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Here stood Phyreios, the holy city, much diminished: the great Iron Mountain was no more than a gentle hill, lower than the spires of the newly rebuilt temple complex. No paths etched the rust-colored earth, and the black maw of the mine remained closed, perhaps never to be opened again. The towering forge had not yet been restored, and the place where it had once loomed over the industrial quarter was only empty sky. 

In my memory, Phyreios was a ruin, its pale stone scarred by fire and cast down to lie in broken piles of rubble. I had not seen it for more than ten years. How strange it was to behold the walls rebuilt, the great gate remade and standing open to let in a procession of travelers and merchants, the streets cleared of debris and paved smooth and even. Guards in white tabards stood smiling in the sun, greeting each of the passers-by with a nod. Overhead, a new aqueduct came down from the mountain, water sparkling like silver and babbling like the laughter of children. There were children, too, clean and well-fed, running through the market square, asking the shopkeepers not for money but for sweets. The dark, reeking slums outside the walls were gone. Colorful tents spread out like bright insects from the gate, and fresh water flowed easily from a pump beside the wall, where the women of the caravans gathered with their baskets and jugs. The passage of the great worm was like the dream of a dream, forgotten upon waking. 

But I, who had seen the city fall, knew where to look for its scars. The stones that made the arch over the gate had scorch marks on the underside, and the columns holding the aqueduct aloft were rough with chips and scratches. As I passed through the gate and wandered away from the market, the city fell quiet, and empty houses with dark windows sat silently on either side of the thoroughfare. Even now, with travelers coming and going each day, not enough people lived in the city to fill these rebuilt dwellings.