“In the heart of the world, the Gordean Belt ascends,

  A verdant divide, where earth with heaven blends.

  Where four Tetrarchs in eternal slumber dwell,

  Beneath the jungle’s canopy, where secrets swell.

  Kel, where faith’s iron grip never yields,

  Guards divine order in its sacred fields.

  Imra blazes with progress, burning bright,

  Its engines of commerce humming day and night.

  Lhasa, the golden, in majesty does bask,

  A cultural oasis, in discipline’s grand mask.

  Maht, city of marble, where towers pierce wisdom’s height,

  Where scholars chase secrets through endless night.

  The Gordean Belt, a story of unity and strife,

  A reflection of nature, a mirror to life.

  Four cities stand fast, their flags unfurled,

  In this green ribbon encircling the world.”

  – Fintale, Our World in Words

  A blanket lay over Kel as clouds obscured the stars and moon, filtering their cold light into an ominous pall. On the dimly-lit cobblestone streets below, a lone figure hurried through the Zelphar Quarters, shoulders hunched.

  Like a leaf in the wind, Omvar’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and strategies as he passed a loudly yowling cat. How best to expose this conspiracy? Not the first time that he asked himself that question. Going to the authorities was no option—they were likely just as corrupt as Leftos and Lavelle. But what if he could find someone that he could trust? Maybe someone in the Ministry, a colleague? He grimly thought back to those clinking glasses and celebrations. No, out of the question.

  Publicly accusing highly ranked Delegates without concrete proof would only discredit him, possibly even get him killed if he annoyed Kel’s gods too much. No, he had to be smart about this.

  Maybe he could leak some of his evidence to the public instead, make it appear as if it was discovered accidentally? Omvar liked the idea. But he would need more proof for that, something so damning that the whole affair simply could not be ignored. Something that left no doubt whatsoever. Maybe he could break into Lavelle’s office? From what he heard, the woman traveled an awful lot. There might be an opportunity.

  Lost in thought, Omvar did not even notice the shadows that quietly detached themselves from a nearby alley. Three figures swiftly advanced, their footfalls muffled on the deserted street. For the briefest moment, Omvar felt the hairs on his neck prickle, felt the creeping sense that he was not alone. But before he could react, a rough burlap sack was thrown over his head. Darkness everywhere.

  Omvar cried out in alarm, immediately trying to wrench himself free. But multiple sets of—unfortunately strong—hands grasped him firmly. With a sudden absurd intensity, he regretted skipping exercising a few times too often. He thrashed violently—even landed a few wild blows that rewarded him with grunts from his assailants—but it was futile. The men were simply too strong in their unrelenting grip as they wrestled his arms behind his back and bound them tightly with palm fiber rope.

  “What are you doing?” Omvar yelled, while continued to buck futilely. “Unhand me immediately!”

  Low chuckles answered as he was dragged along, unable to see where they were taking him. The cobblestones scraped against his knees each time he stumbled. Their rough edges were certain to leave cuts and bruises. Omvar hoped that he would have opportunity to care about this.

  After what seemed like an eternity of being hauled through twisting back alleys, they came to an abrupt stop. Omvar felt the protesting creak of old hinges more than he heard them. Then he was shoved forward. His feet caught on what felt like steps and he fell to his knees with a pained grunt—he could barely prevent his upper body from joining in and crash face-first into the wooden floor. Behind him, the door slammed shut with an ominous finality.

  Rough hands hauled Omvar into a chair with brusque efficiency, the fibers of the coarse ropes biting into his wrists. Finally, the sack was ripped from his head. He blinked against the sudden brightness as his eyes struggled to adjust.

  He was in a spacious, gloomy office, illuminated only by a few guttering candles. Sun-crested sabers hung above a painting. Looked like an army invading a beach crawling with dark shapes, a jungle in the background. Before Omvar stood an imposing desk of polished ebony, and behind it... Leftos.

  “Omvar!” The Delegate studied him with an inscrutable smile. “What a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the honor?”

  Omvar’s shock quickly turned to anger. “You know damn well why I’m here,” he retorted through gritted teeth. “Your cronies here ambushed me in the street!”

  “Don’t take it personal,” Leftos waved a hand airily. “Regrettable, but necessary. We couldn’t risk you... making a scene.” His smile turned cold, all pretense gone. “I believe you and I need to have a little chat. You’ve seemed... troubled lately,” he noted as he swirled a goblet of palm wine. “I do hope you’re not spreading any disruptive rumors. Traumatized people have the wildest notions, sometimes.”

