Not built on the mountain, but carved from it. Buildings that seemed to grow from the stone, with architecture that reminded Jorghan of ancient civilizations from his studies, Greek columns merged with Atlantean geography, creating structures that felt both familiar and alien. Terraces and platforms connected by bridges and stairs, gardens somehow thriving despite the altitude, and water features that shouldn't exist on a mountainside but did anyway.

The city climbed the mountain face in carefully planned tiers, each level distinct but harmoniously integrated with the whole. At the summit, partially obscured by clouds, stood a domed structure that seemed to crown the entire complex.

But what truly shocked Jorghan was what he saw when Kaleth banked to give them a better view.

Behind the mountain was nothing.

No more mountains, no descending slopes, just a void.

A massive cliff face dropping away into darkness so absolute it seemed to swallow light.

The Abyss, Jorghan realized. The mountain city was built on the very edge of a chasm that descended to unknowable depths.

"By all the ancestors," he breathed.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Sigora said with obvious pride despite this not being her clan's home. "Dewura'tt, the City on the Edge. Home of the Amasurata clan, strongest of the twelve."

"Thirteen now that we're recognizing you," she added with a smile.

Jorghan rolled his eyes at the last statement.

Kaleth turned east, following Sigora's gentle guidance, approaching a large landing platform carved from the mountainside.

As they descended, Jorghan got his first good look at the activity below.

Elves of every description moved through the city, some short, barely five feet tall with stocky builds clearly adapted for underground or mountain living. Others were even taller than Sigora, slender as reeds, their movements ethereal and impossibly graceful. Some had anatomy that seemed almost alien, with extra joints in their limbs, eyes positioned slightly differently, and skin tones that ranged from pale white to deep obsidian.

The diversity was staggering.

In the desert settlements, most elves had shared similar characteristics. Here, it was clear that the twelve clans each had distinct physical traits and different evolutionary paths they'd followed over countless generations.

As it had become the host of the Council, it had become a gathering point for all the members of the twelve clans. They come here for all kinds of trade.

And the beasts, gods, the beasts.

Creatures that looked like horses but stood five to ten meters tall at the shoulder, their proportions maintaining equine grace despite their impossible size. They moved with ponderous dignity through streets clearly designed to accommodate them, carrying goods or pulling carts that could have held entire dwellings.

Other creatures he didn't recognize—something like a massive cat but with six legs and crystalline growths along its spine, something else that resembled a bird but had too many wings and glowed faintly in the dimming light.

This wasn't just a city.

It was a nexus of clans, of bloodlines, of ancient powers that had survived and thrived in isolation from the wider world.

Kaleth's talons touched down on the landing platform with barely a jolt, his landing so smooth it seemed effortless despite the size of the creature. Other Swarafa rested on nearby platforms, each one slightly different in coloring or size, each one bearing the markings of different clans.

Sigora stepped down from the carriage first, then offered her hand to help Jorghan, a gesture that was both courtesy and subtle intimacy, her fingers lingering on his perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary.

They both looked around, taking in the organized chaos of the landing area. Elves moved with purpose, greeting arrivals, directing beasts, and carrying messages and supplies. Guards stood at regular intervals, not menacing, but alert, their presence a reminder that this city hosted political power that required protection.

The entrance to the city proper loomed before them—a massive gateway carved to resemble an open mouth, with stone framework decorated with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and flow when viewed from different angles. Guards flanked the entrance, each one easily eight feet tall, wearing armor that looked ancient but impeccably maintained.

Above the gateway, carved in the old tongue, were words Jorghan could somehow read despite never having learned the language:

"Here Stand the Strong. Here is the Council of the Wise. Here Gather the Clans."

"The Amasurata clan," Sigora said quietly, her voice carrying respect that bordered on reverence. "They've held Dewura'tt for over two thousand years. They're the oldest, the strongest, and the most politically influential of all the clans. When they speak in Council, others listen."

She turned to look at Jorghan, her expression becoming more serious.

"Their current clan head is Madayanti Amasurata, nine feet tall, three hundred years old, and considered one of the greatest warriors in clan history. She'll be the one to formally recognize you, to grant the Sol'vur clan its official status."

"Should I be worried?" Jorghan asked, trying to keep his tone light.

"Worried? No. Respectful? Absolutely."

Sigora smiled, reaching out to adjust his robes, the formal attire she'd insisted he wear for the ceremony.

"But remember, you've earned this. You stood against an army and won. You demonstrated power that legends are made of. Madayanti respects strength above all else. Show her that strength, but temper it with wisdom, and you'll do fine."

She paused, then added more softly, "And I'll be right beside you."

"You're really making a big deal out of it."

"Like I said, I don't really give a damn about these clans or whatever."

He'd faced Imperial armies, destroyed Haelves, and nearly died protecting those he cared about.

He could handle a Council ceremony.

-

As Jorghan and Sigora approached the massive gateway, a delegation of Amasurata clan members emerged to greet them.

They moved with synchronized precision—five elves, each standing at least eight feet tall, wearing robes of deep purple trimmed with silver that seemed to shimmer with contained magical energy.

The leader stepped forward, a woman with striking features, high cheekbones, eyes the color of polished amethyst, and silver-white hair bound in an intricate braid that fell past her waist. Her bearing suggested authority tempered with practiced diplomacy.

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