The Secrets of The Forgotten City - Part 5

The air, thick and heavy with the cloying sweetness of Lumina bloom, pressed down on them like a humid shroud. Days of relentless travel had etched themselves onto Silas's face, deepening the lines around his eyes, dusting his beard with a fine layer of ochre earth. Anya, however, seemed invigorated, her tarnished copper eyes gleaming with an almost feverish intensity. She moved with a newfound purpose, her senses heightened, as if the very ground vibrated with secrets only she could decipher.

They had followed the rusted remnants of a forgotten aqueduct for hours, its skeletal remains snaking through a landscape warped by Lumina’s insidious touch. Twisted metal trees, their branches contorted into grotesque shapes, clawed at the sky. Patches of iridescent moss pulsed with an unnatural light, painting the ground in sickly, shifting hues. Each step brought them deeper into the heart of Aerilon's shadow, a place where the boundary between nature and machine had blurred beyond recognition.

"Wait," Anya said abruptly, halting at a wall of impossibly dense vegetation. Vines thicker than Silas’s torso intertwined, forming an impenetrable barrier that pulsed with a faint, internal light. It looked less like a natural formation and more like the deliberate barricade of a forgotten god.

Silas, slightly out of breath, wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Here being… another patch of overgrown jungle? We’ve seen plenty of those, Gearsong. Enough to fill a botanist’s journal and drive a sane man mad." His voice was laced with weariness, the edge of his patience razor-thin.

Anya ignored his sarcasm, her eyes fixed on the wall of vines. "No. Here... she sleeps." She reached out, her fingers tracing the thick, pulsating veins of the vegetation. They seemed to respond to her touch, glowing brighter beneath her fingertips.

Silas sighed, the sound like air hissing from a punctured bellows. “'She?' Another one of your… personifications? The city, now a she? Is this going to be a recurring theme, Anya? Because if so, I'd rather we turn around now." The last thing he needed was to be led on a wild goose chase by a woman talking to machines.

Anya didn't rise to the bait. "Not person. But… alive. Dormant. Can you not feel it? A great hum beneath the surface?" Her voice was barely a whisper, her gaze lost in some unseen world.

Silas placed his hand on the vines, feeling nothing but dampness and rough texture. The air hung thick and still, broken only by the buzzing drone of mutated insects hidden amongst the metallic flora. “All I feel is damp. And the distinct possibility of venomous snakes. Show me what you found, Anya.” He was a practical man, grounded in the tangible. This talk of sentient cities and sleeping goddesses was wearing thin.

Instead of answering, Anya began pulling at the vines, her movements almost reverent. Tendrils snapped and crumbled in her grasp, revealing a dark opening in the rock face behind them. It was circular, almost perfectly so, and radiated a subtle coolness that chased away the humid air. A tomb was the first word that sprung to his mind, cold and entombed and silent. He shivered.

Silas’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his weathered face. It was a rare crack in his carefully constructed facade. "By the gods…" he breathed, his voice losing its usual cynicism. “A geode. You were right. All this time… you were right." He couldn't deny the tangible evidence before him. It was an admission hard-won.

Anya continued to clear the vines, her movements taking on an almost frantic energy. "They tried to hide her. But she wants to be found," she muttered, more to herself than to Silas. "She yearns.” She put her hand to the stone wall around the entrance, her fingers splayed against the cool surface. He watched as her expression went from reverent to concerned. "It is the city itself, breathing. Can’t you feel it? The pull towards it? It’s calling to me, Silas. To protect it from harm."

Silas dismissed the comments. He could feel nothing but the rough stone wall. He pulled out a small looking glass and examined the stone. "This is sandstone with an artificial construct built around it. No doubt whatever civilization lived here were capable of creating the seamless look. How old do you think it is?"

"It is ancient. And it needs to be protected at all costs," Anya answered.

“Save the poetry, Gearsong. We have a city to breach.” Silas pulled a small crowbar from his bag, testing its weight in his hand. His pragmatic instincts were kicking in, overriding any sense of wonder he might have felt. The geode was an obstacle, a puzzle to be solved.

“No,” Anya said sharply, turning to him, her face etched with concern. “You can't force it. It is far too delicate."

Silas raised an eyebrow, his skepticism returning in full force. “And how else do you propose we enter? Politeness? These gates have been sealed for centuries, Gearsong. I've seen doors that have been through less!"

