As the sun began its slow descent behind the ridge and the first moon became visible in the sky, the silhouette of Bantahar appeared on the horizon. At first, it shimmered like a mirage, low golden domes, latticed towers, and tiered terraces spilling down the hillside like a layered cloak. The buildings caught the amber light and glowed as though lit from within.
The closer we came, the more the city revealed itself, unfolding like a sacred tapestry. A wide moat of steaming quagmire circled the entire outer wall, releasing thin ribbons of mist that curled into the sky like breathing dragons. The scent of minerals and heat clung to the air. It looked natural, protective, but also quietly ominous. A massive drawbridge spanned the moat at the main gate, its stone slats reinforced with metal and etched with old warding sigils.
The outer gates loomed ahead, flanked by colossal pillars carved with the sigils of the dragon god. Above them, ornate banners rippled in the wind, proclaiming the presence of several houses. The House of the Icelands, Darryck's, and Hoerst’s were among several others. The gathering of vissigroths had already begun. Myccael must have issued the summons before leaving camp.
White stone buildings with turquoise-tiled roofs gleamed in the fading light. Walkways were lined with flutes of glowing glass, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. I caught glimpses of children darting between columns, their laughter echoing, and elders seated beneath arched pavilions, watching the road with quiet, knowing eyes.
“I’ve never seen a city like this,” I said quietly.
“Because there isn’t one,” Oksana said. “Bantahar wasn’t just built. It was forged.”
“And now,” Thalia added, her hand brushing mine, “you’re coming home to it.”
We crossed the drawbridge slowly, and the nictas’ hooves echoed against the stone, rhythmic and grounding. Steam from the moat curled upward in delicate threads, casting ghostly wisps into the cooling air. The gates of Bantahar stood tall before us, colossal, immovable, yet somehow welcoming, as though they'd been waiting all this time to open just for me.
As we passed beneath the archway, people began to appear, first in ones and twos along the glowing walkways, then dozens more, spilling out onto the stepped terraces and balconies. Heads turned. Voices hushed. A wave of awareness swept the crowd like wind through a field.
Whispers floated through the air.
“Is it really her?”
“It can’t be…”
“Vissy Daphne.”
The first voice spoke my name in disbelief.
The second in wonder.
The third—louder—rang out with certainty.
“Vissy Daphne!”
And then came a surge. Voices lifted in unison, calling my name over and over, a chant rising with impossible speed. It wasn’t rehearsed, but it was powerful. The city remembered.
“Vissy Daphne!”
They were cheering. Forme.
I reeled under the weight of it: joy, disbelief, grief, awe. My chest ached with it, as if my body didn’t know how to contain this kind of welcome. It felt too big. Too sacred. Too real.
A figure emerged beside me. I didn’t need to look to know it was him: Mallack.
He rode up quietly, regal and steady, the way only he could be when everything around us was trembling with emotion. His mount slowed to match mine, and without hesitation, he stretched out his hand. I reached back for it.
His fingers wrapped around mine with familiar strength, warm and reassuring. Our palms met like puzzle pieces that had been waiting too long to be whole.
“They’re welcoming you home, my vissy,” he said, his voice low, raw, proud.
I turned my head and met his gaze. His smile was quiet but radiant, carved from devotion and battle and something eternal. The kind of smile that only came from surviving the impossible.
All around us, people gathered, children sat on shoulders, elders with their hands clasped to their chests, warriors standing at attention but blinking back tears. Banners waved, drums began to beat in the deeper layers of the city, and still the chorus rose.
“Vissy Daphne.”
The chorus rose again, louder, swelling like a wave rolling through the city’s bones. I scanned the crowd beyond the gates, and there, standing atop the marble stairs that led to the palace, stood several vissigroths. Next to one of them stood a stunning human seffy, who smiled benignly at me. Mallack squeezed my hand, as if sensing I was getting overwhelmed.
"Vissy Daphne, it's an honor to see you again," another vissigroth said, the first to approach me.
