Four City Lords And Their Creator

Inside the built in house, a wide staircase descended through the excavated mountainside. Following it, Turve and Azriel slowly made their way down. Witchlights hung from the walls, lighting up the broad space. Azriel had a hard coping with the amount of witchlights he had seen during the trip. For something which were supposed to be hard to produce and exclusive, this exuberant city contained an seemingly infinite storage of them. 

— Don't tell me that every spot of light I saw from the cliff was a witchlight... Azriel considered in his head. If it really were only witchlights giving light to the city, how rich were they? 

Sporadically standing alongside the staircases' walls were pairs of guards, each dressed in plated, silver armor which shone nicely in the dim glow. The armor was unadorned, as if to inspire unity and fight against segregation. The plentiful plates was held together by an underlying chainmail tunic, allowing for easy and free movement. The armor topped off with a, unlike the rest of the armorpiece, intricately designed helmet. Crafted to perfectly fit the race who wore it, they ranged from simple metal platings to etchings and extremities. Personal opinions seemed to matter a lot. 

Some of the guards held spears, some halberds and some had sheathed swords at their sides. A few were dressed in a Mages' robes and hat with a staff by their side. Each and every one had perfect stone faces, saluting at the appearance of Turve. 

Exiting the staircase, the two stood upon a second protruding cliff, this one substantially closer the city than the previous. At this range, the metropolis stretched out into the distance both lengthwise and sideways, disappearing over a makeshift horizon. 

Azriel gaped at the wonderful sight extending from the base of the cliff: the magnificent lights and how they contrasted to the plain, stone houses. From this distance, noise bounced through the air: wagons moving down the cobblestone roads; doors slamming; merchants trying to sell their goods. 

"How do you get stuff in here?" Azriel payed close mind to the magnificent, torii marked entrance of the city, where freight-wagons loaded with what looked like vegetables and barrels rolled in.

"We have deep-rooted connections in cities all over the continent, including those of other races." Turve stood at the edge with his hands in his pockets, watching over the city as a ruler watching his empire. 

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At the center of the City of Truths, four larger roads coalesced at the entrance of a tall pagoda. Each road led to a specified entrance point, marked by a collection of vibrant toriis in an enchanting colour scheme. On the bottommost floor, a market resided, merchants and travellers setting up stalls to sell goods from faraway lands. 

Some floors above, on the uppermost level, a small room lay lit up by a small number of witchlights. In it, around a large, round table, sat four figures. Ten pairs of pristine, white wings extended from the back of an angel. To its side sat the looming frame of a demon with a head so heavily adorned by jewelry it sagged, six horns protruding from the bald scalp. Across the two, a dwarf and an elf sat reclined in their chairs, shimmering stones buried in the forehead of the dwarf and a myriad of glistening flowers weaving in and out of the wreath of the elf. 

In the centre of the table rested a incense stick, fresh, floral-scenting plumes of smoke floating throughout the space. The four beings sat in silence, yet it did not feel awkward, as if they were used to it.

The demon relaxed in its chair, picking its teeth with a dagger so large it would count as a broadsword in a human's hands. The angel levitated slightly above the cushions of its chair. As the perfect being it was, how could it be stained by the filth of these mortal lands? The dwarf were the most relaxed of them all, laying sideways across the chair, resting its small head on the armrest of the oversized seat; gently polishing a large, vivid gemstone with a colour of morning grass. 

A soft giggle broke the silence as the elf played with a snake, the creature crawling over the elf's arms and neck, circling around the wreath and coming to a rest atop the glorious wreath. Before the silence set anew, a pounding, knocking sound resonated in the confined space, startling the barely awake angel. With a slight flick of its wrist, a pulse of light flew through the air, unlocking some hidden mechanisms in the small door, it immediately swung open by a guard. 

"Your majesties, The Creator and the young master has arrived. Requesting permission to let them in." The guard bowed deeply towards the table.

"Permission granted," the angel spoke in an ethereal, mesmerizing voice, captivating the guard before it, causing a blush to erupt beneath the golden helmet. Without stalling, the guard rose from the bow, saluting the four entities and marched out of the door. 

When the guard came back a minute later, all four beings in the room stood in proud unison, waiting for the advent of their benefactor and young master. Stopping right outside the door, the guard entered a new bow, before rising and saluting Turve and Azriel as they stepped through the frame, the door closing behind them. 