  Omvar’s pulse raced, but he refused to show any fear. Somehow, he got the impression that Leftos was one of those people who could smell fear, would tear into it at the first glimpse. “I’ve got nothing to say to you, snake.” Truth be told, he was kind of amazed at how he was speaking to a Delegate. Probably would not have dared to do so earlier this year. But he was past caring now.

  Leftos, evidently, was not. He suddenly slammed down his fist, his veneer of civility cracking. “Enough with the games! I know you’ve been looking into matters that are better left buried.” He rose, blotting out the painting. It now almost looked like the sabers protruded from his shoulders. Strange image. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

  A chill ran down Omvar’s spine, but he held Leftos’ icy stare defiantly. Enough with the games alright. “I’m getting to the truth about Ravena’s murder. Yes, you’ve heard that right, Leftos. And no, you won’t silence me that easily.”

  Leftos’ laughter echoed through the room.

  A chilling sound, hammering home Omvar’s helplessness, even if his wrists were not bound. “Such arrogance,” Kel’s Delegate said. “Have you learned nothing from her… unfortunate accident?” He leaned over the desk, eyes glinting cruelly. “Omvar. The official story is the only one that matters. And you’d do well to remember that.”

  It was Omvar’s turn to let out a bitter, sardonic laugh. His eyes—had they really been full of life once?—looked weary in the mirror to Leftos’ side. “Silence me?” he repeated mockingly. “Leftos, do you really think I’m afraid of dying? That I’m afraid of you?” His voice dropped, but his eyes stayed fixed on the Delegate. “Look at me. I’ve got nothing left to lose. Why should I care?”

  For a moment, Omvar could almost see a flicker of surprise in Leftos’ eyes. Yet it was so quickly replaced by cold indifference that he almost doubted whether he had imagined it. Almost.

  Good. Let him see how it was when people did not immediately bow and scrape at every one of his words. He wanted Leftos to know that he was not scared. That he was willing to do whatever it would take to expose the truth. He could not care less about his own life—his last spark of meaning had been ruthlessly murdered together with Ravena. The least he could do now was to ensure she received the justice she deserved.

  So, instead of backing down, Omvar strained against his bindings and growled. “What if people heard my truth, Leftos? Do you think they’d still prefer your official story?” His eyes, hardened with resolution, bore into Leftos, as if daring the Delegate to threaten him again.

  “And who will believe you?” Leftos clicked his tongue as if scolding a child. “The ramblings of a delusional clerk against a Delegate of the Tetrarchy? Please.”

  Pausing, Leftos looked at Omvar, considering him like a particularly vexing stain on his carpet. “For your sake, Omvar, I do hope you understand the gravity of your position. I’d hate to see your friends affected by your recklessness. Like... what was his name again…” Leftos pretended to think for a moment, brows furrowed. “Ah, that’s right! Orhan, for example.” He looked suggestively at Omvar as the name of his friend hung in the air. “Brilliant historian, isn’t he? Light of his generation, some would say. Would really be a shame for Kel if something happened to him.”

  A cold chill sliced through Omvar, much harsher than any physical blow could have been. Orhan. In his gut, a ball of dread formed, heavy and gnawing. Seemed like maybe he was not past caring about everything after all. That infuriating, incorrigible, abstracted man, sitting in his library. It felt to Omvar as if he was sinking, his body becoming numb. He thought of Kel losing its kindest soul, imagined Orhan’s sightless eyes as he lay dead on his office floor, books strewn about. No. He had already lost Ravena. He could not—would not—lose Orhan as well.

  With effort, Omvar reined in his rising panic and schooled his features in an expression of studied neutrality. He would not give this excuse for a man the satisfaction of seeing any fear on his face. “Is that a threat, Leftos?” he asked instead, voice surprisingly steady.

  Leftos simply smiled as his eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “Consider it a friendly warning,” he replied with a casual shrug. “Stay within your limits, Omvar. That’s all. For your sake and your friend’s.”

  Then he straightened and smoothed his saffron yellow vest. “Well, this has been a truly enlightening chat. My associates will escort you out shortly.” His smile never reached his eyes. “I trust we understand each other now?”

