The City of Cities stretched beneath Krungus like a fractured mosaic, its veins clogged with debris and its arteries dry.

  He floated above the city, his white robes billowing as he surveyed the mess. Roads choked with rubble. Canals stagnant and clouded with algae. Bridges snapped like brittle bones. The damage wasn’t just surface-deep—it ran through the city’s very skeleton. He squinted through his circular gold glasses, their red lenses filtering out the swirling dust.

  With a flick of his wrist, glowing runes spiraled outward, forming a complex blueprint of the district in midair. The map focused on a single sector—its fractured bridges, clogged canals, and broken streets outlined in glowing red. Krungus hovered in the silence, his fingers dancing through the layered schematics, adjusting flow routes and realigning pathways. He could only handle one district at a time—the city's sheer scale made any broader view impossible.

  “First the bridges,” Krungus muttered. “No city without flow.”

  He snapped his fingers. A shattered stone arch groaned as it reassembled itself, jagged fragments flying together until it stood whole. Another gesture, and the algae-choked canals stirred, water rising and coursing through channels that hadn’t flowed in centuries. The sound of it—the rush of water, the groan of iron gates turning—sent a small ripple of satisfaction through him.

  This was what he understood. Systems. Foundations. Get the bones right, and the city would move again.

  “Krungus! You’re building over the old paths!”

  His concentration wavered as Utopianna’s voice drifted up from the ground below. She stood in the remains of a crumbling square, sunlight catching the floral print of her robes. Her long, blonde hair shimmered as she waved her staff in exasperation.

  He descended in a slow spiral, landing beside her, boots clinking against freshly laid stone.

  “This was a communal market,” she said, pointing at the bridge he’d just raised. “You just dropped a transport route right through it.”

  Krungus pushed his red-lensed glasses up his nose. “It’s the most efficient crossing. The market can move.”

  Utopianna shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her. “People don’t just move, Krungus. Cities aren’t machines. They grow—organically.”

  “They rot organically too,” he shot back, gesturing to the decay around them. “You can’t leave it to chance. Structure brings order. Flow. Stability.”

  She tilted her head, studying him. “And heart? Where does that fit in your grand design?”

  Krungus opened his mouth, then paused. His blueprint hovered above them, cold and precise—a map of bones with no blood.

  Before he could answer, the sound of children’s laughter echoed through the square. They’d emerged from nearby ruins, darting across the freshly rebuilt bridge, chalking wild shapes onto its stone. A fruit vendor had already set up near one end, his cart parked stubbornly in the shadow of Krungus’s perfect arch.

  Utopianna smiled. “They’re finding their way, even if you won’t make space for them.”

  Krungus grunted but didn’t dismiss the thought. Instead, he made a small adjustment to the floating blueprint, widening the bridge’s base and carving out alcoves where merchants could set up stalls.

  “Better?” he asked, not quite looking at her.

  Utopianna’s smile faltered, her gaze shifting to the widened base of the bridge. “It’s a start,” she replied, though her voice carried a note of hesitation. “But you’re still thinking about how people move through the city—not how they live in it.”

  Krungus frowned, the blueprint still hovering before him. “It’s practical. They’ll adapt. People always do.”

  “Adaptation isn’t the same as belonging,” Utopianna countered, her tone calm but firm. “You’re building pathways, Krungus, but you’re not leaving space for roots to grow.”

  He crossed his arms. “A city doesn’t need roots—it needs flow. Movement. Efficiency. If it stalls, it dies.”

  Utopianna gestured to the nearby children, now using the alcoves as makeshift stages for impromptu games. “And what about stillness? Joy? Places where people can exist without having to be useful?”

  Krungus huffed, but there was no real anger in it. “You want gardens where I’m planting roads.”

  “And you want a map where there should be a story.”

  They locked eyes for a long moment, respect simmering beneath the disagreement, neither willing to yield.

  “Fine,” Krungus finally muttered. “But the bridge stays.”

  “Of course,” Utopianna said softly. “But so does the market.”

  They moved on to the next district—this one a maze of half-collapsed towers and sunken streets, its waterways clogged with debris. Krungus barely waited for Utopianna to catch up before lifting into the air, his robes flaring out as he summoned another floating schematic.

  “Still thinking about the ‘soul’ of the city?” Utopianna called up, her voice dry but not unkind.

  “Thinking about getting this district operational before it sinks into the canals,” Krungus replied, his hands already moving in deliberate patterns, the blueprint shimmering before him.

