CHAPTER 172: THE YELMEN BASTION

The Resilient Mother bastion, that nomadic behemoth of stone and enchantment, had a rhythm.

It was not a ceaseless march through the wastes—rather, it paused like a weary traveler at crossroads, docking at fellow bastions for spans of days or weeks.

These halts served as breaths in the journey—opportunities for trade to flow like vital blood, for weary legs to stretch on solid ground, and for the exchange of tales that bridged the isolation of nomadic life.

Provisions were bartered, alliances whispered in shadowed taverns, and the near non-existent distortions of the land probed for safer paths ahead.

In this way, the Resilient Mother wove itself into the scattered strongholds of Myovernia, a thread that connected the unconnectable.

Not to mention, it would also strengthen the tie and position of the Mage Count with every bastion they visited knowing their inquisitive nature and power.

In the current case, the bastion had come to rest at Yelmen, a sprawling edifice of weathered granite and iron spires that clung to a plateau like a crown upon a craggy brow.

The docking was a spectacle in itself—colossal grapples of enchanted chain unfurling from the Resilient Mother’s underbelly to latch onto Yelmen’s reinforced harbors, the ground trembling as the two giants aligned in a tentative embrace.

Ramps extended with groaning hydraulics, and figures streamed forth—merchants laden with crates of exotic spices, scouts bearing maps etched in luminous ink, and wanderers seeking respite from the endless trek.

Noirette and Blanchette, their witch hats perched like badges of arcane authority, decided to partake in a light tourism before their plans diverged.

They would soon depart the Resilient Mother for a purpose all their own, a venture into the wild that called to their complex curiosities.

For now, though, the allure of a new bastion beckoned—a chance to wander unfamiliar streets, sample foreign flavors, and glean whatever recreation they could find.

The approach to Yelmen’s grand entrance was a procession of contrasts. The Resilient Mother’s inhabitants, a motley blend of demi-humans with the hardy optimism of semi-nomads, waited in lines as they tried to enter legally.

On the other hand, some locals of the Yelmen were also visiting the Resilient Mother.

However, many if not all of them, possessed this eerie weariness in their eyes.

Tall walls of gray stone loomed overhead, etched with wards that hummed faintly against the skin, their surfaces pocked by the scars of past distortions—cracks mended with veins of solidified ether that glowed like healed wounds.

Guards in lamellar armor, helmed with visors that reflected the overcast sky, directed the flow at iron-barred gates, their spears tipped with crystals that pulsed obvious spell formations.

Yet, as Noirette and Blanchette drew near, a peculiar restlessness prickled the air, like the static before a storm’s first rumble.

Something felt off with the people of Yelmen, and they were not even inside yet.

They paused before a Void Hunter stationed at the gate’s flank, a grizzled woman with scales glinting along her arms and a cloak frayed from countless skirmishes.

Her eyes, sharp as flints, flicked over their hats with recognition.

"Pardon us," Noirette ventured, her voice carrying over the murmur, "but there seems to be an unease here. The people exiting carry a dread in their eyes, and the air feels weighted. What troubles Yelmen bastion?"

The Void Hunter leaned on her spiky spear, her scaled lips twisting into a wry half-smile. She glanced at the stream of travelers, her posture easing slightly at the sight of their conical crowns.

"Aye, court member, I’m but in the same position as you when it comes to the Yelmen bastion. However, I’v heard a weight of old shadows. Yelmen is a fine hold—solid walls, warm hearths—but it harbors a taboo that clings like mist. A taboo that one must never break at all cost."

Blanchette tilted her head, her white hat’s droplets tracing faint arcs that evaporated mid-fall.

"What is this taboo?" Noirette asked casually, her tone light and unperturbed, as if inquiring after the weather rather than some veiled peril.

The Void Hunter’s chuckle was low and gravelly, carrying the timbre of one who had seen too many vanish into the gloom. "They say that, if you encounter—or even glimpse—someone or something who mirrors you exactly, a doppelganger in flesh and feature, do not interact with it.

"At all costs. Turn away, walk another path, pretend the streets have shifted. Even if the clone calls your name or reaches for your arm, ignore it as you would a mirage in the wastes."

Noirette’s curiosity sharpened, her fingers drumming idly against her thigh. "And if one were to interact with their clone? What fate awaits?"

"No one knows the truth of it, because not a single soul has ever survived the confrontation. Otherwise, the bastion boasts great food and hearts as kind as the hearth fires. Markets brim with spices from the southern rifts, and the folk here understand a wanderer’s burdens."

For a dangerous phenomenon to be made a taboo for an entire civilization, it was somewhat unheard of.

If that was really the case, then maybe trying to ignore your own doppelganger for a long time would wear you out mentally, hence why the eerie dread and tiredness from those emerged from the Yelmen’s entrance.

Then again, this was Fathomi they were talking about.

Noirette inclined her head, gratitude softening her features. "Thank you for the counsel."

The Void Hunter straightened, her spear thumping against the stone in salute. "It is all I can do to aid members of the Mage Court. Safe steps within~!"

With that, the exchange concluded, and the gates’ mechanisms whirred to life—not for them, but in deference to the unmistakable silhouettes of their hats.

Noirette and Blanchette had observed it moments earlier—another court member, her brim adorned with flickering motes, had bypassed the lines entirely, the guards waving her through with murmured respects.

Identification, queues, and scrutiny melted away before the conical authority.

The iron bars swung wide, admitting them without a single query, the other travelers casting envious glances as the duo stepped across the threshold.

