Waverider Expedition - Necropolis
By midday, Necropolis shimmered like a mirage.
From afar it seemed a city carved from smoke and glass, its towers still sharp though no hand had touched them in a thousand years. The air above it trembled with heat, yet no wind stirred its streets. Nothing moved. Not even birds. Between the crew and the city stretched a line of dead grass, perfect, circular, unbroken. Beyond it, the soil was gray and sterile, as if the world itself refused to remember life there.
The Waverider’s crew made camp just outside that line. None spoke much as they ate. Even the fire seemed reluctant to burn too bright, the smoke rising thin and fast toward the pale sky. Captain Virellus sat staring at the ruins, his face unreadable. The others watched too, Rahim polishing a knife he wasn’t using, Selene lost in the patterns of ash.
When Velan spoke, his voice was low, as though he feared the city might hear.
“I’ve been here before,” he said.
The others looked up. His eyes were on the horizon, but unfocused, turned inward.
“Years ago,” he went on. “Before I ever saw the sea. I was a young mercenary then. The Empire paid well for runners, slave children mostly, quick and small. They’d send us to guard the edge, keep count, bring back what came out.”
He drew a long breath. “I led them in. Always just a little further each time.”
No one interrupted.
“They were just children,” he said. “Thin as reeds. Some had never seen the sun outside the slave pens. I’d march them in till I saw the towers rise close. Then I’d stop. I told myself I was keeping them safe. But I stayed behind because I was afraid.”
He stirred the sand with his boot. “One by one, they’d run back. Some carrying gold, some nothing at all. Fewer every day.”
He paused. The fire cracked softly.
“The last time, there were five. I remember their faces. The youngest couldn’t have been ten. We found a street lined with statues, faces eaten by time, hands all pointing west. I made them run ahead, just to the next corner, and wait for me there.”
He swallowed. “They didn’t come back.”
His voice was dry now, rasping. “I started to go after them, but the light was already wrong. The city bends distance. Turns minutes into hours. When I saw the sun touching the towers, I ran. I saw them run after me. I could hear their feet, I swear it.”
He lifted his eyes to the horizon. “I crossed the line just as the sun disappeared. Turned around… and they were gone. No sound. No shadow. Just gone.”
No one spoke. The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of stone and dust from the city.
Velan stared into the fire. “I didn’t go back in. Not that day, not ever. Sold my blade, bought a berth on the next ship I found. Haven’t served the Empire since. Haven't been involved in slavery since.”
They sat in silence after that. The fire guttered, and the last light sank behind the Necropolis. The city loomed against the blood-red sky... vast, cold, and watching. Somewhere far within, something seemed to catch the fading light and return it, like an eye.
Minutes passed. Or hours. No one knew.
Then Otto the Dwarf cleared his throat.
“So why are we here?” he said at last. “This is crap. Let’s go back to the ship and drink.”
Velan blinked, and for the first time since he began speaking, he smiled, faintly, bitterly.
No one argued.
They packed their things in silence. As they turned toward the coast, the fire died behind them. And when the last ember went dark, the Necropolis was gone from sight, as if it had never been there at all.