  Omvar gritted his teeth and glared venomously. Leftos held all the power here. Nothing to be gained from playing the hero. “For now,” he bit out.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Leftos studied him a moment longer before he nodded, apparently satisfied. Then he clapped once, and the brutes who had kidnapped Omvar entered again. They hauled him from the chair, cut his bindings, and roughly escorted him out a back door, before dumping him in a deserted side street.

  Omvar watched them leave as he massaged his abraded wrists.

  Just like that. Things like this could apparently now happen to him. On any day, at any time. To him, or…

  A sudden thought came to him. Or, rather, a memory. Not too long ago. After Omvar had stormed out of Orhan’s office, definitely. Probably just a few days after that. Profuse apologies and far too wise comments had been exchanged, and the two of them had sat again at their favorite table in the café, in the shade of the large rosewood tree.

  “If you truly want to stop them, you need to lay low and think hard. Hide and prepare, my friend.” Orhan’s eyes crinkled at the corners, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “As Avila once said, ‘In the cloak of obscurity, the keenest blades are sharpened.’”

  Omvar rolled his eyes when Orhan looked down on his cup. “Or maybe I can’t,” he said in response. “Maybe I simply won’t find the evidence, won’t find a way to use it. Maybe I just take what I have, go to the marketplace, and scream it out at the top of my lungs. Damn all that follows, maybe someone believes it.” His retort was biting but, truth be told, half-hearted. The thought of running away—hiding—just did not sit well with him. But neither did the idea of a fruitless last stand. As much as he yearned to shout the truth from the rooftops, he knew it would likely lead to nothing more than his swift, and rather unpleasant, death.

  “You sell yourself short, Omvar,” Orhan chided gently. “Your mind is sharper than most. I’ve always said that, right from the beginning. If anyone can find a way through this, it’s you.”

  Omvar looked away, letting the crease between his brows deepen. “Even if I did hide, where would I go? I don’t think anywhere in Kel would be beyond their reach.”

  Orhan’s eyes lit up. “What about beyond Kel then?” Seeing Omvar’s baffled look, he continued eagerly. “I happen to know that the University of Maht is seeking a visiting scholar to lecture on religious theory. What better candidate than a senior practician? A perfect cover!”

  Omvar stared, dumbfounded. “Maht? But that’s clear across the Belt!” He shook his head. “I can’t just run away. My work is here.”

  Orhan reached out and grasped Omvar’s shoulder. “Your work can continue wherever you are, my friend. But not if you remain here at the viper’s mercy.” His eyes were pleading. “Promise me you’ll at least consider it.”

  “Fine,” Omvar met his earnest gaze with some difficulty and nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it. But I make no guarantees.”

  Orhan smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

  Of course, he had not really thought about it since then. Been far too busy plotting against his government. Which did not sound so good when he framed it that way, Omvar realized. Hmm. ‘Liberating Kel from corruption?’ No… that had been the slogan of that radicalist group a few years back, who wanted everyone to worship the sky and the sea, giving power back to humans. Funny, how backward people had it sometimes. Giving power to humans was exactly the point of Delegates and Elevated.

  Discarding his thoughts, Omvar collected himself in the back alley and reached a decision. Still shaken from his encounter with Leftos, he made his way through the darkened streets of the Zelphar Quarters. Toward Orhan’s home. He needed an ally. Now more than ever.

  As he approached the familiar townhouse, Omvar slipped down a side alley and tossed a pebble at the second story window—their secret signal. Moments later, a candle flickered in the window and Orhan’s face appeared. So he was still awake—of course. Seeing Omvar’s haggard expression below, Orhan waved and hurried downstairs to usher him inside.

  Omvar bypassed any formalities. “I’m in, Orhan,” he blurted out. “Let’s get this started. Let’s get me out of this city.”

  Slowly nodding—taking it all in—Orhan squeezed his shoulder and gestured for Omvar to step inside.

  Once he was settled in Orhan’s study, with a steaming mug of scarlet mangrove infusion cradled in his hands, a semblance of comfort returned to Omvar. He recounted his conversation with Leftos to his friend, careful to leave out any reference to Leftos’ threats regarding Orhan. No need to worry the man. The old man listened intently, face growing more tense as the story progressed.

  “So, Leftos is growing bolder,” Orhan said once Omvar had finished. “He sees you as a threat now. Not a good position to be in, my friend.”

  Omvar raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m trapped, Orhan. He’ll be watching my every move now.” He met his friend’s eyes. “It’s only a matter of time before I become a liability to them. I can’t deny it any longer. I’m afraid my days in Kel are numbered.”