At once, the four individuals saluted Turve, greeting him with a unified "Creator". Right after, they all bowed deeply, greeting Azriel with a second, unified "young master". Azriel stood stupefied, the sight surreal. Before him, an actual Demon King bowed to him, and an Archangel too! Simply unbelievable. Demons and angels were known for their tenacity and inability to subserve themselves to others who they deemed lesser beings, such as humans. But right now, two of them bowed! To him, a child!

"Rise," Turve snarled, a slight disgust apparent on his face. — Who were they to bow to a child and not me? He seethed in his mind, though keeping it to himself. "Introduce yourselves." Turve rounded the four, still bowing figures, and took a seat in the largest, most splendidly decorated chair of all six. 

Rising from its bow, the angel began to speak, its voice making Azriel's heart flutter, even though he was sure the angel was a he. "I am Vohamanah, one of four Archangels of the Sacred Lands, ruler of the Citadel of Light, one of four City Lords supervising the City of Truths as well as the current chief of operations regarding all merchantry." He bowed slightly again, the 20 massive wings almost dragging across the floor. 

The Demon King besides Vohamanah snorted at the lengthy presentation, containing his urge to give the pompous bastard a nice, heavy slap to the back of its too dazzling head. Noting the curious look the young master gave him, he cleared his throat before introducing himself: 

"I'm Xerkar," he spat on the floor, grinding the lump of mucus with one of his boot-clad feet, "Demon King in the glorious Lands of the Demons, ruler of the Citadel of Dark, one of the four City Lords here, yadda yadda," he rolled his eyes, "I make sure the guards of this place can hold their weapons straight." 

Azriel chuckled at the introduction. This Demon King of his wasn't fond of these sorts of things, that was for sure. Swapping his gaze to the much smaller figure besides the Demon King, he met the intense gaze of the dwarf, showing his anticipation to its introduction. 

"I'm Bozmurlog Emberpike, Dwarven Elder from the Deserted Lands, ruler of the Citadel of Earth, coordinator and supervisor of all manufacturing taking place in the City of Truths as well as one of the for City Lords." Imitating the angel, Bozmurlog bowed ironically, the long, braided beard touching the shiny floor. Xerkar voiced a boisterous laugh at the sight of the dwarf, giving him a nice and healthy pat on the back with a hand almost as big as the dwarf's entire torso. 

Standing last in the line, the elf unironically bowed when Azriel shifted his gaze, locking it on the curled up snake. Scratching it intimately, the elf introduced herself with a voice almost equal to the angel's. It was captivating, soothing and rich, oozing of lifelong experience and wisdom.

"I am Aurae Torleth, current Sovereign of Nature of the Everlasting Forest, ruler of the Citadel of Botany, executive City Lord, acting Creator when the arrogant brat behind me leaves," she nudged her head backwards at the lounging Turve, who laughed at the remark. "I do also take care of anything business related: connections, expanding our workspace and so on. Obviously under false personas." She smiled a radiant smile, motioning for the five standing to take a seat, even going as far as personally dragging out Azriel's chair, inviting him to sit. 

Obeying, he took the seat, letting a surprised yelp when the chair magically levitated into place around the table, courtesy of Vohamanah, who winked at the boy. 

"There was only one thing these numbnuts forgot to say," Turve began to speak, leaning across the table with his elbows on the top. "These four have the greatest knowledge of their respective parts of the Fabric of Magic, meaning your education will be the greatest a Mage has ever had in the history of our races." 

Interrupting Turve, Aurae leaned in close, whispering something in his ear. Sighing, he spoke again, more towards Azriel than any of the rest. "As my secretary so kindly reminded me, I have not really introduced myself properly either, have I?" Azriel shook his head, he had been waiting for this, not having dared to ask in fear of the reprimand he'd get. Before Turve continued, the boy threw an appreciative look towards the elf, who smiled in response. 

"I am Turve Eearthborn, Sovereign of Earth, previous ruler of Highland's Palace, ruler of City of Truths, creator and leader of The Truthseekers and your father's closest, sworn brother." He smiled painfully at the last remark, feeling the past struggles nudge his heart. 

Meeting the gaze and nods of the other four, Turve continued: "We welcome Young Master Azriel, son of the Sovereign of Magic, bearer of the Legacy... Key to the Lock of the Apocalypse."