  Stone beams levitated from the rubble, twisting midair as they reformed into support columns. Roads realigned themselves, snapping into new configurations. The canal gates opened with a thunderous groan, water flowing once more.

  Utopianna reached the street just as a new aqueduct arched overhead. “You’re ignoring everything we just talked about,” she said flatly.

  “I’m applying it,” Krungus countered. “I made the walkways wider.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “So they can march through faster?”

  Krungus didn’t answer, focusing instead on pulling a collapsed bridge out of the water with a twist of his hand. The stone rose, dripping and blackened, reshaping itself midair.

  “Krungus,” Utopianna tried again, “people don’t want to live in a city that feels like a conveyor belt.”

  He snorted. “They want to live in a city that works. This one hasn’t in centuries.”

  They stood at a standoff again—two visions of the city clashing, neither yielding. Krungus’s lines were straight and strong; Utopianna’s vision was curved, human, unpredictable.

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  “Maybe one day you’ll see it,” she murmured.

  “Maybe one day you’ll thank me when the city doesn’t collapse into its own filth,” he retorted.

  But even as he spoke, he adjusted the bridge's supports to create tiered ledges along its sides—flat stone terraces where rainwater could pool and feed into small garden beds. The design wasn't intended for beauty, but practicality—to prevent waterlogging in the lower streets. Still, the wide ledges offered natural gathering spots, and it didn’t escape Utopianna’s notice that they’d make perfect spaces for community gardens or open-air seating.

  Utopianna said nothing, understanding her old friend with a wisdom no one else understood.

  As the dust settled from Krungus’s last spell, Utopianna took a long, considering breath. “Krungus,” she said softly, “come sit with me.”

  He blinked at her, halfway through weaving another sigil. “What? There’s still work—”

  “Exactly.” She pointed toward a nearby rooftop. “If you keep moving forward without watching what you’ve built, how will you know if it works?”

  Reluctantly, Krungus allowed the glowing runes to dissipate, floating down to the rooftop. Utopianna was already there, unwrapping a simple meal from her satchel—bread, fruit, and a flask of cool water.

  She passed him a chunk of bread. “We’re going to watch. No fixing. No building. Just... observe.”

  Krungus muttered something about wasted time but sat beside her, tearing off a piece of bread. They sat in silence, looking over the newly rebuilt district.

  At first, there was nothing. Then, slowly, people emerged—families, traders, children—and began using the space.

  Krungus stiffened as he watched. “They’re not following the routes,” he muttered in disbelief.

  Sure enough, people avoided the grand central walkways he had constructed, instead cutting across green patches, gathering beneath the aqueduct arches, and setting up markets in places he hadn’t intended. The wide thoroughfares stood mostly empty, while small courtyards—unintentionally created by the angles of his bridges—buzzed with life.

  “They’re using it wrong,” he said, almost horrified.

  “They’re using it their way,” Utopianna corrected, smiling. “You built the bones, Krungus. But the city’s heart belongs to them.”

  He sat in grumpy silence, chewing his bread, his mind racing to analyze what he’d seen. He hated how much sense it made.

  “I could still adjust the paths,” he grumbled.

  Utopianna’s laughter was soft. “Or you could let them show you what they need.”

  Krungus didn’t respond—but he didn’t leave, either. He sat in brooding silence, eyes narrowing as the district buzzed in ways he hadn’t planned. After a long moment, he muttered, “None of them remember I built this place 9,000 years ago. Not a single soul.”

  Utopianna glanced at him, her smile softening. “You didn’t build it so they’d remember you.”

  “Then why am I doing it again?” Krungus’s voice was low, almost bitter. “They’ll forget all this in another age. The bridges, the canals, the teleport hubs—they’ll use them, change them, until there’s nothing left of what I made.”

  She let the silence stretch before answering. “Because cities aren’t monuments, Krungus. They’re alive. They change, they grow, and yes, they forget. But that doesn’t make them any less worth building.”

  He chewed on that, the lines in his weathered face deepening. “Feels hollow, sometimes.”

  Utopianna tilted her head toward the square below, where children played near the canal’s edge, turning the tiered ledges into impromptu slides. “Look at them. You didn’t build for statues or names etched in stone. You built for them—even if they never know it.”

  Krungus exhaled slowly, his irritation ebbing into resignation. “You always were better at this ‘heart’ thing.”

  She chuckled. “And you’ve always been better at building bones. We need both, Krungus. The city needs both.”

  He didn’t say anything more, but his hand drifted over the floating blueprint once more—not to change it, but to watch it breathe.

