The city had stood silent for centuries. Its spires rose in impossible loops, roads ended in sudden nothingness, and corridors curled back on themselves as if reality itself was no longer sure. And then, at last, it was seen a single family arriving through the shine of the citadel’s gateway.
Eryndor led the way, a scholar of Gallifrey’s lost archives. His garments brushed against walls that seemed almost alive, radiating a soft glow with the rhythm of long-dormant looms. Every step he took reminded him keenly of the flaw in the tapestry: a tower bent at an impossible angle, a balcony suspended in mid-air several feet above the street below. He rested his hand on a wall beside him and sensed the throb of the city’s beat, a still but relentless vibration that sang of promise and tilt in equal harmony.
Close behind him, clinging to his back, was Lira. Her trained eye scanned from shadows to shadows, selecting infinitesimal ripple in air and flash of light that could have been a reflection but could have been something far more extraordinary. Kael’s small fists gripped her robes as he gazed, his eyes widening at the twisted geometry of the streets, wild in laughter at the manner in which the familiar Gallifreyan architecture seemed to twist and curve in a dream. The child’s laughter was like a gossamer bell, its delicate brilliance seeming to draw a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer from the city itself, as if Vorlaxion itself knew that it had its first new life there.
They walked the streets carefully, every corner a mixture of known and unknown. Statues of deceased Time Lords loomed above turning courtyard areas, their faces familiar but slightly askew, like imperfectly reassembled reflections. There was a whiff of ozone and old stone, overlaid with the bizarre thrum of the city’s internal motors. The footsteps of the family rang unnaturally, occasionally too prolonged, occasionally suddenly truncated, as if the citadel itself were testing the flow of sound. Eryndor halted at a plaza. The light curved there, shattering itself into colors he had never seen. He sank to one knee and began running his gloved hand over the surface of the ground. “It’s. aware,” he whispered. “Not conscious, not like a mind but it feels us. Reacts. Moves.” Lira nodded, her grip on Kael tightening. She felt the hidden pulse beneath her hand-the heartbeat-and with it, attuned itself to her own. Hours went by while they wandered, absorbing the half-finished halls, the coiling towers, and the stairways leading to nowhere. They hardly spoke at all, not wanting to break the fragile silence, but each glance between them was measured with wonder and disbelief.
The city was imperfect, incomplete, and full of life in ways they barely even understood but it was theirs for the taking. By the time they stood at the periphery of the Citadel’s central square, the city seemed to relax a little in their presence, as if in recognition of its initial dwellers. Eryndor turned to Lira and Kael, his tone gentle yet firm: “We are the first. And with us, this city begins.” Kael’s tiny hand felt against a wall, sensing the slight vibration, and the child laughed once more, an innocent sound that seemed to bring life-giving warmth to the ancient walls. Vorlaxion stirred. It was not complete. It was not perfect. It was a city stitched together from remembrance, echo, and imagination but it lived now. And with the arrival of Eryndor, Lira, and Kael, its first page had been written. With each step that they took, each laugh and grumbled comment, it became part of the citadel’s fabric. Vorlaxion would never be silent again.