“In Sevastha, veiled in memory’s shroud,

  Gods walked with mortals, proud among the proud.

  Where divinity’s touch grazed mortal’s hand,

  In that splendid, lost, harmonious land.

  Then came a whisper, divine, that bid them part,

  To realms unknown, with heavy heart.

  Sevastha sleeps now, a myth in twilight’s sigh,

  A dream half-remembered, under the eternal sky.”

  – Fintale, Our World in Words

  Year ???

  There was a girl.

  There was a forest, a city, a home. So very long ago.

  The memory of it all stretches back like an ancient tapestry, threads of a time so distant it feels like a dream. The girl gazes out from her chamber window. Limna. Yes. Yes, Limna is her name.

  Limna gazes out toward the city, wide eyes drinking in the soft gold of dawn, the stone walls of Sevastha shimmering like a sea of molten brass. In between the walls, through curved arches, she spots verdant gardens, dotted with orchards heavy with silver apples and ruby pomegranates. Fountains burble in every corner, their melody blending with the chorus of birdsong that permeates the air. Narrow alleys twist like veins in a body, carrying within them the lifeblood of the city, the laughter of children, the chatter of old men, the clatter of the looms from open windows, and the rhythm of life in its many hues.

  Limna, like her parents, and her parents’ parents before her, is a steward of this city, entrusted by the sky-thread to preserve this grandeur. As a reward, they are permitted to stay. Here, in the heart of the world. They nurture the sacred orchards, maintain the grand edifices, tend to the crystal-clear fountains that adorn the city.

  Yet Sevastha is more than a city to them. Every stone, every tree, every bird that nests in the Alabaster City is a part of their legacy. Limna and her lineage are not merely inhabitants—they are custodians of a divine bond.

  And then, one day, everything changes.

  One day, the people of Sevastha are summoned to the city’s grand plaza, where, under the curious gaze of thousands, the verdict of the gods is delivered, as it has been countless times before. The sky, usually a tranquil azure, seems to throb with a strange intensity. As a child, Limna has been afraid of the sky-thread and dreaded each announcement. Routine, and the insistence of her elders, has worn this fear down over the years. As is right.

  Yet now, a priest—robe billowing wildly around him in the cool breeze—steps forward. In his trembling hand, he holds the Scroll of Sky, where the divine edict stands transcribed. Limna knows him, has known him for so many years. Old man, pockmarks all over his face, yet kind. His voice, steady and commanding in all her memory to this day, quivers with an unspoken fear as he reads out the words that will forever change the course of their lives.

  The gods have decreed that the time has come for the Stewards to leave Sevastha. No reason given. No understanding offered. Just one instruction, clear as the sky above them. Leave. But where to?

  The news is received with a stunned silence that seems to hold the entire city in its grip. Limna feels an icy chill run down her spine, her grip tightening on her mother’s hand as she watches the world she knew crumble around her. Twin pains burn in her soul. On the same day, she has lost the home she grew up in—the only home she ever knew. And her purpose. The city of Sevastha, their home, their sanctuary, their duty, all to be abandoned. Left alone. Left to die.

  And the city weeps that day. The fountains sob, their usually crystal-clear waters tainted with the despair of Sevastha’s people. The sky itself weeps, a gentle but unending patter of droplets. Limna, young and confused, clings tight to her mother, her heart echoing the city’s sorrow.

  A new era is about to begin. One without Sevastha. One without the touch of the gods.

  In the days that follow, a frenetic energy takes hold as hushed goodbyes are whispered to beloved streets, cherished trees, and treasured nooks throughout the city. Limna watches. Already, it is their city no more. She watches as the city’s temples, once alive with the prayers and hopes of the people, are solemnly sealed. She watches as her family seals their own vault. The once reverent silence of the sanctums is replaced by an equally silent hollowness. Stewards move as if in trance, as if they cannot believe what they are doing. Their faces are etched with a resolve to uphold the divine decree. Even as their hearts mourn.

  The harbor teems with activity. People finish their preparations, readying the ships for departure. As Limna sets foot on their ship, she glances back at the city one last time. Sevastha—white, perfect Sevastha, center of her world—stands resolute against the dawn. Stone structures gleaming, gardens vibrant, and fountains still singing their songs, oblivious to the impending silence.

  With the last of the Stewards on board, the ships set sail. Miraculously, as if ordered, the treacherous rapids and ever-present fog that usually guard the city recede, their tumult replaced with an eerie calm. As if the sky-thread, their divine link to the gods, holds sway over the forces of nature, paving their way toward an uncertain destiny. One last gift, for services rendered.

  One by one, the ships slip away from the city, moving with a mournful grace. Even as Sevastha dwindles in the distance, the people continue to watch in solemn silence, bearing witness. Their hearts heavy with a grief too deep for tears. They are leaving behind not just a city, but a way of life.