Anya took a step closer to the gate, her hand outstretched. "The city... she needs to trust us. Force will only close her off, make her defensive. It is already in distress as it is." She placed her hand flat against the stone gate, closing her eyes. Her brow furrowed as she strained to listen.

Silas ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper beard, his patience fraying. “Trust? It's a city of cogs and gears, Anya. Not a sentient being. I don’t believe in such nonsense."

“It is sentient," Anya countered, her voice barely a whisper, "In a way you cannot understand. I can feel her pain, her fear… the rust, the corrosion… they’re physical, Silas. But they are mental, too."

"Fear? Of what? Us? We mean it no harm. I only want to retrieve my family’s heirloom!” Silas said, the last part a mumbled afterthought. This whole venture was starting to feel like a fool's errand.

"Harm comes in many forms, Silas. Not all of it is deliberate. Sometimes, even an honest intention can leave great suffering. I feel the pressure of time on this place," she responded.

Silas sighed heavily, the sound echoing in the small clearing. "Fine. Humor me. How do you propose we gain this… city's trust? Sing it a lullaby? Offer it a trade agreement?" He hated the feeling of being out of control, of relying on something he couldn't understand.

Anya remained silent for a long moment, her eyes still closed. The only sound was the distant drone of insects and the rustling of leaves in the metallic trees. Then, her voice, barely audible, broke the silence. “I listen. And then… I will ask."

Silas muttered under his breath, pacing in a tight circle. "This could take a while. Time is of the essence, but you seem to have no care for it. But fine, listen for now. But know this, my patience is not infinite. And I’ve seen patience stretched thin on a battlefield.” He pulled out a whetstone from his satchel and began to sharpen the crowbar, the rasping sound a clear sign of his impatience. It was a ritual, a way to exert some semblance of control over the unpredictable situation.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Anya stood motionless, her hand pressed against the gate, her breath slow and even. Silas continued to sharpen the crowbar, the rhythmic scraping a counterpoint to the city’s silent plea. The Lumina bloom cast an eerie glow over the scene, painting their faces in unnatural colors, as the sun hung in the sky before beginning its descent.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Anya's eyes snapped open. They were filled with a strange light, an otherworldly luminescence that made Silas’s skin crawl. "I hear it," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "A sequence… a vibration… a lock tumbling into place.”

Silas stopped sharpening his crowbar, surprised. The rasping sound ceased abruptly, leaving a void that amplified the city's silent hum. “What? What did you hear?" Hope, as frail as a newborn bird, fluttered in his chest.

Anya moved her hand along the gate, tracing unseen patterns. "It wants to open. Slowly. Delicately." She touched a specific point on the gate, then another. She pressed a hidden indentation with her thumb, her expression intense.

“Are you sure? This isn’t some trap? I would hate to be lured into a trap that cannot be escaped. We have to be extra cautious,” Silas said, a frown gracing his lips.

"It wants to show me what it holds," Anya said, her voice filled with a quiet certainty.

“You believe it?” Silas’s cynicism was a constant companion, a shield against the inevitable disappointments of life.

Anya looked at him, her eyes filled with an unshakeable conviction. "I trust it. What other choice do I have?"

Silas hesitated, his mind warring between logic and the growing evidence of Anya’s abilities. He considered the crowbar in his hand, the symbol of his pragmatic approach to the world. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he put it away. "Alright," he said, his voice grudging. “Lead the way. But if this is a trap, Gearsong…”

Anya didn't respond to his threat. She simply pushed gently on the gate, and with a low, grinding sound that resonated deep within Silas’s bones, a section of it began to slide inwards. A rush of cool, stale air washed over them, carrying the scent of dust and decay.

A dark passage was revealed, an abyss that swallowed the Lumina’s sickly glow. It promised wonders and terrors in equal measure, a gateway to a forgotten world.

"It is not a trap, Silas," Anya said, her voice hushed with awe and a hint of fear. "But the city has been hurt. And a wounded beast is always more dangerous than a healthy one.” As she walked towards the opening to the geode, Silas felt a mixture of fear and anticipation. What secrets, what horrors, were the gates of Aerilon about to release upon the world? Only time would tell, but he had a feeling he was about to find out.