  “I see.” Orhan leaned forward with a sober expression. “Then you know what must be done.”

  Omvar exhaled slowly. Just a few weeks ago, mere thoughts about decisions like this would have made him deeply uncomfortable. But Leftos and his threats had made the choice clear. Had practically made the choice for him. It was time.

  “Yes. I’ll accept that position in Maht,” he said quietly. “Will you help me?”

  Orhan grasped Omvar’s hands, relief flooding his face. “Of course, my friend.” The man suddenly looked ten years younger. Orhan thumped his armrest. “In fact, we’ll start preparations tonight.”

  Omvar managed a weak smile. “Thank you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

  “By staying alive,” Orhan said firmly. “That’s all I ask. That, and maybe the occasional correspondence from Maht about any new discoveries there. I hear they do great research on pre-Selvian natural belief systems. All a bit on the heretical side, I’m told, but as long as it stays purely academic…”

  “Done,” Omvar snorted and leaned back in his chair. “So, what if they don’t want me? If they choose someone else for the position?”

  “I have connections at the university,” Orhan explained, waving his concerns aside. “Old friends who owe me favors. I trust them. A letter is all this is going to take. No need to worry.”

  Omvar nodded and took a deep breath, trying to push aside his anxieties. “Alright,” he murmured, more to himself than to Orhan. “Alright. I can do this.” Still absentminded, he clinked his cup against Orhan’s and they began to work.

  The ensuing weeks dissolved into a whirlwind of frenzied preparations and hushed conversations. Writing Omvar’s application, arranging for a leave of absence at the Ministry, even planning his journey to far-away Maht. All while acting completely innocent, in case Leftos was watching. Omvar found himself to be almost a bystander, observing his life shift around him as Orhan pulled strings and leveraged connections. His decision had been made. There was no going back now.

  One evening—a few weeks after their initial decision—Orhan rushed into the café with an excited gleam in his eyes. “It’s done,” he announced and slid into the seat across from Omvar.

  Omvar looked up from his lemonroot tea and felt his pulse quicken. “Done?” he echoed. The finality of the word hit him hard.

  “I’ve received a letter,” Orhan nodded, his face alight with triumph. “The University of Maht is eager to welcome you as their newest research scholar. They seem quite intrigued by your Belief Allocation Matrix. My friends there view matching individual belief systems and spiritual inclinations to potential Elevated to be a truly revolutionary concept and would be honored to have you lecture about it in Maht.”

  A few moments passed in silence as Omvar processed the news. It was one thing to mentally prepare for the journey, prepare to leave everything he knew behind as he traveled to the other end of the Belt. It was another to know it would become reality now. Slowly, he nodded, his vision swimming a little. Probably just the pollen from that damn rosewood tree.

  And the whirlwind of action continued for a few more days.

  Omvar spent his time packing and selling off belongings that he could not take with him. A whole life, boiled down to just a few bags. He did not know whether to rejoice or cry. Then he took some time to say goodbye to the city he grew up in. Kel. Sizzling bananas in the winding streets of the Lower Mervian District. Painstakingly maintained public gardens in Ebonshade. The towering spires of the Ministry, of course, so proudly displaying Kel’s sun. Each familiar sight, always taken for granted, now held a different meaning. These were the parts of his life he would be leaving behind. Perhaps forever.

  And then the day came, almost as a surprise. An afterthought to burying a life.

  On the day of his departure, as the sun began to climb the sky, Omvar found himself standing on the edge of Kel’s bustling docks. Orhan at his side. Omvar readied himself to say goodbye to his oldest friend.

  But then Orhan spoke.

  “There’s something I’ve never shared. Not with you, anyway,” he began and his voice carried over the molten brass of the sea. “Many seasons ago, long before I came here to this city, I had a family—a wife and a daughter.” Orhan smiled. The unadulterated love in this simple gesture tore into Omvar’s heart as his mind jogged ahead. “We were happy. Out there in the Tidefalls. Our lives were intertwined like the roots of a mangrove tree.”

  Orhan briefly glanced down. “It didn’t last.” A few words were all it took to express a tragedy as large as a looming war. Omvar’s eyes widened, but Orhan continued. “As is history, fate is often unkind. I lost them both. Shiver fever. Nearly took me too but for some reason I survived, after months of sickness.” He waved a hand, staving off Omvar before he could speak. “Please no. Don’t say anything. I’ve heard all the variations over the years and, while I appreciate the sentiment, this is no longer something that I want to discuss with the outside world. They now have lived more years in my heart than in this world. That changes things.”

