Lance’s eyes lit like dawn breaking over a snow-capped ridge. “So this is the plateau city, Lothric!”

He saw a city brighter than any he’d walked, a skyline shining like a lake at noon.

It wasn’t just the high-altitude sun, clear as crystal air, that sharpened everything like cut glass.

Baroque bones kept the Kingdom’s Victorian lineage, but shed its gloom like winter coats tossed in spring wind.

It dared bold colors, pigments like crushed gemstones, and the whole city burned with a brightness that stamped itself like sunspots.

Liya, the Thunderlight Knight, hummed like a skylark on a wire. “How is it, not bad, right?”

Lance nodded, his agreement settling like a pebble in a calm stream. “Indeed.”

Liya walked ahead, her steps light as sunshine on flags. “Come on, I’ll show you the city first.”

Lance glanced at the streets, almost full of Celestial Spirits, doubt drifting like mist over water. “Aren’t we meeting your lady first?”

Liya answered with a childlike lilt, as if tossing a pebble into a pond. “We can do it on the way, okay?”

He weighed the time like a scale in quiet air, then agreed with a wind-soft sigh. “All right.”

“Then let’s go,” she sang, her voice skipping like a brook over stones.

They walked and watched, buildings like stacked clouds and vistas pressed to the Desolation Mountains like a shadow at dusk.

What caught Lance most were the Celestial Spirits, whose presence flowed like pale fire through the streets, constant as starlight.

The Celestial Race was rare here, like white cranes on a crowded shore, while most faces were Titanborn, broad-shouldered as cliff walls.

With brown skin like sun-warmed bark, the Titanborn looked close to human, so the city felt foreign only as a change in wind.

“Pardon me,” Lance asked, curiosity rustling like leaves. “Why are the streets full of Titanborn? Where are the Celestial Race and the Elves?”

Liya spoke as they walked, her words marching like a file of banners. “The Celestial Race stays in the Imperial Capital or nearby cities.”

“The Elves live in the western Empire, around the Silver Moon Forest, while the Titanborn call the plateau home like goats on crags.”

“I see,” Lance murmured, his voice settling like dust after hoofbeats.

They chatted as they walked, while passing Celestial Spirits stared like fish through clear glass, their eyes wide with wonder.

Humans were here too, but they were gaunt as winter reeds, driven by brawny Titanborn like oxen under a summer lash.

As Lance passed, those humans looked at him with pity and envy, eyes like rain begging for clouds.

He didn’t hate them, but unease crept in like a cold draft under a door.

Maybe it was awkwardness, he thought, and he shifted the topic like turning a wheel. “Humans live in your city too?”

Liya didn’t flinch, her tone flat as an iron gate. “Yes, they’re slaves.”

Then she tried to soothe him, her voice soft as a handkerchief. “But don’t worry, they were sent here for serious crimes, and the Empire won’t do anything inhumane—”

A nearby Titanborn slavedriver cut her off, his shout cracking like thunder. “What are you staring at? Get to work!”

His whip snapped like lightning and ripped a laborer’s back like torn bark, dropping the man to his knees with a wail like a struck reed.

Lance stepped close, his shadow falling like a cloud. “What crime did you commit?”

The man, exhausted and welted like plowed earth, sobbed like rain on slate. “I don’t know nothing, sir—just farming proper, then the officials dragged me off!”

Lance understood at once, the truth rising like smoke, but he could do nothing and didn’t want to do more than breathe.

He straightened and let a sigh drift skyward like a loosened kite string.

Liya showed no pity, her tone hard as frost. “Blazing Fire Knight, you can’t trust prisoners like them; they’re crafty and lying, like foxes in dusk.”

Anger sparked in Lance like flint, a thought on his tongue about inquisitors snatching warm bodies like nets in a river.

He bit it back, letting the coal go cold like ash, because she was a Celestial Spirit and this was her sky.

Seeing Liya’s slight embarrassment hang like a damp cloak, he eased it aside with a smile. “Let’s keep the tour going.”

Liya brightened at once, her cheer rekindled like lantern light. “Okay!”

Maybe the route was wrong, a road bending into thorns, because more scenes of Titanborn masters driving human slaves soured the view like smoke in silk.