  Thus, Limna, her parents, the people of Sevastha—the Stewards of the gods—embark on their voyage into the unknown, carrying with them nothing but faith, and a hope for a new beginning. In the west, as foretold by scripture.

  The sea stretches endlessly before them. A vast canvas of blue, its depths as unknowable as the path the Stewards have embarked upon. Limna, never having left Sevastha in her whole life, feels the alien strangeness of her new surroundings. Others wield the new burdens of their journey less well and struggle with every heave of their vessel. Yet the ships move on, uncaring, gliding with resolute grace over the waves. Undeterred by the uncertainties looming ahead.

  But even the strength of the Stewards and the protection of their god-bestowed vessels are no match for the relentless trials of the sea and the insidious enemy that is time. Their journey is long and fraught with danger. Storms rage, battering the ships with rain, making the vessels pitch and yaw in a terrifying dance. Food supplies dwindle, fresh water becomes scarce, and morale sinks with every passing day.

  No matter how brave the Stewards are, how strong their resolve, the sea claims many lives. Limna’s parents are among the fallen. They succumb not to the fury of the sea, but to that silent killer that is disease, their bodies worn down relentlessly by the harsh conditions and lack of sustenance.

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  So Limna watches as they are lowered into the sea, bodies wrapped in white cloth, faces serene in death. A shroud of sorrow cloaks her young heart, yet she can do nothing but stare into the unforgiving depths that claim her loved ones.

  Immediately, she feels the gaping hole in her life. The absence of her parents is like a wound that—she is sure—will refuse to heal. Though it will, like so many in our lives.

  Her parents have been her anchors in this world. A world that is rapidly being pulled out from under her. And now, they are gone. As the waves swallow the last remnants of their bodies, Limna feels adrift, an orphan in the middle of the vast sea, carried forth by the whims of the gods alone.

  Not long after, their voyage, once started with a spark of hope—a promise of divine guidance—becomes a procession of despair, each day echoing with the silence of the lost.

  Day after day after day passes. To Limna it is all a gray succession of light and dark, dry and wet, unspeakable boredom, and ever-increasing hunger. They lose many more to disease, weather, or a decline in spirit. They lose an entire ship, swallowed whole by the sea in one especially vicious tempest. Slowly, Limna has a dawning realization. They are not going to make it. They will all die here, on this blue infinity. One after another. Until the last.

  Then, one day, after what feels like an eternity at sea, a sudden cry erupts from a neighboring ship. Limna, lost in her thoughts and grief, is jerked back into the present.

  “Land! Land!” the call echoes.

  And the word, almost past recollection, ripples through her weary people, reigniting a spark of forgotten hope in their hearts.

  After such a long and devastating journey, the sight of land feels like a dream to Limna, a mirage created by their desperate minds. But as the ships draw closer, shapes solidify before her bloodshot eyes. They see mountains, peaks veiled in mist. Valleys, teeming with lush, green life. A shoreline that promises firm ground under their feet. Limna cannot even remember how it feels like to walk on solid ground.

  At the time, they do not know it yet—but they have reached the Trifelt. I know you have not seen it all, have not seen much outside Olban at all. Not yet, maybe never.

  But let me tell you, it is gorgeous.

  A land of towering trees and winding rivers. A wild land. To Limna, it is a stark contrast to the gleaming stone structures and orchards of Sevastha. The Trifelt is yet untamed, an uncut gem in the bosom of the earth. The air is thick with the scent of pine and wildflowers, a far cry from the fragrant citrus of their beloved Alabaster City.

  As the remaining ships make their cautious approach to the unfamiliar shore, Limna stands at the bow, her heart a tumult of emotions. There is apprehension, certainly. Fear of the unknown. But beneath that, she feels excitement—a flutter of hope, of potential. As the ships’ keels scrape against the sandy bottom, and the Stewards set foot on the Trifelt for the first time, a new chapter in their story is about to begin.

  The era of Sevastha may have ended, but the legacy of the Stewards was far from over.

  The first few moons were the most challenging. The language of the Trifelt’s people was alien to the Stewards—you have to understand—their customs foreign. But necessity forged a bond between them. It always does. The newcomers shared their knowledge of tending to orchards and building sturdy homes. The native people taught them how to hunt, gather, and farm in the dense forests, how to navigate the meandering rivers.

  And as seasons turned, the Stewards changed. They learned the ways of their new land. Soon, their style of clothing changed, as did their eating habits. Yet, an unspoken understanding remained amongst them—a longing for the old ways, the familiar rhythms of Sevastha. They clung to their traditions, their prayers, their memories.

  And so it came to be that, while they shared the bountiful land with the people of the Trifelt, they did not share their beds. At least in large parts. The Stewards kept to their own communities instead. Their homes were clustered together, the design echoing the grandeur of Sevastha, albeit faintly and on a much smaller scale. They continued their rituals, held their feasts, and told stories of the Alabaster City and its sky-thread to their children. Sevastha lived on. In their hearts, in their tales, in the gentle lullabies sung to the infants born on Trifeltian soil.

