staying seated on the bed. Let him make the first move.
Marius sets the bottle and glasses on the desk, then takes the chair without waiting for an invitation. "Thorne vouches for you, which carries significant weight in the Crossroads. He doesn't extend his protection lightly."
"Protection?" I raise an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware I needed any."
"Everyone needs protection in the Citadel," he says simply. "Even those who could level buildings with a thought. Perhaps especially them."
The casual accuracy of his assessment makes the hellfire in my chest flicker with irritation. The ring grows warmer against my finger, working harder to maintain my disguise.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, my voice deliberately flat.
Marius smiles, revealing those too-perfect teeth again. "Of course not. Just as I'm simply a humble innkeeper who happens to serve guests from across the dimensional spectrum." He uncorks the bottle and pours two glasses of amber liquid. "Shall we dispense with the pretense? It's exhausting for both of us, and I assure you that the Threshold's privacy wards are among the finest in the Citadel."
I study him more carefully, noting details I missed earlier. The way he moves—too fluid, too precise. The subtle wrongness of his proportions that becomes more apparent the longer you look. The way the light seems to bend slightly around him, as if reality itself isn't quite sure what to make of his presence.
"What are you?" I ask directly.
"A refugee, like yourself," he replies, offering one of the glasses. "Though my journey to the Citadel was considerably less dramatic than being chased through the Whispering Woods by Hollow Ones and chimera sprites."
I accept the glass but don't drink. "Thorne talks too much."
"Thorne understands the value of information in the Crossroads," Marius corrects. "By sharing what he knows, he ensures others will do the same when it matters."
I sniff the liquid cautiously. It smells like whiskey but with undertones of something spicier, almost metallic. "And what information are you hoping to gain from me?"
"Nothing you wouldn't freely share with someone in a similar position." He sips from his own glass. "I simply thought you might appreciate knowing you're not the first being of significant power to seek refuge in our little community."
That gets my attention. "How significant?"
"Let's just say the Containment District houses entities that would make most realms' pantheons nervous." His too-wide eyes study me over the rim of his glass. "Though you're the first arrival I've encountered who carries quite your particular... resonance."
"And what resonance is that?" I ask, finally taking a small taste of the drink. It burns pleasantly, with complex flavors that remind me of smoke and distant stars.
"Infernal, but not demonic. Angelic, but not divine." Marius tilts his head at an angle that human neck vertebrae shouldn't allow. "Something forged in spaces between, perhaps? In the cosmic equivalent of pressure and heat?"
The accuracy of his assessment is unsettling. The hellfire in my chest pulses with warning, and I have to consciously force it back down.
"You're very perceptive for a humble innkeeper," I observe dryly.
"And you're very controlled for someone who's recently escaped five millennia of torment," he counters. "Most beings who endure what you have arrive... unstable. Dangerous to themselves and others."
I set my glass down carefully, fighting the urge to shatter it in my grip. "Who exactly are you, Marius? And what do you want from me?"
He sighs, a sound that carries harmonics no human could produce. "I told you—I'm a refugee, like yourself. My realm ceased to exist approximately fifteen years ago, by this world's reckoning. A dimensional collapse that should have taken me with it, had I not found a tear leading here."
"And now you run an inn for dimensional travelers."
"It seemed fitting." He finishes his drink in one smooth motion. "As for what I want from you—nothing beyond mutual understanding. The Crossroads functions on a delicate balance of power and restraint. Those of us who could cause significant damage choose not to, for the benefit of all."
"A non-aggression pact," I translate.
"Precisely." He sets his empty glass on the desk. "The Citadel offers refuge to beings from across the dimensional spectrum, provided they adhere to certain basic principles. Don't reveal your true nature to the general population. Don't use your abilities to harm or control others without provocation. Don't draw unwanted attention from the authorities."
"And if someone breaks these principles?"
Marius's expression darkens slightly. "Then the rest of us ensure the problem is... addressed. The Citadel's continued existence depends on maintaining the appearance of normality, even when housing beings that defy classification."
I consider this as I finish my own drink. The arrangement makes sense from a practical standpoint—a community of refugees policing itself to avoid drawing the kind of attention that might threaten everyone's safety.
"And you're what? The welcoming committee? Making sure new arrivals understand the rules?"
"Among other things." He stands with that too-fluid grace. "I also help newcomers find their footing. Resources. Connections. Ways to exist comfortably without revealing what they truly are."
"Like this?" I ask, holding up my hand with the ring.
"Temporary solutions have their place," he acknowledges. "But long-term adaptation requires more sustainable approaches. The Adaptation Guild can help with that, when you're ready."
He moves toward the door, then pauses. "One last thing, Kamen. The ring you wear—it's powerful, but strained. I would estimate you have perhaps a week before it fails completely, less if you experience significant emotional disturbance."
The assessment matches my own calculations, which doesn't make it any less concerning. "And when it fails?"
"Then you'll need to have alternative arrangements in place." His hand rests on the doorknob. "Thorne will introduce you to people who can help tomorrow. I suggest you take full advantage of his assistance."
With that, he exits, leaving me alone with an empty glass and the unsettling knowledge that my disguise has an increasingly short expiration date.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the reinforced ceiling. One week. Maybe less if something triggers my temper or pushes me to use my abilities. Not much time to find alternative solutions in a realm I barely understand.
Outside my window, the Night Market continues its chaotic dance of commerce and community. Beings from across the dimensional spectrum, each finding their own way to exist in this strange sanctuary. If they can do it, surely I can as well.
The thought is oddly comforting as I drift toward sleep, the hellfire in my chest banking to a manageable glow. Tomorrow I'll explore the Crossroads with Thorne. Learn about the Adaptation Guild. Begin the process of finding a more permanent place in this realm.
And maybe, just maybe, discover a way back to Caleif and the Academy.
For now, though, I allow myself the luxury of rest—something I haven't truly experienced since before my imprisonment. The Threshold's protective wards hum softly around me, creating a bubble of security that even my paranoia can't fully penetrate.