Liya’s mood dimmed, and she snapped at a slavedriver, her words like a bolt across a black cloud. “This is a city of Celestial Spirits—crowding the streets with slaves, are you mocking the Empire?”

The Titanborn didn’t care at first, but seeing the Thunderlight Knight, he bowed like a sapling in wind. “It’s orders from above, ma’am—build a city wall and fast!”

“City wall?” Liya frowned, a crease like a river fork. “Why didn’t I see it when I came?”

“Over there,” the slavedriver said, pointing like a weather vane.

They climbed to the third floor of a nearby townhouse, the stairs spiraling like a shell, and looked toward the near edge.

There lay another city gate, set closer to the Desolation Mountains like a door pressed to stone.

As he’d said, the boundary swarmed with work like ants on sugar, a dozen Celestial Race mages weaving spells over stacked stone.

Slaves bore bricks from the mountain like ants hauling grains, while the mages used Levitation to lift each block skyward like slow, gray clouds.

After they understood, they came down, steps tapping like rain, and Liya asked again, her tone a drawn bow. “Why build a wall?”

The Empire had no deadly beasts, no bandits, no mercenary raids, no floods of refugees, so walls were rare as snow in summer.

Lothric should need no wall, like a hill needs no lighthouse, and the slavedriver looked confused, his face blank as a slate. “Don’t know, ma’am—orders from above.”

“Above” meant the city’s Civic Council, like a nest at the cathedral’s peak.

Liya glanced toward a tall, churchlike building, her gaze sharp as a spearpoint that way.

“Hmph, I’ll spare you this once,” she said, her words like a final clap of thunder. “But if your slaves dirty the streets—”

“Yes, yes!” The slavedriver scrambled away like a rolling barrel, arms flailing like loose ropes.

They kept walking, their words thinning like smoke, and an awkward quiet settled like dew between them.

To ease it, Lance spoke, his voice a bridge over still water. “What is the Civic Council?”

“The city’s self-governing body,” Liya said, words steady as drumbeats. “It’s also where my lady holds a nominal post.”

“If it’s self-governing, why does a royal hold a post?” Lance asked, the question floating like a leaf in eddies.

It was trickier than it looked, a knot in a net, and Liya faltered, silence closing like a folding fan. “Well…”

With her mood dulled like a clouded mirror, she cut it short, her tone crisp as a snapped twig. “Let’s meet my lady first, then I’ll show you more.”

“Thank you,” Lance agreed, his politeness smooth as polished wood.

“Is this the Civic Council?” Lance asked, staring at the tall building across the square, awe rising like a tide.

Walking on, Liya saw his wonder and her cheer returned like a lamp relit. “It used to be the Church of the Light Deity, now it’s the Civic Council’s base—speaking of back then—”

Her words drowned beneath a roar like surf, because hundreds of young Titanborn crowded the cathedral steps with flags and signs like a forest of spears.

“Down with Celestial Race privilege! Down with Elf favoritism!” they chanted, voices hammering like rain on tin.

“What are they doing?” Lance asked, confusion fluttering like a trapped moth.

Liya turned away, shame flushing like a rose. “Sorry you had to see this.”

“Let’s move faster,” she urged, her steps quick as minnows.

“Right,” Lance said, and followed like a shadow.

Inside, the air turned still as a pond, and the outside clamor faded like a storm beyond hills.

The light dimmed under vaulted stone like a forest at dusk, and two knights of the Celestial Race drew swords that flashed like cold water.

“Who are you?” they barked, voices like iron. “Who let you in?”

As they neared, recognition rippled like heat, and they sensed familiar Battle Aura like a banner in wind.

Their faces warmed, and they greeted with bright smiles like morning. “Thunderlight Knight, you’ve returned?”

Liya nodded, calm as a bell stroke. “Yes, I informed Mr. Garris.”

The two knights traded looks like tossed coins, then grew uneasy like horses scenting rain. “Lord Garris? He’s been busy with the wall—Lady Satina sent him to oversee it.”

“Oversee?” Liya frowned, a shadow like a hawk’s wing crossing her eyes. “Is that necessary?”

One knight gestured toward the door, a brief sweep like a branch. “You saw those fools outside—we’re worried they’ll stir trouble.”