  But the seasons passed. Transforming into years, at first, then decades. The Stewards, once strangers in a foreign land, became part of its rhythm. The bonds they formed with the people of the Trifelt grew stronger, the lines between communities blurred with each passing generation.

  And yet, through it all, we never forgot. Never forgot Sevastha, never forgot our sacred duty as her Stewards. We remembered, and we taught our children to remember. Sevastha lives on.

  Limna’s voice grew thin. Her eyes had become moist during her tale. She paused, gaze lost in the distance, mind wading through the foggy depths of memory.

  A young girl with eyes just as curious as Limna’s had been—once upon a time—looked up at her. “But Grandmother,” she interrupted, voice full of questions. So were the young, full of questions. Who, then, had the answers? “Why did you never go back to Sevastha?”

  Limna smiled sadly as ancient fingers traced the edges of a worn pendant around her neck. “Because, my dear, the way to Sevastha was lost to us. The sky-thread decreed it, and so it was. We became wanderers, custodians of memories instead of stone.”

  “But we could try, couldn’t we?” Her granddaughter’s voice was still imbued with the untainted defiance of youth, the conviction that no obstacle was insurmountable, no matter how great. “Lovar’s dad has a really big ship. If Sevastha was so beautiful, so wonderful, shouldn’t we try to find it again?”

  For a moment, Limna was silent. She looked at her granddaughter—that echo of her past self, full of determination and courage. “Perhaps, my dear,” she said softly before she finally unclasped the pendant from around her neck. “Perhaps the way to Sevastha lies not on a map, but in our hearts, in our stories. We may not be able to return to our city, but we can carry its legacy forward. Sevastha lives on.”

  She held out the pendant, a tiny carving of an obelisk from Sevastha, to her granddaughter. “This has passed through our family for generations,” she said, her voice now barely above a whisper. “It’s the last belonging that I have from my own parents. It’s a piece of Sevastha, a piece of us. And now it’s yours. Take it, keep it close, and remember the stories. For, as long as we remember, Sevastha will live.”

  With wide eyes, her granddaughter accepted the pendant, the weight of her ancestors’ legacy seeming heavy in her small hands. Limna looked at her. Now she was a Steward of Sevastha, a guardian of its memories. And one day, she would pass on these stories, just as her grandmother had done now. For as long as they could. For as long as they had to.

  And so it went. The seasons danced their endless cycle of life, death, and rebirth. Around them, the city ebbed and flowed, buildings rising and falling, streets expanding, the hum of life ever evolving, ever enduring. But in the heart of it all, nestled within this ever-changing rhythm of life, a single tradition remained untouched, as resilient as the city of Sevastha itself. The pendants, those tiny pieces of history, made their way through the generations.

  From mothers to daughters, from fathers to sons, the pendants journeyed through time, their shine never fading, purpose never forgotten. Every new hand that held one—every new heart that cherished it—added to its story. Every generation carried with them a piece of Sevastha, a piece of their lineage. Some were lost, seized, destroyed. But what was time if not erosion, grinding down history over the ages to its most quintessential fragments.

  And so it continued. The passage of time, the cycle of life. Until, many generations later, the pendant once again found its way into the hands of a new bearer. It had happened countless times before, so nobody would have expected that this ceremony would mark the final chapter in the lineage of Stewards. This time, it fell into the hands of a young boy, that distant descendant of those who had once walked the orchards of the Alabaster City.

  His mother—warm gray eyes and memories of comfort—stood before him. The boy sat on a thick carpet. She held a certain grace, this woman. A timeless elegance, the kind that could only be born from a lineage of survivors and storytellers. Her hair—as dark as the soil that once fed the sacred orchards of their lost city—cascaded down her shoulders. A plaything of errant breezes from the sea.

  She held the pendant out to the young boy and let her voice resonate with an ancient rhythm, repeating the words spoken so often by her ancestors, “This belongs to you now.”

  His small fingers curled around the cold stone, pulled it closer for examination. The intricate etchings on its surface seemed to dance under the sunlight that streamed into their living room. Whispering tales of a city that thrived and then was lost, of people who had been chosen and then forsaken. Yet here they were, still persisting, still remembering.

  “Guard it well, my child,” the woman said, words heavy with unspoken stories. “It’s more than a piece of jewelry—it’s part of our soul, our history. It’s a beacon that keeps the memory of Sevastha alive in our hearts.”

  The boy did not know it but her voice, rich with emotion, echoed countless ancestors who had spoken the same words, the same promise. It echoed her own mother, in fact, standing before her in a bright clearing atop the river delta.

  The boy, young yet remarkably perceptive, looked up at his mother. His eyes reflected the very same determined spirit that once thrived in Sevastha, that persisted over centuries in exile. Now they sparkled with the weight of the promise. The anticipation.

  Irthal nodded.