Han Jae-min fell into sleep the way a drowning man sinks into the deep.
No gentle drift, no quiet surrender. This time the pull was violent—an unseen tide that seized him from the ribs and tore him downward into blackness. He struggled, but there was no body to struggle with, no arms or legs—only the raw sense of himself being yanked by invisible hands.
The whispers came again.
Not faint this time, but sharp, insistent, like voices pressed directly against his skull. They argued, laughed, cried, commanded—all in tongues that bent his ears the wrong way. A phrase surfaced, clawing through the others, half-understood:
"The circle closes. The axis turns."
And then—impact.
He hit the ground hard, breath leaving his chest in a gasp. Damp air filled his lungs, sour with rot and old piss. When his vision steadied, he found himself sprawled on uneven cobblestones, walls looming close on either side.
Duskbourne.
Lucien Graves once more.
The pain was real, the scrape on his palms raw, and the ache in his bones no different from when fists had struck him last. He pushed himself up on unsteady hands, but before he could regain balance, a hard shove drove him back to his knees.
"Watch where you crawl," a man's voice growled.
Lucien looked up, blinking through strands of hair. A man towered above him—broad-shouldered, jaw lined with stubble, eyes carrying a kind of hard suspicion Lucien had already come to know in this world. But before the man could act further, another voice piped up—quieter, hesitant.
"Wait—don't. That's him. The one I told you about."
Lucien turned his head.
The boy.
The same boy who had been beaten bloody by those noble brats days earlier. His clothes were patched, his face still carrying faint yellow bruises, but his eyes—bright and strangely stubborn—met Lucien's without wavering.
The man grunted, stepped back, and the boy hurried forward.
"Here, let me—" He grasped Lucien's arm, hauling him up with more effort than success. "Thanks… for the other day. You shouldn't have gotten yourself hurt, but you did. And I—well—I owe you, I guess."
Lucien said nothing. Silence, he found, was easier than wasted breath.
The boy smiled anyway, nervous but genuine. "Name's Corin. Corin Aldewick. You don't look like you know your way around here, do you?"
Lucien's silence stretched long enough to sour into irritation.
Corin filled it with words. "Doesn't matter. I can guide you. Safer to stick together, anyway."
"Why are you following me?" Lucien's voice was flat, his eyes cold.
Corin faltered, then gave a sheepish shrug. "Because you clearly don't know these parts. And besides… you helped me. So, I'll help you." His smile tugged wider. "Come on, I'll show you Gravemont."
Lucien should have refused. He should have turned his back. But something—whether the residue of the whispers or the simple pull of inevitability—made him fall into step beside the boy.
---
Gravemont – The First Ring
They left the alley behind, and the city opened itself.
Corin spoke as they walked, gestures quick and expansive. "Gravemont isn't just big. It's built in rings. Each higher than the last, each cut off from the one beneath."
The first was the Riverside Quarters, hugging the Sereth River's muddy banks.
Lucien smelled it before he saw it: fish guts, river muck, sweat, and smoke from cooking fires. Shacks of warped timber leaned drunkenly against one another, their roofs patched with rotting tar. Laundry lines sagged between windows. Children darted barefoot in the muck, their laughter thin, their ribs sharp under skin. Men hauled crates from boats with hunched backs, shouting in rough accents as guild foremen barked orders.
Rats the size of cats skittered underfoot.
Corin kept close, lowering his voice. "Watch yourself here. Riverside folk don't trust strangers, and cutpurses work faster than you can blink. But this is where life starts. Every sack of grain, every crate of spice, every barrel of wine—it all passes through here first."
A barge floated by, its deck sagging under crates stamped with foreign crests. Dockhands shouted, ropes groaned, gulls screamed overhead. The Sereth itself rolled black and wide, reflecting torchlight like liquid obsidian.
Lucien walked in silence, but he noticed how eyes followed him—suspicious, hungry, some resentful, some calculating.
---
The Market Wards
From the stench of the riverside, the streets climbed into a riot of noise and color.
The Market Wards stretched wide, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of trade. Lanterns swayed overhead in every color—red, green, amber—casting light on stalls piled high with goods. The air was thick with spice and sweat, roasted meat and perfume, the tang of foreign incense.
Merchants bellowed. "Salted eel! Fresh-caught from the Sereth!"
"Charms, blessed by the White Priests—keep curses away!"
"Silks from Arveth, finer than spiderthread!"
Carriages rumbled past, guild banners snapping above them. Coins clinked, haggling voices rose like waves, and the cries of beasts—camels, oxen, strange scaled pack-creatures from distant provinces—added to the chaos.
Corin grinned despite himself, weaving Lucien through the crush. "The Market never sleeps. Rich, poor, they all come here eventually. Traders make fortunes, guilds rise and fall—this is the Empire's pulse."
Lucien's eyes caught on a beggar crouched beside a spice stall, ignored by all, his hand trembling in the air. Just beyond, a merchant in jeweled rings spat in the dust for a servant to wipe away.
Wealth and hunger shared the same street, but never touched.
---
The Temple District
The noise faded as they climbed again. Bells tolled, deep and solemn, carrying through the air like iron weights.
The Temple District loomed above them, its great stone steps polished by the knees of centuries of pilgrims. Temples of gray and white marble rose like mountains, their columns carved with gods old and new. Braziers burned with fragrant incense, smoke curling upward like prayers.
Priests in flowing robes moved in lines, chanting in low cadences. Pilgrims knelt at the stairs, some weeping, some whispering fervent requests. The symbols of dozens of faiths crowded the skyline—spires, domes, statues.
Corin lowered his voice reverently. "Here's where the Faith rules. Don't cross the priests. The High Theurge whispers in the Empress's ear. Some say his word outweighs hers."
Lucien's eyes lingered on a statue—a faceless figure carved in black stone, its hands outstretched. For an instant, the whispers in his head surged louder, twisting around the name carved beneath in runes he didn't yet understand.
He clenched his fists.
---
The Noble Quarters
Walls of pale marble, guarded gates, and steel-clad soldiers marked the entrance to the Noble Quarters. Beyond, the streets widened, paved with stone polished smooth enough to reflect lamplight.
Manors rose behind wrought-iron fences, their gardens manicured into precise geometries. Fountains whispered softly, their waters pure as glass. Carriages rolled by, lacquered in dark paint, crests gleaming in gold.
Servants moved briskly, heads lowered, carrying trays and parcels. Nobles strolled, their clothing rich with velvet and silk, their conversations clipped and amused.
"Here's where the Lords and Ladies live," Corin muttered, bitterness creeping into his voice. "They don't see the Riverside. They don't hear the Market. They pretend the Temple exists only to bless their feasts. To them, the Empire is just this ring—and the hill above."
Lucien's gaze swept over them, expression unreadable. He remembered the noble boys in the alley. Their sneers. Their fists.
---
The Imperial Citadel
And there—rising above all—stood the Citadel.
Perched on its hill, it pierced the sky with spires of black stone and gold-veined marble. Walls circled it like armor, and banners of crimson and gold fluttered in the night wind. Torchlight crowned its towers like a constellation.
Corin's voice dropped. "The Empress lives there. No one sees her without permission. Some say she hasn't left her throne in years. Others say she sees everything in the Empire at once." He shuddered, almost theatrically. "Either way, that's the crown of the four rings."
Lucien stared upward.
The whispers returned, pressing against his skull. The circle closes. The axis turns.
And for the first time, he wondered whether Gravemont itself was alive—and whether it had dragged him here for a reason.