Noirette glanced back at the closing gates, a wry smile playing on her lips. "What if we wore these hats without being true members? Would the privilege hold?"

Blanchette’s response came with a soft laugh, her crimson eyes glinting under her hat’s iridescent brim. "An actual mage from the court would identify the imposture swiftly. They would be arrested for usurping the privilege, stripped of the forgery, and perhaps consigned to a lesson in humility within the same judgment hall that we got ourselves into."

The moment they crossed into Yelmen bastion, the world inverted in a breath-stealing shift.

Day’s pallid light vanished, supplanted by the velvet hush of night, a colossal full moon dominating the vaulted expanse above like a watchful sentinel.

Its glow bathed the interior in silvered luminescence, casting long shadows from spires that pierced the artificial firmament.

Noirette paused, her hand instinctively rising to shield her eyes from the sudden transition.

The walls enclosing the bastion were no mere facade; they formed a colossal enclosure, a self-contained realm where the sky was a dome of illusionary stars, the moon a perpetual fixture that waxed and waned in engineered cycles.

"Is this an illusion?" Noirette murmured, scanning the horizon where the "walls" curved seamlessly into the celestial canvas. "Or does the gate connect to another realm entirely, with those tall barriers nothing but a gimmick to evoke the safety of Fathomi’s bounded civilizations?"

Blanchette followed her gaze, her droplets catching the moonlight in prismatic flecks. "A clever artifice, whichever it is. It grants the illusion of openness."

They ventured deeper, the bastion unfolding like a nocturnal bazaar under the moon’s benevolent watch.

Cobblestone paths wound through districts alive with lantern glow and the murmur of evening commerce—stalls hawking luminescent fruits that pulsed with inner light, forges where smiths hammered alloys that sang in harmony with the lunar pull, and fountains that wept liquid silver under sculpted arches.

The air carried scents of spiced meats roasting over open flames and blooms that unfurled only in the night, their petals unfurling like secrets shared in whispers.

Inhabitants moved with a fluid grace, their attire a blend of practical leathers and embroidered silks that caught the moon’s sheen—many of them could be seen bearing tattoos that traced lunar phases across their skin.

Yet, Yelmen possessed something truly unique, a marvel that set it apart from the many bastions Noirette knew.

As they strolled a bustling avenue lined with vine-draped awnings, Noirette’s attention snagged on the glint of crystals clutched in passing hands.

Each was a palm-sized prism, faceted like captured starlight, projecting holographic interfaces that danced in the air—translucent screens of glowing script, icons that responded to gestures, and ethereal keyboards that materialized at a touch.

A merchant tapped hers, summoning a ledger that scrolled inventories with a flick of her wrist—a petite individual giggled as animated figures frolicked across her projection, a rudimentary game unfolding in luminous threads.

Blanchette noticed too, her head tilting in intrigue. "Those crystals... they function like devices from another age."

"Reminds me of smartphones," Noirette commented.

Noirette quickened her pace, approaching a local—a slender woman with elven ears and hair streaked in silver, her crystal hovering before her as she scribbled notes on a holographic pad.

"Excuse me," Noirette said politely, "but what is that crystal everyone seems to be using? It seems to project images and allow interaction."

The local looked up, her eyes widening briefly at their hats before softening into a welcoming smile. "Ah, court members. Ehem, this is a Yakhir—our bastion’s pride. The name means ’connect’ in the old tongue, for that is its essence.

"It links minds across distances, stores knowledge like a mind’s extension, and weaves tools for daily labors. See?" She gestured, and the hologram expanded, displaying a map of Yelmen that rotated fluidly, markers pulsing for nearby vendors. "Write messages to kin in distant holds, summon recipes for the evening’s meal, or even sketch designs that others can refine remotely. It’s the thread that binds our community tighter than any wall."

Noirette leaned closer, fascinated by the seamless integration—the way the hologram responded to the woman’s intent, icons blooming and fading like thoughts made manifest.

It definitely mirrored the sleek devices of her Earthly memories—smartphones that pocketed worlds, their screens gateways to information’s flood.

"How does one acquire a Yakhir then?"

The local’s expression turned apologetic, though kind. "You require a Yakhir portfolio—a spiritual imprint tied to Yelmen, forged through residency. The simplest way is tosStay within the bastion for at least a month, contribute to its rhythms—trade, labor, or simply dwell—and the crystal awakens to your essence. Without it, the projections remain dormant, a pretty bauble at best."

Noirette’s excitement dimmed, the prospect of a month’s tether too lengthy for their wandering spirits. "A month is a considerable commitment. My thanks for the explanation, nonetheless."

The local nodded graciously. "Safe explorations, court members. May the moon watch over you."

As they continued, Blanchette’s voice carried a teasing lilt, her hat’s droplets sparkling under the lunar glow. "Were you truly craving a semblance of those modern trinkets from your old world so keenly?"

Noirette shot her a mock glare, though amusement twinkled in her eyes. "I wanted to study it more closely, to replicate the mechanism in Vaingall should I ever return there."

Blanchette’s chuckle was light, her posture relaxed amid the nocturnal bustle. "Meanwhile, I just cannot wait to get a taste of the food here~"

Before Noirette could retort, her gaze snagged on a figure ahead, frozen amid the flow of pedestrians.

On the street before her, standing lifelessly under a lantern’s pallid beam, was someone who mirrored her exactly.

The doppelganger’s form was a perfect echo—same height, same cascade of multi-hued black hair framing draconic devil horns, same lithe build white dress.

Its eyes, vacant pools of reflected moonlight, stared ahead without focus, as if awaiting a cue that never came.