Date: March 24, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Morning in Ligra greeted Dur not with the familiar forest silence, but with a growing hum that began with the first roosters and by noon turned into a solid wall of sound. He stood at the entrance to their attic hideout, peering into the labyrinth of roofs and alleys, and felt like an ant that had stumbled into a foreign anthill.
"Today will be a long day," Maël appeared behind him silently, earning a mental point from Dur. "If we want to survive here, you need to understand how Ligra works. Not the picture a visiting merchant sees, but the real one. With blood, sweat, and grime."
"Lead on," Dur replied curtly, adjusting his bow under his cloak.
They descended, and Maël immediately turned not towards the main street, but into a narrow passage between houses where even during the day, twilight reigned.
"First rule," he began, maneuvering between puddles and piles of trash, "in Ligra, never walk in a straight line. Straight streets are for parades and for the guard. Real life is here, in the cracks between the showy facades."
"Where are we going?"
"To the city's pulse. To its stomach."
They emerged before a huge building of gray stone with many windows and heavy oak gates. From inside came a monotonous hum—not shouts, not crowd noise, but a hum, like the breathing of a giant beast.
"Public bakery," Maël nodded at the building. "Feeds a third of the city. They bake bread here at a fixed price set by the Agrim family. Cheap, filling, no profit. Just so people don't starve."
Dur peeked inside. Huge ovens blazed with heat; dozens of people in white aprons kneaded dough, unloaded loaves, hauled sacks of flour. Everything moved smoothly, like a single mechanism.
"They don't cheat here?" Dur asked.
"They don't. If a baker is caught stealing or short-weighting, they're sent to the mines. The Agrim family doesn't joke about bread. Bread is the foundation of order. Without bread, rebellion starts, and rebellion is chaos. And they hate chaos more than anything."
They moved on. Maël led him through alleys, and every turn revealed a new facet of the city. The tanners' quarter met them with an unbearable stench—here dozens of workshops tanned hides, and the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Look," Maël pointed to a trough down which murky water flowed. "Everything left over from tanning is drained into the river downstream. To keep from poisoning the city. Clever, right? But those who live by the river still get poisoned. Just slower."
Dur looked at the workers—half-naked, covered in sweat and some chemical slime, with eyes red from fumes. They worked in silence, conserving their strength.
"How much are they paid?"
"A copper a hide. If they do twenty in a day, they can afford meat for dinner. If not—bread and water."
"And if they get sick?"
"They'll hire others. The line outside the gates is always waiting."
Dur was silent. In the forest, death came quickly—from fangs, from cold, from hunger. Here it came slowly, drop by drop, sucking the life out of you.
They came to a canal—wide, with slowly flowing dark water. Barges laden with bales and barrels floated along it.
"Trade route," Maël explained. "Connects Ligra with the central lands. It's cheaper to ship heavy goods by water. See those barges with timber? From the northern forests. And those with sacks—grain from the south. Ligra stands at a crossroads, that's why it prospers. And that's why the Agrim family holds it so tightly."
"They are all of this. The whole system is their creation. Every stone, every barge, every loaf of bread—everything works by their rules. And those inside the system either accept the rules or... leave. Like me."
"Or like those by the river."
Maël smirked crookedly.
"Or like them. Only they have no choice."
They walked on. Maël showed him the weapon-smiths' quarter—with dozens of forges where they forged swords, arrowheads, and armor. Here it smelled of red-hot metal and coal dust, and the pounding of hammers never ceased for a moment.
"Military orders," Maël explained. "The city is preparing for war with Alvost. All guilds are working overtime. Good times for those who work with their hands. Bad for those who get conscripted."
They passed the city guard barracks—a low long building with barred windows. In the yard, recruits marched, three sergeants shouting loud enough to be heard a block away.
"They come out either dead or crippled," Maël said indifferently. "But they pay regularly, and feed you twice a day. For many, it's better than starving."
By noon, they reached the central square. Here it was clean, spacious; on the walls hung flags with the Agrim coat of arms—crossed sickle and hammer. In the center rose a building of white stone with columns.