“So there are protesters at the work site too?” Liya asked, the guess falling like a seed.

“You guessed it,” he said, voice tight as a bowstring. “Our mages have worked under pressure all day, and thank the stars no one sabotaged them.”

Liya sighed, soft as wind through reeds. “They’ve worked hard—hold a celebration for them.”

“We were thinking the same,” the knight said, approval flickering like a candle.

Then their eyes slid to Lance’s group, and they flared their Earth Tier Battle Aura like a landslide, weight pressing like earth.

“Who are they?” they asked Liya, pressure coiling like a storm front.

Liya’s sternness melted, and she smiled like sun after rain. “He’s the Blazing Fire Knight, Lance Morrison.”

“He’s a just knight, his deeds bright as torches, and I’m proud to call him my friend,” she said, the words ringing like silver.

“Friend? A male human?” The two blinked, surprise prickling like nettles, and a hint of jealousy flickered like cats’ eyes.

“Is that a problem?” Liya asked, her chin lifting like a blade’s edge.

“N-no,” they stammered, stepping back like waves from rock.

Their gazes landed on Shelika, who walked between two Titanborn soldiers like a calm moon between storm clouds.

The soldiers watched her with nerves taut as bowstrings, while her stillness felt dangerous, like deep water with hidden current.

“Who is she?” one knight asked, his voice a pebble tossed into silence.

“She’s…” Liya hesitated, words snagging like silk on thorns; she didn’t know how to say it without shaking their sky.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll speak,” Lance said, stepping forward like a torch into a cave.

He told the story, and at first their eyes showed scorn like frost, then widened like doors in a gale, shock blooming like lightning.

Emotion surged in them like a spring flood, hands twitching toward blades like startled eels, but reason held, and they listened to the end with a long sigh like spent wind.

“We must inform Lady Satina at once!”

“And Lord Garris too!”

They split to run, feet ready to drum like rain, but Liya’s voice snapped like thunder. “Wait.”

“Don’t tell Garris—he won’t accept our approach, so let him keep overseeing the site like a watchman.”

“Tell Lady Satina I’ve returned with a surprise,” she said, her tone precise as a measured chord. “I’ll explain the rest.”

“Contact the other knights and the Association’s mages,” she added, orders flying like arrows. “Bring more soldiers, and keep this Blood Clan under strict watch—be extremely cautious.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they answered, their obedience clean as steel.

Lance looked at Liya anew, respect striking like flint and catching like dry tinder.

Then she turned to him and softened, the girl-next-door warmth spilling like sunlight on a porch. “Let’s go, Lance—Satina will be delighted.”

“O—oh,” he said, his thoughts flickering like a lamp in wind.

“Come on,” Liya said, unbothered, her smile steady as a path.

She led him and opened the door into the cathedral’s depths, hinges sighing like old trees.

A small back garden waited, with a gravel path that crunched like frost underfoot.

Pots stood in tidy ranks like a regiment, each plant framed like a jewel in its setting.

Beyond tulips like cups of flame and roses and lilies like scattered stars, there were strange shapes like coral and coiled horns.

Lance’s curiosity rose like steam. “What are these?”

Liya smiled, pleased as a gardener in spring. “My lady gathered them from across Nordland, rare breeds from your human vassal states, and she tends this back garden like a mother bird.”

A faint unease brushed Lance like a cold feather, perhaps from the odd shapes curling like twisted roots.

“Let’s go,” Liya said, her voice a gentle tug like a breeze.

“Mm,” he answered, and they moved on like shadows across stone.

They passed a short gallery, walls crowded with masterpieces like constellations pinned in gold.

Lance didn’t ask questions, because he saw a famed canvas of the Sun Knight Tyler’s campaign, the Long March of Restoration blazing like a sunrise.

It was clear as daylight that these were treasures collected from all over Nordland, a hoard gleaming like a dragon’s.

One piece was so clever he stopped, a pilgrim before a shrine, and stared for a dozen heartbeats like a held breath.

A door opened from the inner rooms, as soft as petals falling, and out stepped a Celestial Spirit woman, beautiful, elegant, serene, and stately like a still lake at dusk.

She noticed Lance admiring the painting, and her voice drifted like jasmine on night air. “Do you like my back garden, human?”