Jorghan sat in the oversized chair, designed for taller elves, which made it almost comically large for his six-foot fra, with his bare feet propped on the table. His shirt lay discarded sowhere across the room, and he’d made no effort to retrieve it.
The morning sun stread through the massive glass window, illuminating the city below in golden light that made Dewura’tt look even more magnificent than it had the previous evening.
The view was hypnotic.
From this height, he could see the entire city sprawling across the mountain face—the terraced buildings, the winding streets, the massive waterfall still flowing from the elephant’s trunk, and the gardens thriving in impossible places.
Beyond the city’s edge, the abyss yawned—a darkness so absolute it seed to swallow the light rather than rely reflect it back.
Behind him, Sigora lounged in the bed that had barely contained both of them the previous night, propped up on pillows, working through a plate of seasoned at with the contented focus of soone who’d worked up an appetite through pleasant exertion. Her hair was tousled, her expression relaxed in a way she rarely showed in public.
"You’re going to get cold sitting there like that," she observed between bites, amusent coloring her voice.
"I’m fine," Jorghan replied without looking away from the view.
"Besides, I like the way the sun feels. Reminds we’re actually here, that this isn’t just so elaborate dream."
"If it were a dream, I’d hope your subconscious would provide better breakfast," Sigora teased. "This at is good, but hardly transcendent."
Jorghan smiled, finally turning to look at her. "The company more than makes up for any culinary shortcomings."
Before Sigora could respond with what was clearly going to be sothing equally flirtatious based on her expression, a firm knock sounded at the door.
Both of them froze briefly—the reality of their situation suddenly reasserting itself. They were in Sigora’s quarters, together, in a state of undress that made their relationship abundantly clear to anyone who might enter.
"Lady Sigora," a voice called from beyond the door, chanical in quality but sohow not cold, carrying inflections that suggested genuine communication rather than a programd response. "The Council gathering will comnce in one hour. We are here to escort you and Jorghan Sol’vur to the Eldraven Hall."
Sigora set her plate aside and rose from the bed with quick movents, wrapping herself in a robe before moving to the door. She opened it partially, enough to see who stood beyond but not enough to reveal the room’s interior or Jorghan’s shirtless state.
Two figures stood in the hallway, and Jorghan leaned to get a better view, his curiosity imdiately piqued.
They appeared like elves at first glance, roughly eight feet tall, proportioned like elves, with features that seed almost alive.
But on closer inspection, subtle details betrayed their artificial nature. Their skin had a faint luminescence, as if lit from within. Their movents, while fluid, carried a precision that exceeded organic grace, no wasted motion, no unconscious fidgeting, just purposeful stillness when not actively moving.
Their eyes were the most striking elent, multifaceted like gemstones, shifting through subtle color variations as they tracked movent and processed information.
"Oh, you are here," Sigora said, addressing them.
"I’ll be ready shortly."
"We shall await you in the main lobby," one of them replied, its voice carrying warmth despite the chanical undertones.
"Please take whatever ti you require. The Council does not begin until all the clan heads have assembled."
They departed with synchronized movent, their footsteps making no sound despite their size.
Sigora closed the door and turned to find Jorghan standing now, moving closer to examine the spot where the Arumaks had been standing, as if he could divine more information about them from the empty hallway.
She explained that they were not real elves but designed creatures of tal and given life form, and they were called the Arumaks. They are like self-aware artificial intelligence.
"Those were androids," he said, wonder evident in his voice.
"But not like any I’ve studied. They moved like living things and talked like they were truly thinking rather than following programd responses.
How is that possible?"
"The Arumaks are Amasurata creations," Sigora explained, moving to the wardrobe where formal robes had been prepared.
"Ancient technology that combines magical essence with chanical construction. They’re not quite alive, but they’re not quite machines either; they’re sothing in between, with genuine intelligence and the capacity to learn, adapt, and even develop preferences."
She pulled out his formal attire, deep red robes embroidered with Sol’vur patterns, elegant but practical. She was here as a mber of Jorghan’s retinue, his family today, and so she was wearing the clan’s symbols.
"They’re also incredibly strong and efficient. A single Arumak could probably match several warriors in combat, and they don’t tire, don’t require food or rest, and don’t let emotions cloud their judgnt."
"Fascinating," Jorghan murmured, his mind clearly racing with implications.
"If the technology could be replicated, if the principles could be understood—"
"Focus," Sigora interrupted gently but firmly, her tone shifting into what Jorghan had started thinking of as her "mother mode"—caring but brooking no argunt.
"You can geek out about ancient engineered technology later. Right now, you need to get dressed and ready for the most important political event of your life."
"You sound so serious. It’s just a eting; nobody cares about what I wear, I’m sure."
"And I’m ready," Jorghan protested.
Sigora looked pointedly at his bare chest, his disheveled hair, and his complete lack of formal attire.
"You are many things right now. Ready is not among them."
What followed was fifteen minutes of Sigora essentially dressing him like a child, adjusting his robes, fixing his hair, and ensuring every detail of his appearance t the exacting standards required for a Council ceremony. Jorghan bore it with good-natured patience, recognizing that her fussing ca from care rather than criticism.
"There," she finally said, stepping back to examine her work.
"You look like a proper clan head."
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