Morning—if the word truly had meaning in Noctarion—came as a creeping cold over Chasmor's terraces, inhaling slowly, like some vast creature checking that all it saw was still its own. The domes of bioluminescent mushrooms dimmed into a greenish dusk; a thin fog curled from the cracks in the stone, carrying the scent of iron and salt, as if the air had once been steeped for centuries in a forgotten sea. Overhead, the suspended rails gave a soft, drawn-out groan, the low note stretching thin, then tightening again whenever an ore cart rattled past—a sound that left the taste of metal lingering at the tip of the tongue.
Rae Althorne stood at the platform's edge, palms pressed to the railing cold as teeth. She watched the rails hanging in open air, the trolleys climbing and descending the gantries, loads passing from knot to knot like a shared breath—measured, careful, so no single lung would burst. She was not merely watching; she was listening. In Noctarion, even silence had its own composition.
"Three in, five out," she murmured, keeping the rhythm in her chest like a key. She drew in air laced with salt and coal dust, carrying the burnt bitterness of beach sand roasted too long, aching to become glass.
Lua appeared without a sound—always that way, if she didn't wish to be seen until the moment she chose. The hardened root-tip of her staff—used to mark the tempo of the stone's song—tapped once against Rae's boot. A soft knock, almost teasing.
"Hold your breath," she said, "like you're hiding."
Rae obeyed. For a moment, the day filled with the soft rasp of chains—faint, like a metal serpent crawling. The first cart approached, its basket brimming with Core Ore: rock cradling tiny fragments of starlight between its seams. Behind it came another, and another—escorted by figures in dark uniforms and long coats that swallowed the glow of the mushrooms and refused to return it.
The Abysm Guard.
You felt them before you saw them. Like the draft from a door that should never have been opened. They carried the sound of keys and the rub of oiled leather, and the kind of courtesy sharpened for violence.
Shouts climbed the terraces—not the babble of a market, but sharp, angled cries. Older men squinted; mothers locked their arms tighter around the small backs of their children; some rail workers, still clinging to the notion of luck, shuffled tools into the shadows with motions meant not to look like hiding.
Brug appeared beside Rae, bringing the steadfastness of a loyal friend and the ill timing of a bad idea that always arrived exactly when it pleased. He smelled of old resin and steam. His mouth wore that particular set that meant he had already decided—before speaking—that today he would be stubborn.
"What do they want?" Rae asked, though she already knew the answer would sound like an old refrain.
"What they always want when the bridges are singing too well," Brug said. "More."
A captain peeled himself from the column like a knife sliding from a sheath, his shoulders marked with lacquer-burned insignia: three irises—the Overlord's seal—and beneath them, a symbol Rae did not know: three vertical lines crossed by a single horizontal slash. It pulled at her inner ear, sounding like a count left unfinished.
Lua drew a short breath. "Tax mark," she said flatly. "Abyss Tax."
The captain stood at the platform's head, voice raised just enough without shouting.
"In the name of the palace and the safety of the route, the Abyss Tax takes effect today. Each caravan will add one-quarter to its tithe. Each mining post will surrender surplus stock. Worker families will be held as collateral until the tithe is paid in full."
The words fell like nails into wet wood.
"Collateral?" someone behind Rae shouted, voice cracking. "That's my child!"
The Abysm Guard moved like a thread drawn tight. They spread, pacing the line of ore carts, stamping black wax seals onto the baskets—a dot cooling in the woven mesh. More than a stamp, it was a declaration of temporary ownership. Others unfurled chains; the links chewed the air, hissing as if longing to be thunder.
A faint thump ran from the railing into Rae's bones. Not the trolleys; not the machines. A different beat. From deep below. A pulse.
"Hear that?" she whispered to Lua.
Lua nodded without turning. "You always catch it first."
From the far terrace, Rudran approached with the gait of a man who preferred standing near the winning side. His frame was compact; his hair slicked back; his black eyes measured like scales trained to always return to zero. He took his place beside the captain, not his workers. A small, short-lived smile ghosted his lips when he saw Rae and Lua.
"What will you say?" Rae asked quietly, half to test him, half to bargain for another possibility.
Rudran lifted a shoulder as though borrowing a weight that wasn't his. "You heard it yourself. Abyss Tax. A hot wind from the gorge damaged the western span; the bridge needs repair. There are mouths starving in the barter city. We all have to… hold our breath together."
"Whose breath?" Lua asked. "Whose breath is being held, Rudran?"
"Those with room to spare in their lungs."