The Riverside Quarters stank of wet rope and unwashed bodies. The Sereth River swelled thick with runoff, carrying the city's waste as surely as it bore barges of grain and ore. Lucien Graves walked its crooked lanes with an expression neither wary nor curious, his coat collar raised against the damp. His eyes—flat, unblinking, lifeless—swept across faces, shadows, and streets without pause, as though already knowing there was no meaning to be found in any of them.
Beside him, Corin Aldewick jabbered ceaselessly.
"And that there, see, that's Marrow Alley—you don't want to go down there, no, not unless you've got coin to lose or blood you don't mind spilling. And—ah, see that tower? Used to be a guard post before the watch stopped caring about Riverside. Ha! Now it's home to a gambling den, though don't ever play cards there unless you've got a death wish…"
Lucien didn't answer. He didn't even nod. He simply walked.
The Riverside was Gravemont's belly, where the city swallowed and chewed upon itself. Laborers dragged carts laden with coal, shouting curses over the clash of wheels. Dockhands brawled over wages beneath sagging awnings. Washerwomen bent over buckets, their chatter carrying above the splash of river water. Children darted barefoot through mud and fish guts, their laughter edged with hunger.
Above this squalor loomed Gravemont itself.
The city was a labyrinth built upward, each layer pressing down on the one beneath.
At the base stretched the Riverside Quarters, crowded and foul, where buildings leaned as if exhausted, their timbers rotting, their plaster cracked. Life here was survival and nothing more.
Beyond, the Market Wards never ceased. Stalls lined every avenue, spilling bolts of silk, jars of spice, wheels of cheese that perfumed the air with sharp tangs. Traders barked in accents foreign and local alike, while pickpockets slipped among the crowd as easily as fish through water. Wealth and desperation walked hand in hand.
Above it rose the solemn Temple District, its spires stabbing at the heavens. Bells tolled with an eerie precision, dividing hours like the cutting of a knife. Priests glided through incense smoke, whispering prayers to a pantheon of gods half-believed in and half-feared. Their white robes caught the sun, their chants echoing through stone cloisters where pilgrims knelt and wept.
Then came the Noble Quarters. Wide boulevards swept clean of dirt. Manors rose behind high walls, their gates wrought with crests and beasts of heraldry. Lanterns of silver and crystal burned even by daylight, spilling golden light across cobblestones polished by servants' hands. There was no stench here, no clamor, only the quiet of wealth so vast it silenced the world around it.
And at the crown of all stood the Imperial Citadel. Its white towers pierced the sky, casting long shadows down upon the city that knelt beneath. The Empress of Aetherra ruled from there, her word binding the realm like iron. Black and silver banners streamed from its walls, catching the sun like blades.
This was Gravemont. A city that devoured the weak and worshipped the strong.
It was here, among the lowest stones of this towering order, that Lucien walked.
---
Corin's hand shot out suddenly, seizing Lucien's sleeve. "Careful—!"
Lucien halted.
A breath later, the thunder of hooves split the street. A carriage, lacquered black and trimmed with silver, hurtled toward them. Wheels screeched as the driver hauled the reins, the horses rearing, foam flecking their bits. The carriage halted an inch from crushing them.
The door swung open.
A guard stepped down first, tall and broad, his polished cuirass reflecting the gray light of the river district. He extended a gloved hand behind him.
A pale, slim hand emerged, and Lady Elowen Valebridge descended.
Silk brushed against cobbles, dusk-blue fabric embroidered with silver threads that caught even the meager Riverside light. A lace veil framed her face, though the gray of her eyes pierced through it unclouded.
The clamor of Riverside dulled. Men paused mid-curse. A drunkard dropped his cup. Even the children froze, staring. Nobility did not often grace these streets, and when it did, the world seemed to stutter.
Her gaze found Lucien immediately.
"You," she said, voice clear, carrying over the hush. "You were the boy in the alley."
Lucien said nothing.
"You have no name, you told me." Her lips curved faintly. "Come to my home. You may bring the extra."
Her glance flicked to Corin, dismissive, then back to Lucien as if he were the only figure present.
Lucien's reply was ice. "No."
Corin trembled beside him, sweat beading his brow. His voice cracked as he stammered, "Y-yes, my lady! We'll come!"
Lucien's eyes slid toward him, sharp as glass. But Corin's knees were already bending, his body already moving toward the carriage as though compelled by gravity itself.
The guard's hand remained extended. The door remained open. The silence pressed down.
Lucien felt the whispers curl at the edges of his mind, faint, sardonic.
