Now, just a few days later, entire beams bent like reeds to her command, their wooden frames creaking in protest as they yielded to her inexorable will. Stones slid across the earth as if the giants themselves were pushing them, their weight and inertia overcome by Serenya's growing power, leaving deep furrows in the damp ground. Soil from the ditches stood cleaved with a single gesture; the earth itself seemed to bow before her presence, opening with a dull groan that reverberated in everyone's chests. The wooden frameworks rose like trees, born in seconds, their arms lifting toward the sky as if alive, new branches extending in search of light. The Citadel took shape; its walls and towers rose like a living being, shaped by Serenya's will and the ancient power of the Ouralis, each block fitting with a snap that sealed their eternal union.
But every triumph demanded its price, a tribute paid with Serenya's own flesh and blood. Her skin turned the colour of ivory; her dry and colourless lips bore witness to the effort the power of the Ouralis imposed on her, cracking like dry clay under the merciless sun. Shadows accumulated under her eyes; the dark arches deepened with each day, marking furrows that spoke of sleepless nights. At nightfall, when the work ended, Serenya's body convulsed; her bones trembled as if about to break, and Elyra's concern for her well-being became visible in every shudder, her trembling hands seeking solace in the air. On some dawns, Serenya found herself bloodied, her chest burning, her breathing ragged; for mastering the power of the Ouralis left her bruised and exhausted, bruises blooming on her skin like dark petals.
In the Ouralis, the sphere responded to her call, obeyed her will like a living being, spinning with hypnotic slowness. It was more than power; it was a pact with the earth she shaped, an exchange of essence that bound her to the ground beneath her feet. At night she dreamed of roots piercing her veins, of mountains whispering to her in voices older than speech, her mind overflowing with visions of a world both familiar and strange, landscapes twisting like feverish dreams. She awoke with dirt under her nails, unsure if those visions blessed her... or claimed her. Her thoughts tangled in a web of uncertainty, as threads tightening in her mind. The line between power and possession began to blur, leaving Serenya questioning if she was the mistress of the Ouralis or merely its vessel, a fragile cup on the verge of shattering under mounting pressure.
Tension split the camp; a deep fracture ran through its centre. Some men fell to their knees, murmuring that the prophecy had been fulfilled, their voices full of reverence, trembling hands raised in prayer. The stonecutters watched in astonishment, their faces illuminated by the magic surrounding Serenya, eyes bright reflecting the glow of moving stones. Others whispered that walls raised by sorcery would crumble to ashes, and that any city invoked by witchcraft would collapse under its own cursed weight. The debate burned: some saw Serenya as a saviour; others, a threat drawing the wrath of ancient gods.
Twice Calwen had intervened with drawn steel to quell disputes, containing the tensions boiling beneath the surface, his sword gleaming like a lethal reminder. Once, when a stonecutter refused to work under "the cursed queen," Sira's staff struck his jaw with a crack that echoed through the entire camp, an echo of the consequences of disobedience, blood splattering the earth. The spilled blood silenced him, but the fear remained; unease permeated the camp's corners, nighttime whispers seeping like smoke. On the fourth day, Serenya nearly collapsed before nightfall, her body yielding under the load of the power she wielded. Tremors shook her hands, a quiver rising from deep within her being.
Elyra gripped her arm, her voice urgent, fingers digging into the fabric with desperation.
"You can't go on like this," she whispered desperately. "Your body is crumbling, and by dawn only ashes will remain, dust scattered by the wind."
Her warning was a reminder: Serenya's power had a terrible price, perhaps mortal, a cost collected in silence. Serenya's voice faltered, but remained firm. An unquenchable determination burned within her, like a fire that knew no extinction.
"The Citadel cannot rise only with hammers," she said, her tone clear and resolute. "It must be bound to the earth. I must bind it, weave its essence with mine."
Elyra's voice broke, torn between fury and fear, tears welling in her eyes.
"What use is a kingdom if you end up buried in its foundations?" She asked, her plea trembling, an echo of contained panic.
Sira struck the ground with her staff, cold and firm; the sound cutting the air like a verdict.
"Enough," she said, her voice sharp as a command. "The Ouralis does not yield to doubt. Take a step, girl. Call the stone, make it respond."
Elyra's hands clung to Serenya's sleeve, gripped by anguish, nails digging into the fabric. But Serenya touched her gently, releasing her, a gesture that calmed inner storms.
"Trust me," she whispered. "I won't fall. Not yet, not while the Citadel breathes."
Her words were a promise, a vow to Elyra and herself: she would see it fulfilled, no matter the abyss opening beneath her feet. With quiet determination, Serenya advanced, the ground crunching under her boots. She ventured once more into the Ouralis; the stones trembled under her growing power, a dull roar rising from the depths. The wood rose, quivering; the very essence of the world seemed to yield to her will, moulding like clay in expert hands. Sweat ran down her back, her chest burned, but the power roared louder than her pain, and that achievement fueled her determination, a vicious cycle of triumph and exhaustion.
Astonishment ran through those present, shadowed by fear; people watched in wonder, their faces reflecting conflicting emotions, furrowed brows, and parted lips. Disputes still sparked, but oaths held the crowd together, a fragile peace sustained by loyalty and duty, threads on the verge of snapping. Deep down, suspicion and fear persisted, like embers under ash-covered ground, ready to reignite with the slightest breath of wind. Serenya's control improved daily; her power became more precise, more refined gestures replaced brute efforts. What once demanded exhausting effort now requires only a motion; a slight movement sufficed to master the elements, the air charging with static energy. Practice mitigated the cost, though it still consumed her vital force, drop by drop. Her power was not infinite, it was instead a resource she had to manage carefully, balancing each invocation like a tightrope walker on a knife's edge.