"Town Hall," Maël lowered his voice. "Here the city council meets, taxes are stored, and laws are made. And here also live those who watch over everything. Literally everything."
"How do they watch?"
"Informers, snoops, just chatty neighbors. In Ligra, every second person is ready to sell the first for a couple of coppers. The Agrim family encourages informing—it helps maintain order. So," he turned to Dur, "never say anything important where there are ears. Even the walls here sometimes listen."
They crossed the square and ducked into yet another alley. The further they went from the center, the poorer the houses became, the dirtier the streets, the gloomier the faces.
"This is the outskirts," said Maël. "Here live those who didn't fit into the system. Those too old to work. Those who are sick. Those who just couldn't make it. The Agrim family doesn't throw them out—that would cause a riot. But they don't help either. Here, life has its own rules."
Dur watched children playing in the dust, women with dead eyes washing laundry in dirty puddles, men sitting by walls with vacant stares.
"They don't try to get out?"
"Where to? You can't get into a guild without a reference. Into the guard—without health. Into service with the rich—without connections. They're in a trap, Dur. And that trap is called 'order'."
"But you got out."
"I'm a special case. And I didn't get out, I ran away. There's a difference."
They stopped by a rickety fence behind which stood a dilapidated building with broken windows.
"And this?"
"An old orphanage," Maël's voice became quieter.
Dur looked at the building for a long time. It reminded him of the "Old Pine"—the same peeling walls, the same boarded-up windows, the same hopelessness. But there, in the orphanage, they had their room, their window, their oath. Here—just emptiness.
"Let's go," he said. "I've seen enough."
They headed back. Maël led him by a different route, pointing out already familiar landmarks: the high tower of the water pumping station, the covered market, the merchants' guild building. The city was gradually taking shape in Dur's mind as a map—not like the one Gil used to draw, but his own, living, breathing one.
"Have you been studying Ligra all this time just to hide?" Dur asked when they stopped by a fountain to rest.
"To survive," Maël corrected. "Knowing the city, you can find a hundred ways to disappear. Or a hundred ways to earn money. Or a hundred ways not to get caught. Knowledge here is the same weapon as your bow in the forest."
"And now you're showing me so that..."
"So that you survive too," Maël looked at him seriously. "We're in the same boat, Dur. You saved me, now I'm in your debt. And besides," he grinned, "it's always easier together. Even if one of us is a forest savage, and the other a runaway."
"I'm not a savage," Dur muttered.
"Of course not. You're just badly brought up and know how to kill. Come on, I'll show you something else."
They emerged before a tavern Dur had glimpsed out of the corner of his eye—the "Old Boar." A massive oak door, barred windows, no sign, only a crooked little plaque.
"This is where those who deal with the forest gather," said Maël. "Hunters, trackers, poachers, game buyers. If you want to find work, this is the place. If you want to disappear—also the place. But we'll go there in the evening. It's empty now."
Dur nodded, memorizing the spot.
"And where do those who rule live?"
Maël grimaced but replied:
"In the estate on the hill. See the tower above the rooftops? That's their residence in Ligra. The administrator resides there, the archives are kept, they decide who lives and who dies. And that place is off-limits to us. For now."
"For now?"
"Everything can change," Maël looked at the tower with a strange expression—a mix of fear, hatred, and... longing. "Everything always changes."
The sun was setting. The city prepared for night—shutters closed, shouts died down, rare lanterns were lit.
"Enough for today," said Maël. "Tomorrow is a new day. And now—to the 'Old Boar.' Let's see what kind of people are there."
They turned and headed for the tavern. Dur cast one last glance back at the tower on the hill. It loomed over the city, cold and alien, like a cliff over a forest. But in the forest, a cliff was just a cliff. Here, behind the stone, hid people—those from whom Maël fled, those who could at any moment overtake them both.
"Don't look back," Maël said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "In this city, looking back is dangerous. Only look forward."
Dur nodded and quickened his pace. Ahead awaited the "Old Boar," new people, and perhaps the first real chance to establish himself in this stone forest.