The axis bends. Step through.
He climbed into the carriage without another word.
---
The Carriage
The interior smelled faintly of lavender and old wood polish. Velvet cushions sank beneath their weight. Gold tassels swayed gently with each rattle of the wheels.
Elowen sat straight-backed, hands folded in her lap, her gaze unblinking on Lucien.
Lucien leaned into the corner, his body language careless, though his eyes flickered across every detail—bolts of the window, hinge of the door, reflection of the guard's polished sword in the opposite panel.
Corin sat stiff, pale, hands clenched around his knees as though bracing against unseen blows. His patched coat and muddy boots looked almost obscene against velvet.
Minutes passed. The clatter of hooves filled the silence.
Corin broke first. "Th-thank you, my lady, for allowing us…"
Elowen's gaze flicked to him, cool and measured. "I did not invite you. I invited him. You chose to follow."
Corin flushed red, ducking his head. "Yes, my lady."
Lucien said nothing. But for the faintest flicker at the corner of his mouth, it might have seemed he hadn't heard.
---
The Estate
The carriage climbed steadily through Gravemont's rings. Past the clamor of markets, past the echoing bells of the Temple District, into streets where the world grew hushed. Wide boulevards stretched clean, lined with marble fountains, gardens manicured to unnatural symmetry.
At last, the Valebridge estate gates swung open.
The mansion rose like a fortress draped in elegance. Its walls of pale stone bore ivy, its roofline bristling with turrets. Windows of leaded glass gleamed in the late light, and a tower loomed at its heart like a watchful sentinel.
Servants rushed to meet them—footmen bowing deeply, a steward with silver chain of office, maids pausing mid-task.
When Lucien stepped down, silence followed him. Their gazes slid over his coarse coat, his hollow eyes, then darted quickly back to the ground. Whispers stirred.
A gardener froze, his trowel stilling in the soil. A maid with linens hugged them tighter, her lips pressed thin. The ripple spread—shock at who Lady Elowen had brought through the gates.
Elowen ignored them utterly.
But at the top of the marble stair, a tall man stood.
The Duke of Valebridge.
Broad-shouldered, cloaked in velvet trimmed with fur, his hair dark streaked with gray. His face was carved in harsh lines, his eyes glacial and severe.
"Daughter." His voice filled the courtyard. "My office. Bring them."
Elowen inclined her head. "Yes, Father."
She turned, voice calm. "Wait here."
Lucien stood still as stone. Corin shifted, sweat trickling down his temple.
Time dragged like lead.
Then Elowen returned.
Her veil was gone. Her hair was slightly disordered. And across her cheek, faint but unmistakable, bloomed the red imprint of a hand.
She said nothing of it. Did not glance at their faces, nor acknowledge the servants whose eyes darted with furtive sympathy.
"Come," she said simply, her voice unchanged.
Lucien's gaze lingered a moment longer than before—empty, unreadable. Corin bit his lip until it whitened.
---
Her Quarters
Elowen's rooms lay deep in the east wing. Through endless corridors they walked—halls lined with ancestral portraits, eyes watching coldly, carpets muffling each step.
Her chambers opened into a sitting room warm with firelight. Bookshelves climbed the walls, maps and globes crowded tables. Heavy curtains shut out the world.
"Sit," she said.
Corin nearly collapsed into a chair, bowing his head. Lucien lowered himself slowly, movements deliberate, gaze drifting across the room without curiosity.
Elowen crossed to the mirror. For the briefest second, her hand hovered near the bruise on her cheek. Then she dropped it, turned, and faced them with a composure unbroken.
Her gray eyes fixed on Lucien.
"You interest me," she said.
Lucien's reply was flat. "I shouldn't."
"You told me names hold meaning. And that you have none." Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "That alone is meaning."
Corin blinked between them, confusion plain, but said nothing.
Elowen seated herself opposite. Firelight painted shadows across her cheek, accentuating the bruise rather than concealing it.
"I want to know," she continued, "what you see when you walk these streets. What you think when you look at people. Because you look… differently."
Lucien's eyes, dull as stone, met hers without flicker. "I see nothing. People are nothing. Streets are stone. The world is rot and noise. All of it will end. All of it is meaningless."
The words fell heavy in the warm chamber, smothering the crackle of fire.
Corin swallowed, his face pale. "Lucien…"
But Elowen's gaze sharpened, fascinated.
"Then perhaps," she said softly, "you and I might not be so different."
The whispers stirred in Lucien's mind again, curling like smoke.
The axis bends. The circle waits.