Page 93 of Unseen Eye
“Sometimes it pays to have a king with little interest,” Cal says and shrugs. “In the beginning, I was paranoid he’d stumble across it. But, in reality, he hardly leaves the castle. And when he does, it’s only to attend events in other kingdoms that he can’t avoid. So, no, not really. Plus,” he grins, “you need to know where it is to find it. The shields distort the space around it, making everything inside vanish from view as if it’s not even there.”
“Seriously?” I counter, not bothering to hide my awe. “Exactly how powerful are you again?”
This earns another shrug. “I’ll admit it wasn’t easy. Without an affinity for the ley lines, none of this would be possible. Plus, as there’s no other ley lines affinity out there, I don’t have to worry about someone else breaking the shield, so that’s nice.”
Cal stops walking. “We’re here.”
When I first look up, the desolation is overwhelming. The land stretches out, barren and broken, where a city once stood proud. Charred structures remain, some barely recognizable—marble buildings, half torn down and scorched, their elegance reduced to rubble. A single wall from what must have beena grand hall still stands, its intricate carvings and detailed stonework partially visible beneath layers of soot and decay. The craftsmanship, even in ruins, hints at a grandeur long lost to time.
In the near distance, mountains rise, their jagged peaks cutting into the dull sky, watching over this forgotten land. The ground between is littered with debris, blackened stones, and remnants of lives once lived. It’s a graveyard of a place, haunted by its own history—a stark contrast to what I imagine it must have once been.
“Ready to be amazed?” Cal asks, reaching for my hand with a toothy grin.
We walk forward, and it feels like stepping through mist—at first, everything is blurry, distant, like I’m watching a memory dissolve in the air. But with each step, the world sharpens. Slowly, the village comes into focus, and my breath catches in my throat.
It’s nothing short of spectacular.
What was once a ruin is now a thriving, living settlement, carefully rebuilt from the ground up. The desolation at the entrance is a mere echo of what lies deeper within—a village brimming with life and ingenuity. A narrow stream cuts through the heart of the village. Its water clear as crystal, reflecting the sunlight in a way that makes it appear vibrant and alive. At one end, a small waterfall tumbles down from a small cavern nestled in the mountain. Its soft, steady roar filling the air. An intricate waterwheel harnesses the waterfall’s power, its wooden gears turning with a steady rhythm, channeling water into a complex system of pipes that snake through the village.
The homes are simple but sturdy, crafted from salvaged wood and stone that blend into the natural surroundings. There’s a history in the materials, as if they’ve been drawn from the bones of the old city itself, now repurposed for a new beginning. Somebuildings feature greenhouses, where rows of vegetables and herbs grow, safe from the colder climate that comes with being this far north.
At the village’s edge, the mountains rise, their imposing forms casting shadows over the horizon. Their bases are dotted with caves, carved into dwellings that seem to have always belonged there. Wooden doors, fitted with precision, guard these cave homes from the elements, each one unique. Some are etched with symbols—scenes of old gods, nature, and myths—while others remain simple, worn smooth by generations of hands.
The paths wind between the caves and the village center, well-trodden and compacted from countless footsteps. Some cut across ledges and through man-made tunnels carved into the mountain, while others follow the land’s contours, twisting like rivers of stone. The layout is both practical and awe-inspiring—a testament to the villagers’ skill and their determination to thrive in a place once left for dead.
Between the caves and the stream, communal spaces are carefully designed—not in the typical, obvious way, but with purpose. Long wooden tables and benches, worn smooth from years of use, are scattered beneath tall trees that survived the devastation. Their trunks thick and twisted with age, the trees stand sentinel, providing shelter for the villagers gathering to eat, craft, or tell stories. The low hum of conversation blends with the sounds of hammers striking anvils and saws cutting through wood.
The whole village is a study in contrasts—ruin and renewal, destruction and resilience. Where once there was only ash and stone, now there is life. Every corner of this place, from the carved doorways to the intricate irrigation ditches, tells a story of survival and defiance. The village has risen from the ashes, rebuilt by hands that refused to let the past dictate the future. There’s a harmony here, a balance between man and nature,between what was lost and what has been reclaimed.
Standing in the center of it all, I feel a wave of awe wash over me. This village—small, remote, and seemingly insignificant—feels larger than life. It’s more than just a place. It’s a testament to human strength, the kind that endures even in the face of unimaginable loss.
Hope stirs in my chest, uninvited but unmistakable. It’s as if this place is whispering to me, reminding me that no matter how bleak things may seem—whether here, in the world, or in my own life—there’s always a chance to rebuild, to create something beautiful from the wreckage. I can feel the weight of the past lifting, just for a moment.
In this moment, surrounded by the evidence of resilience, I realize that maybe the future isn’t as grim as I’ve always believed. Maybe it’s not about erasing the scars, but learning to live with them, to build something stronger from what remains. This village has thrived in the face of ruin—and so can I.
As we walk through the village, people begin to approach us. A man calls out to Cal, clapping him on the back, while a woman with dirt-streaked hands wipes them on her apron before offering a nod in my direction. Their faces light up, eyes filled with recognition and warmth.
“Welcome,” someone says with a smile. It’s as if our presence, or maybe just Cal’s, is a sign of hope. As we move on, I admire the vibrant paintings that decorate the sides of buildings, colorful swirls that seem to mirror the determination of the villagers themselves.
I spot Theo walking toward us with a man beside him, taller and much older. His hair is almost completely gray, with a thick beard that adds to his weathered, wise appearance. There’s a quiet authority in the way he carries himself, though his sharp eyes reveal he misses nothing. As they approach, Cal nods to Theo, who gives a quick farewell before heading off in theopposite direction.
Cal smiles and gestures toward me. “Eva,” he says, “I’d like you to meet Malachai, the elder of Ardu.”
Malachai extends his hand, his grip firm. “I’ve heard much about you,” he says, holding my gaze with a steady but friendly smile. There’s no pressure in his presence, just a quiet strength.
“Are you from here originally, or from Catalpa?” I ask, unable to resist my curiosity.
He chuckles softly, pulling down the collar of his tunic to reveal a tattoo of a drakos coiled around his neck. “Ardu has been my home for as long as I can remember,” he says, the tattoo an unmistakable symbol of his past. “When Catalpa fell, we took in as many as we could. Offering them shelter was the least we could do.”
“If you need anything,” he continues, his eyes briefly lingering on me before flicking back to Cal, “don’t hesitate to ask. My house is over there,” he says and gestures toward a cottage with an intricate mural painted on the side—a scene of a fierce battle between drakos and men, both beautifully detailed and slightly faded with time. With a final nod, he turns and walks away.
As we continue toward the back of the village, Cal’s fingers lace through mine. “Malachai seems... nice,” I offer, glancing sideways at him.
Cal gives a thoughtful nod. “He’s more than nice. He’s wise and fair. Keeping this place running as long as he has, with everything that’s happened... it’s no small feat.”
Before I can ask more, Cal points toward the carved shelters nestled into the mountain’s edge. “Izzy and Theo went ahead. They’re with Cleary. We wanted to give him a heads-up so we wouldn’t startle him.” I nod. The faint hum of voices from one of the cave homes confirms it.
Cal knocks on the door, and after a moment, a short man opens it. His eyes darting between us with a mix of curiosity andwariness.
