They left the horses at the city's edge.
It was not a sentimental farewell. Ignis did not allow animals beyond its outer districts—not mounts, not beasts of burden, not even messenger hawks without sanction. The city demanded clean stone, clean air, clean order.
So Midarion loosened the reins. Reikika ran a hand along the mare's neck one last time, murmuring thanks rather than goodbye. The animals hesitated, confused, then turned back toward the open land beyond the gates, hooves fading into distance.
And then—
They stepped into the city on foot.
Ignis unfolded before them like something half-remembered from a dream and half-feared from a warning. Towers of alabaster and gold rose in layered terraces, their surfaces etched with celestial motifs that caught the sun and fractured it into soft prisms. Bridges arched gracefully over canals of star-white water, their surfaces rippling with reflections of constellations that should not have been visible at midday. Floating lanterns shaped like miniature suns drifted above the streets, trailing faint luminescent mist that smelled of warm metal and incense.
Banners danced high overhead, midnight blue and gold, chiming softly where delicate bells were stitched into their edges. The city sang—not loudly, but constantly: footsteps on stone, distant hymns, the murmur of crowds, the whisper of flowing water.
Reikika slowed without realizing it.
"It's…" Her voice caught. "It's beautiful."
Midarion didn't answer at first.
He watched the people.
"Beautiful," he agreed quietly. "But cold."
They walked.
And as they did, the city noticed them.
Eyes lingered too long on their clothes—patched, functional, shaped by necessity rather than fashion. On their boots, still bearing the dust of roads that respectable citizens pretended did not exist. On the way they moved: alert, economical, always leaving themselves space.
Whispers followed.
"…from the Lawless Lands, I'd bet."
"…why are they walking so close to the fountain?"
"…they let those in now?"
A woman drew her child closer as they passed. A man shifted his path just enough to avoid brushing shoulders. Smiles appeared briefly—polite, automatic—then vanished the moment Midarion and Reikika turned away.
Every kindness felt rehearsed.
Every courtesy, brittle.
It clung to them like a scent they could not wash away.
Arechi.
The word was never spoken aloud, yet it pressed against them from every direction, an invisible brand. It did not matter that they had survived horrors most of these people could not imagine. It did not matter that they had crossed frozen gorges, faced death, and walked out breathing.
Here, survival meant nothing.
Here, origin was everything.
Still, they kept walking.
They stopped twice to ask for directions. The first time, the man pretended not to hear. The second, a shopkeeper gestured vaguely down a street that led nowhere, then closed his shutters a little tighter once they moved on.
The third time, an old woman stepped forward.
She was hunched, her back bent with age rather than weakness, a staff of polished wood supporting her weight. Her eyes, however, were bright—sharp and observant, missing nothing.
"Lost, are you?" she asked gently.
Reikika nodded, relief softening her shoulders despite herself. "We're looking for the Trisolarium."
The woman smiled. "Ah. Follow the river north. When the sound of water turns hollow and echoes back at you, you'll see it. A great circle of stars."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "And don't let anyone tell you you don't belong. The stars judge fairly, even when people do not."
Midarion bowed, a gesture older than the city around them. "Thank you."
When they reached the Trisolarium, the city seemed to fall away.
The arena dominated the district, a colossal ring of stone so vast it appeared to press against the sky itself. Three rising suns were carved into its outer walls, their forms intertwining into a single blazing sigil that radiated restrained power. Every stone hummed faintly, vibrating with echoes of battles long past—of cheers, screams, oaths sworn under starlight.
Reikika stopped walking.
Midarion did too.
For a moment, they were simply small figures before something impossibly large.
They approached the registration hall built into the arena's outer ring. Inside, the air was cool and dry, scented faintly with parchment and ink. A long counter stretched across the chamber. Behind it sat a clerk in white and gold robes, his posture stiff with practiced indifference.
"Names," he said without looking up.
"Midarion," Midarion replied. "And Reikika."
The quill scratched.
"Last names?"
The sound stopped.
Midarion froze.
Reikika's breath caught sharply.
"We…" Her voice was barely a whisper. "We don't have any."
The clerk finally looked up.
His eyes were cold, measuring, already dismissive.
"No last name," he said flatly. "No registration."
Midarion stepped forward. "Please. We came a long way—"
"Astraelis recognizes bloodlines," the clerk interrupted. "Not nameless wanderers. That is the law."
The words were precise. Final.
They did not argue further.
Outside, the city gleamed—laughter rising from distant streets, bells chiming, sunlight bathing marble in gold. They sat on the Trisolarium's steps, the stone still warm beneath them as the sun began its descent.
Time passed.
Reikika hugged her knees to her chest, staring at nothing. Midarion watched his hands, fingers flexing as if they expected to find weapons there.
The city had not rejected them loudly.
It had simply closed its doors.
"What if…" Reikika said softly, breaking the silence. "What if we make one?"
He turned to her slowly. "A name?"
She nodded, eyes shining with something fragile but stubborn. "We lost everything. But we're still here. We survived. Together."
Midarion looked toward the horizon, where the sun bled gold and red across the towers.
"Something born from what we survived," he murmured. "From what burned."
He inhaled.
"From the ashes."
Reikika's eyes widened.
"Ashborn," she repeated, testing the word like a promise.
The air seemed to still.
"Reikika Ashborn," she said quietly.
"Midarion Ashborn."
The name settled into place—not borrowed, not inherited, but claimed.
They rose together.
Inside, the clerk barely glanced up. "Names?"
"Midarion Ashborn."
"Reikika Ashborn."
The quill paused.
"That house is not registered."
"It is now," Midarion replied calmly.
A beat of silence.
Reikika reached into her satchel and withdrew the sealed letter.
The clerk's demeanor shifted the moment he saw the wax.
A long silence followed.
Then the quill moved again.
"Very well," the clerk said stiffly. "You are registered. Report at sunrise, two days hence."
They left with lighter steps.
The relief did not last.
Night fell, and with it, doors closed.
Every inn turned them away. Some politely. Others not.
"No vacancies."
"Try elsewhere."
"I won't have your kind here."
By the time the streets emptied and lanterns dimmed, Reikika's tears fell soundlessly.
"We shouldn't have come," she whispered. "They hate us."
Midarion wrapped an arm around her. "We'll find something."
They found a corner instead—shielded from the wind, hard stone beneath thin cloth.
A voice interrupted them.
"What are you doing out here?"
Krueger stood under a lantern, helmet tucked beneath his arm.
They told him everything.
His jaw tightened.
"You're children," he said. "And they made you sleep in the streets?"
He extended a hand. "Come."
They hesitated.
Filandra's voice whispered approval.
They followed.
Krueger's home was modest, warm, alive with quiet kindness.
As they slept, the city continued to shine beyond its walls.
But for the first time since entering Ignis—
They felt safe.
They were Ashborn.
And somewhere beyond the stars, destiny listened.