The sun set over the world of Nahewunder, its golden light chased away by the pre-autumn wind. Across the continent, a new school year stirred to life at the Paideia of the Acropolis of Attica—the legendary Cradle of Knowledge. Once again, students from every nation converged upon the city, their hopes and ambitions woven into the ancient stones beneath their feet.
Perli Nemunas stood at the prow of the ship, his eyes fixed on the Acropolis crowning Cranaus like a diadem of marble and stone. He was the last surviving heir of the once-noble House of Nemunas from Couesnon—a house whose influence had long faded, though its legacy still weighed heavily on his shoulders, like lead.
Below, the city unfolded in a breathtaking panorama: elegant estates gathered around peristyles, their white marble columns faintly aglow in the twilight. Each building stood as a silent testament to the nation's devotion to symmetry, order, and austere beauty—an unyielding homage to classical ideals.
Cranaus, the fourth of the eight great nations of Nahewunder, was famed as the guardian of ancient truths. Legends whispered of the Knots of Fate hidden beneath the Temple of Kamo Minerva, where the threads of destiny were said to be woven and bound—an arcane secret believed to hold sway over the fate of the world itself.
As the ship eased into the dock at the Port of Corinth, Perli watched students disembark—some wandering hesitantly, clutching luggage and searching the unfamiliar streets, while others, like Perli, now entering his third and final year, moved with quiet certainty, their steps guided by memory and routine.
He stepped off the ship and began the familiar climb through Cranaus's layered cityscape. Beneath the bustling port lay neighborhoods of artisans and small traders: modest wooden homes with shuttered windows, narrow alleys lit by crooked lampposts. The air was thick with the mingling scents of salt, woodsmoke, and street food. The city pulsed with life—but also bore the grime of wear, the rust of neglect, and the ever-present whispers of thieves and drunkards lurking in shadowed corners.
Ascending to the second tier of Attide, Perli passed through the heart of the middle class—students, artists, landowners, and young professionals. The streets were wider here, lined with trees and paved with cobblestones smoothed by generations. Shops brimmed with vibrant fabrics, carved trinkets, and the clamor of merchants speaking in a dozen tongues.
After nearly three months away, Perli stood once more before the house he had rented in previous years. Its plain façade mirrored the restrained spirit of Cranaus—rigidly classical, stripped of ornament, untouched by innovation. It was as though the city feared change. Empires rise and fall, he thought bitterly, but here, the ancient aesthetic endures—an endless cycle choking all progress.
He pulled a heavy iron key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. The door creaked open, revealing rooms that had once stirred hope and possibility. Now, they felt more like a cage.
The living room was sparse: simple sofas and chairs arranged with care but lacking warmth or soul. The kitchen held only a rough-hewn sink and a modest hearth. The bathroom was cramped and outdated—a stark contrast to the comforts of Couesnon. But Perli accepted it all with quiet resignation.
Only the bedroom retained a hint of comfort. It housed his study—a sanctuary where letters from distant friends and dog-eared volumes of poetry stood vigil against silence.
He made his way to the bathroom first. Turning on the tap, he let the cool water run over his face, still groggy from a restless six-hour sleep. Rising early to catch the ship had taken its toll, but it was a price he paid willingly—a small offering to the future he intended to forge from the ashes of his family's decline.
He rinsed his face once, then again, before lifting his gaze to the mirror.
Short brown hair?
Check.
Sleek white shirt with ornate embroidery, topped by a black vest trimmed in gold?
Check.
Fitted black trousers and matching gloves?
Check.
Blue eyes—the reason his parents had named him Perli, after the color of pearls?
Check.
He sighed and stepped away from the mirror, drying his face with a towel. As he turned to leave the bathroom, he muttered under his breath:
"Already tired—and the year hasn't even started yet. Incredible."
Leaving his house, Perli climbed toward the upper tiers of Attica, where the most beautiful buildings and statues of Cranaus stood in timeless majesty. He hoped to find one of his old Crananian friends. He wasn't sure if they were still asleep or had already risen, but he was certain he would find the young Chaménos—always singing his poems to his beloved Mania.
He passed through the crowd in the Agora, weaving gently between people without disturbing them. He had mastered this art over two years, and by now, it came naturally.
After just three minutes—a record time—Perli arrived at the spot where Chaménos had always performed, nestled between a clothier's shop and a craftsman's stall.
But Chaménos was not there.
The space was empty. Quiet.
Perli turned to a customer standing in line at the idol shop and asked softly, "Excuse me, sir. Do you know where I might find someone named Chaménos? I expected to see him here, as always."
The man looked at him, slightly irritated. "Chaménos? You must not be from around here. He took his own life three weeks ago. Said his heart broke after his crush rejected him."
For a moment, Perli could only think, Oh, what the fuck. But what came out instead was a muted, "Thank you, sir."
He walked away, the weight of the news settling in his chest like stone, leaving the market a little more bitter than when he arrived.