CONTINUING through the passage, Yūrmatṛtha put his hands upon the inscriptions that lined the wall and muttered under his breath. They looked to have been carved during the time the passage had been hewn, with many possessing large cracked marks, but a few did happen to look younger, with their carvings still smooth upon the worn surface.

“Say prince, what do these inscriptions relate?” asked Nakthaḥm.

Yūrmatṛtha lined his hands over the wall in a spiral and prayed. “These relate a religious history of our people. In my youth, I would often venture here with many others to learn of its meaning. As we do not have any Servants here, the task fell onto the most learned to teach us, which included my father.”

He directed his finger above. “Inscriptions also line the ceiling, though they are faint. Learning those was much more difficult for the younger of us, for we had to hang ourselves from there and read it upside down. I can still remember the blood rushing to my head, causing me to fall many times!

“Though I do not think the content would much interest any of you; for it describes our animosity toward the Gods above and our reverence for the Mother below, interspersing bits and pieces of our history between. I no doubt think my father summarized to you a good bit of that history, as he often does to newcomers.”

“Ah! so that was planned from the beginning,” laughed Nakthaḥm, as Iḷēhaḥ sighed.

The prince looked forward, and said, “Look, we are close to the end!”.

A speck of light appeared in their view, and they hastened toward it. Passing through the blinding light, they came upon a vast area where clouds roamed the sky, and a great light, as if from a sun, basked the whole of the space. Being bathed in that light, they moved further in, until they stood upon the edge of the stone path and beheld a great city with buildings lined across all sides, some stretching upon massive cragged pillars that journeyed higher than they thought possible. Seven great statues of what looked to be ascetics or sages, cracked and held aloft in the sky, standing as watchers of that beautiful but ruined realm. And curiously, there were also large trees and other such foliage growing all about as well, their roots firmly dug into the stone.

Yūrmatṛtha then held his arms apart and, in a loud voice, said, “Welcome, friends, to the last hall! The grand city of the Gazhigam, Hadeṇvashrahthya: The Kingdom of Delight!”

They took the downward path into the city and passed through a large arch into the northwestern section. The buildings, as expected, were ruined, crumbled and greatly worn, yet the many domed and cylindrical edifices reminded them much of the towns and cities above. Even the streets themselves had the same concentric plotting, but unlike on the surface, many trees and foliage dotted the subsections. It was also quite humid, with drops falling from the sky and the statues above like drizzle, as if they were lamenting the fall of their ruined land. From what Yūrmatṛtha had related to them, this was all that remained of the city that rested in the Hadeṇvarhteka. It was brought low below the surface by their forefathers, who sacrificed themselves in the flames to save what little of their city was left.

The seven that held aloft were part of an order of ascetics, comprising a multitude of Ṃārhaḥn, whether of the Mānuzhhaḥ or the lesser Daivhaḥhō, whom were tasked to always protect Khāryaḥ, even at the cost of their lives. But after the burning of the forest, the Gazhigam of that order seemingly vanished, not having taken to the stars or come below. Yūrmatṛtha surmised that those seven statues were all that was left of them, but his voice held doubt when he mentioned it. Perhaps there was more to be said on the matter, but for that time it remain unanswered.

If this city was only just a small part of an old kingdom, great and vast must have been this domain in the Era of Foundation! But while the city felt familiar and reminiscent, it was also eerie and unwelcoming. The dead silence, the lack of an echo, the floating ash, and the stillness of the air chilled many in the group, especially Tūmbṃār.

He could feel malice in the space and knew that soon he would have to face the specters once more. And the thought of it brought dread. This time, he would not have Athizhska beside him. While his friends would bring him comfort, he felt they had not the power to calm the fear within him. If ever there was a time he wished for help from that deathly being, it would be now. But for long had he remained silent, and no trace of its presence Tūmbṃār could feel.

Perhaps it was part of his testing Tūmbṃār, but the words he spoke of last, of Tūmbṃār’s awakening, made little sense to him. Did he mean to awaken Tūmbṃār in the same way many of the great figures of the past had been so? Druzāsh, Levāñyhaḥ, and Lūshhaḥ: they were so much different from him, and he felt he could not hope to even reach the smallest bit of their stature and no less so because of his height. He now stood only just a few inches lower than Iḷēhaḥ, but he would have a long way to go to reach anywhere close to the stature of either Nakthaḥm or Sanyhaḥmān, supposing it was even possible for him.

Reaching the center of the city of where stood a tall but worn stone Fiyukthi, they dropped their belongings and rested. Hvesykhiḥ lit the Fiyukthi and blazed the flames. Unlike before, she did not coil around it but instead seemed to bow, arching her head down with her eyes closed and her hood fanned. She hissed three times before falling to sleep beside the wolf, who was drenched with sweat from the humidity.

While the other rested, Tūmbṃār decided to explore, and took Yūrmatṛtha with him.

As they walked about, seeing the many empty houses, Tūmbṃār asked, “You said your people had to abandon this place, but other than the wetness, this place seems really pleasant.”

Yūrmatṛtha beckoned him to come over, as he rubbed his hands across the buildings and ground. Showing his fingers to Tūmbṃār, the boy could see ash in between them, white and coarse.