  The next morning, Krungus and Utopianna found themselves standing before a vast, empty expanse in the heart of the city—a scar left by a collapsed district, now nothing more than broken stone and open sky. It was a rare thing in the City of Cities: space. Untouched. Ready.

  Krungus rubbed his beard thoughtfully, the gears in his mind already spinning. “Could turn this into a central hub. High-capacity defensive nodes, maybe tiered walkways for faster foot traffic—”

  “Krungus,” Utopianna interrupted gently, “what if you didn’t plan this one?”

  He blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Let me show you what I see. No blueprints. No flow charts. Just... trust me.”

  He hesitated. Every instinct screamed against it—but he sighed deeply. “Fine. But if they turn it into another food market, or heavens forbid a craft store, I’m rebuilding it.”

  She smiled warmly. “Deal.”

  Utopianna stepped into the center of the space, closing her eyes as a soft wind stirred her floral robes. She raised her staff, and vines coiled from the cracks in the stone, spiraling upward. Trees bloomed, creating natural canopies, and flowers spread in vibrant bursts, softening the harsh edges of the ruin. Water pooled into shallow streams, flowing freely through the space.

  Then she turned to Krungus. “The stone’s yours,” she said, a gentle invitation.

  Krungus exhaled deeply and lifted his hands. With precise gestures, he shaped stone terraces, their lines both strong and curved, supporting the flowing streams. He carved seating in concentric circles, rising like the ribs of an amphitheater, and reinforced the pathways, ensuring the space could hold both weight and time.

  Together, their work melded—his solid foundation cradling her organic flourishes—until the space felt alive yet grounded, orderly yet wild.

  Krungus, despite himself, watched in fascination. “You’re still using the natural slope of the land. That’ll help with drainage,” he muttered.

  Utopianna laughed. “I knew you’d notice.”

  He couldn’t help but tweak the layout—strengthening the terraces with subtle supports, adding faint sigils beneath the ground to ensure the streams wouldn’t overflow in heavy rains. But he didn’t overbuild. Not this time.

  When they were done, the space was neither his nor hers—it was both. Structured, but wild. Efficient, but human.

  They stood at the edge, watching as people slowly filled the space. Some sat quietly beneath the trees, others tested the curved terraces for their echoes, children played in the shallow streams.

  Krungus folded his arms, a rare, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s... not terrible.”

  Utopianna grinned. “High praise.”

  He chuckled, the sound deep and rusty from disuse. “You were right. This... this feels like a city.”

  They stood together in companionable silence, the city growing—at last—around them both.

  Later, as the afternoon sun dipped low, Krungus and Utopianna sat side by side within the garden they had built. The sounds of the city drifted around them—laughter, the soft rush of water, the low hum of life returning. The amphitheater terraces were dotted with people, some resting, others talking in small groups, children running along the shallow streams.

  Krungus sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap, his circular gold glasses catching the light as he stared at nothing in particular. His beard twitched as he opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  Utopianna didn’t look at him. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I—yeah. I just... I haven’t talked about it. My imprisonment. Nine thousand years in that damned box.”

  He expected her to encourage him. Instead, Utopianna gave him a knowing smile and cut him off gently. “I know what you’re going to say. I know who you’re going to blame.”

  Krungus stiffened. “How?”

  She tilted her head, her long blonde curls falling over one shoulder. “Krungus. What kind of witch do you think I am?”

  He frowned. “You’re a diviner.”

  “Exactly.” Her voice was soft, but there was a weight behind it. “Few things remain hidden from me, especially those that matter.”

  Krungus blinked, the realization settling in. “You know what happened to me.”

  “I know enough,” she admitted. “I know who did it. I’ve known since before you even said a word.”

  His throat worked, emotions catching somewhere deep. “Then why—why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because you needed to come to it yourself. To ask.”

  He sat in silence, the weight of nine thousand years pressing down on him. “And? Was I wrong to blame him?”

  Utopianna’s gaze softened further, a glint of something like pride in her eyes. “You weren’t wrong, Krungus. You were right all along. You were the good one.”

  The words hit harder than he expected. His jaw clenched as a strange tightness filled his chest, something that felt too much like relief.

  “But it still happened,” he muttered.

  “And you’re still here,” she countered. “You survived. You’re rebuilding. That says more about you than what anyone else did.”

  For once, Krungus didn’t have a retort. He just sat there, the city stretching around them—living, breathing—until finally, he muttered, “Too many birds.”

  Utopianna’s laugh echoed lightly through the garden, warm and full.