  Orhan gripped Omvar’s shoulder. “My point is. I had two choices, after I recovered from that fever. Be broken—burying my entire family—or resist, keeping them alive within me. It took an entire year. Then I came to Kel. This isn’t about choices. I didn’t have one. And, if I did, I know what I would have preferred. No, this is about surviving. Survive, Omvar. That’s all I’m really asking of you.”

  Omvar swallowed hard, unsure what—whether—to speak. It was as if he saw his friend as a completely new person. No, scratch that. He had always been that person, it was just Omvar who never bothered to get to know him. Really know him. A burning redness spread on Omvar’s face.

  Undeterred, Orhan produced a small, worn-out book from his doublet and held it out. “Take this,” he said, voice a little bit hoarse. “It belonged to my father. It contains detailed maps and notes of the Tetrarchy cities. Might be useful to you now.”

  Omvar accepted the book, his fingers brushing against Orhan’s. He opened it and was greeted by a detailed sketches of a city dotted with spires. Notes scribbled into the margins pointed to one after another. A whole lifetime of knowledge and exploration crammed into these pages. “I don’t what to say. Thank you, of course.” He briefly paused. Don’t speak, Omvar urged himself, don’t do it. “I don’t mean to sound rude Orhan,” he began, despite himself, “but don’t you think those notes could be a little… out of date? I mean, they’re from your father and you’re quite…” Omvar frantically searched for an appropriate word, “…experienced!” There it was. Great job. At least a nice catch.

  Orhan let out a hearty laugh as his eyes twinkled with mirth. And suddenly everything was like before—a seductive return to normalcy. “Oh, my dear Omvar. I’ll miss you. Always so tactful,” he chuckled and shook his head. “True, my father’s notes are perhaps a bit old. But haven’t you heard? History ages like fine wine. The older, the better the flavor.”

  “Besides,” Orhan leaned back and his gaze suddenly grew distant, “the core of each city—its soul, if you will—remains unchanged. I think you’ll find that these notes will help you navigate not just the streets, but the hearts of the great Tetrarchy cities.”

  With a sly grin, Orhan added, “As for my ‘experience’—sure, age and wisdom are not always proportional. But in my case, they happen to coincide. So, trust this old man and his even older book, Omvar. Who knows, they might just save your life someday.”

  Omvar laughed and felt somewhat unencumbered, for the first time in a very long time. “So, are you ready, Omvar?” Orhan looked at him. A mixture of sadness and worry filled his eyes.

  “Ready as can be. It’s going to be a damn long trip, but I’ll finally see all of the Tetrarchy, so I won’t complain too much. A short ferry ride to Imra, a long overland journey through the Emerald Spires to Lhasa, and then that last hop over the shimmering sea to Maht. Expect to hear from me within a month or two. Or don’t, in which case I’ve at least deprived Leftos of the certainty of having me silenced.”

  “Be careful, my friend,” Orhan urged. “And, when the time is right, you can continue to reveal the truth. Only then can reform truly begin.”

  Omvar nodded and clasped the hand of his friend. “I promise you, the day will come when I can safely expose them and all they did. Until then, you stay safe as well. Kel needs you. And thank you. For everything.”

  With the ferry casting off, Omvar took one last look at the city. This was his home, a place of both pain and joy. Of memories. But he was leaving it behind for something greater, a chance to expose the truth and bring justice to those who deserve it. As much as it pained him, he knew he was making the right choice.

  A swarm of black birds followed his departure as Omvar recalled a part of a poem he heard a long time ago. He could not even remember where. ‘Fastening the Belt,’ it was called. Quite a popular tradition among youths, to travel to all four Tetrarchy cities. How did it go again?

  “From city to city, a pilgrimage divine,

  Fastening the Belt like stars that align.

  Through Kel, Imra, Lhasa, Maht—our paths entwine,

  Where mortal needs and cosmic dreams combine.

  This journey’s end, where it begins anew,

  Each footfall marks time’s silent cue.

  The Belt thus bound, the circle whole,

  In earth’s green heart, our shared world’s goal.”

  Let the first footfall begin then. Omvar gripped the railing and saw his home city of Kel slowly recede on the horizon. Then he turned and set his gaze on the city of Imra, drawing closer with every moment. Ever forward. A corner of his mouth tugged upward.