City of Truth

Being in cart, over a city spanning a whole mountain base, with no control over the speed, direction and safety was creating stress that Azriel had never felt before. He wasn't afraid of heights, or so he told himself, maybe he was? Looking out over the rim of the cart, no window or anything blocking a suicidal from doing it, he gazed upon the reflection of the skies down below. In the darkness of the mountain, the lamps scattered across the city really made one think if it were a metropolis they were watching, or the night sky. 

Across from him, on his own bench, Turve slept peacefully without a care for the world. Right after the cart had begun its journey, he had told Azriel that the ETA was an hour and a half, quite the long time, the kid had thought at first. But when he felt the slow, crawling speed of this thing, he could understand it. A snail would be faster. 

Despite his anxiety, Azriel couldn't for a moment neglect the insane methodology on which the cart moved. He had spotted a glimpse of the machinery before, where the wire, to which the cart hung, got reeled in by some rotating thingies, and when they left the cliff, the rotating thingies reversed, levying wire that propelled the cart downwards. It was truly fascinating. 

Even though he was quite salty about basically being dragged behind the light, by Turve, regarding the revolution, his respect for the man seemed to grow every minute he spent with him. Not to mention that he was his father's sworn brother. Now, observing the creation beneath, he could only begin to revere the man before him, if this truly was the Truthseekers base. — Must've taken a huge amount of resources, time and connections to get this up and running, Azriel thought to himself. 

The cart itself was also a marvelous piece of structure. Lit up by a lonesome, dangling witchlight, Azriel could discern the material used to some form of granite. Covering the floor was a soft, woolly carpet which also dressed the benches, making them comfortable and soft like a cloud, which Turve's sleeping body testified for. 

Nothing decorated the granite besides the naturally occuring patterns. The cart was a literal cube, with four panels on each side cut out to serve as "windows", though no protection could be seen. 

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A screeching noise, and then the feeling of the cart docking to something solid woke Turve from his nap. Letting out a big yawn and stretching his body, he stood up, chuckling slightly at the sight of Azriel already off the cart and standing outside, waiting. 

Before them, a housing complex rose from the ground, built into the side of mountain. Above the main doors ran a broad frieze, carved out to depict the heroicness of someone. 

"Who is it for?" Azriel pointed towards the frieze, squinting his eyes to try and differentiate the details. 

"Your dad," Turve answered apathetically, his usual stoneface back into place. "It shows his last fight, as thought out by me after seeing the devastation it caused. Serving as a memorial, it towers over the entrance to the city, demanding respect from any who dares to enter." Turve began to walk, approaching the tall, stone doors. 

Azriel remained glued to his spot, trying to see the whole of the frieze. Soon though, he realised if he wanted to understand it, going closer was a must, so he moved. Going to the left hand side of the grand entrance, he tilted his head backwards and backwards, until he got close enough to see what was carved out. 

He then followed the artpiece, followed the action across the whole piece. The angel with what he counted to 16 pairs of wings and a crown so splendid it resembled godhood, awe striking Azriel as a hammer. Besides the angel surfed an elf on a wave of botanical life: flowers, trees and so much more that he neither had seen before nor understood what type of life it was. On the head of the elf, above a majestic wreath rested a small crown intertwined with thorns and twigs. 

Behind the two entities flew a demon so large and tall it completely shrouded the two other in its massive shadow. From its head protruded a ring with ten horns and hovering slightly above was a crown made out of... he moved closer, tilting his head even more. Above the ring of horns was a crown of vandalised, mauled and twisted corpses. A shiver ran down Azriel's spine, goosebumps spreading across his skin. 

Lastly, from the ground, a dwarf dug itself out, the shining light of the angel dancing and reflecting between the ten gems etched into the forehead. Tilted to the side and dimmed by dirt and grime was a crown so pure and colourful one wondered how many ores went into creating it. 

Extending from the four entities came attacks aimed at a lone person some distance away. Rays of intense sunlight beamed from above, a wave of molten lava towering above the small human as vines from a multitude of plants struggled to hinder the fleeing being. To its back, a pit of pure death opened, trying to swallow the human whole and extinguish the candle of life forever. 

On the humans head rested a pointed hat with a broad trim which tipped slightly downwards. Covering the body was a robe so pristine not even the smallest speck of dust had clung onto it. In the human's hands was a staff of good measure, spanning almost the person's full length. At the tip lay a crystal ball with such depth it put the spacewielders eyes to shame. 

Materialising in the air before the human was several circles, fire erupting across the approaching vines, tearing through the biomass with frightening ease. Panels of glass blocked the rays of light as a massive wall of stone rose from the ground, obstructing the tsunami of lava. A big magic circle appeared on top of the pit of death, sealing it for all of eternity under the illuminating, watchful gaze of the ten mage-rings hovering just behind the fighting human. 

Like the cherry on top, a beautiful crown of raw void lay atop the Mage's hat, resting on the head of Azriel's father. The crown was impossible to look away from, the immense power it held sucking in any gazes like a black hole. It was truly arcane. 

Without knowing, tears had begun trickling down on the ground beneath Azriel's feet. Faint streaks of leftover water lit up palely in the light from the witchlights hung besides the doors, in front of which Turve waited patiently. 

Respecting the boy's moment, he hadn't said anything, but just now, one of the City Lords had contacted him, requesting him to bring "the young master", as they had announced, to them. Despite the influence Turve held in the innermost circle of power, he dared not disobey them this blatantly. 

Looking down at his feet for a moment, sighing, and then back up on the boy, who were now staring directly at him, arms limp at his side, eyes puffy from crying. 

With slow, soft steps, he approached the young master, placing an arm around his shoulder. He gently patted the boy's shoulder, telling him what he had just been informed about, "come now, I'll take you back here later, for now, the City Lords are waiting," he began leading the boy to the doors, "let us not disappoint them as we surely will disappoint the Archwitch." Turve smiled, breaking his stoneface in front of the two guards who opened the door at his knocking. 

Bowing slightly, they let the two humans pass before closing the door behind them, leaving the frieze alone, and with it the first Magic Sovereigns last memory.