Khar-Voldran

Khar-Voldran rises from a basalt crown above furnace terraces, mustering yards, sealed vaults, smoke-black halls, and roads laid out like commands. It is less a city than a command engine made habitable by coercion. The stones are old, dark, and hot after noon; the air tastes of ash, iron, sweat, and burnt oil. Messages leaving Khar-Voldran often arrive before mercy has finished being debated elsewhere. Its beauty is immense and deliberate: towers against firelit cloud, armour ranks below, banners cutting the smoke. Its dread is that every height looks down.