Silence pressed down on the alley, thick as smoke.
The female bandit swallowed hard, her grip shaking. "…Saints. That's—" she cut himself short, eyes flicking back to Jasper.
Her partner's whisper rasped through the dark. "If that's really her… we might already be dead."
Jasper's crimson eyes met theirs—calm, steady, unblinking. She never reached for her weapon. She didn't have to.
The bandits froze looking away from her, caught between greed and terror. Instinct finally won out—they reached for their holstered revolvers.
But when they turned their eyes back, the spot where Jasper had stood empty. She was gone—slipped into the crush of Tyla's backstreets the instant their eyes left her. Vanished like smoke.
The two bandits stood frozen, breaths ragged. Then the masked woman let out a sharp, nervous laugh, holstering her revolver. "Saints damn… we're still alive."
Her partner wiped sweat from his brow, forcing a grin. "Yeah. Lucky us." His gaze drifted back to the GlyphGlass, the bounty figure burning bright in his head. Six hundred thousand Krits.
The woman's grin sharpened. "Too lucky to waste. You know what a payday like that means?"
He nodded slowly, eyes wide. "We can't take her alone. Not a chance."
"Exactly." She grabbed his vest, pulling him close. "Get word to boss Lobby. Tell him the 'Jin he's hunting is on the first level—and I've got a good idea where she's heading. If we want that bounty…" Her smile spread, crooked and hungry. "…we're gonna need more men."
Jasper tore through the streets, panic snapping at her with every step. After years of hiding her identity, they finally had a glimpse of her face. She'd have to act fast—change her clothes, rip out the piercing, maybe even cut her hair. Anything to vanish again.
Then her chest tightened. The camera.
Her stride broke as she cradled it against her side, fingers fumbling over the body, checking for cracks. The thought of it being damaged rattled her almost as much as being caught. With a sharp breath, she slipped on a spare pair of sunglasses—always ready, always prepared when prejudice forced her hand.
One truth remained: if she wanted to stay free, she had to get out of Tyla.
The gang hunting her had clearly outsourced her capture, and with her deep in their territory, it was only a matter of time before they closed in.
She followed the path until it ended at a broad stairway carved into Tyla's cliffs, wide enough for wagon teams and crowded with bodies. Merchants hauling crates, miners shuffling off shift, children darting between their elders—an endless stream moving up and down the stone steps.
Jasper paused at the base, lifting her shades against the glare. The stairway rose tier after tier, vanishing into Brightfall's wavering haze.
Would the shot be worth the climb? Would it be worth the exposure?
The sun blazed white-hot, Brightfall burning at its peak. Midday heatwaves warped the air, climbing past one hundred and fifty degrees.
A low hum rippled through the city. Jasper paused, tilting her head as shutters rattled and shop signs swayed on their chains. The sound was everywhere—stone, metal, even the air itself carrying the resonance. Civilians slowed, their eyes lifting. They knew the signal.
The Weather Mechanica was coming online.
A thin, gleaming film spread across the town, almost invisible until the sunlight caught it. The heat-reflective layer shimmered like glass, stretching dome-wide until it coated Tyla in a translucent skin. The crushing blaze of Brightfall dimmed, easing just enough to keep the streets alive. The people carried on, but slower, wearier—grateful for the reprieve.
If not for the Mechanica woven into her weathersuit, Jasper would've died from heatstroke on her way to Tyla. This world itself seemed set on killing you, and only Mechanicas held it back. Climate control, generators, weapons—science perfected and chained into steel. Against Brightfall, torrential rains, and geyser quakes, perfection was the only shield humanity had.
But perfection didn't mean convenience. Tyla had never built transit between its tiers, leaving only the old stairways carved into the cliffs. And the vista she wanted—the perfect angle of Tereliva—waited high above on the third tier.
To her aggravation.
She could've taken the AquaTran straight from here. Safer. Quicker. Damn sure less exhausting.
But she felt she would be safe as long as she had her revolver and the safe route never made the best pictures.
So she climbed. Step by step until the third tier opened before her: a plaza buzzing with life. Puppet-vendors whirred and clacked, hawking bottled nectar and cheap trinkets for Tereliva's anniversary festival. Colored cloth hung between stalls, fluttering in the dry wind.
Jasper slipped past the crowd and collapsed onto a bench at the edge of the plaza, legs trembling from the endless climb. She leaned back, dragging in a breath that felt like it weighed fifty pounds, then slowly raised her camera with the grim ceremony of a woman about to claim her reward.
Click.
Another shot—Tereliva glowing in the haze, wrapped in mist.
Or it should have been.
The camera stuttered, wheezed like it was dying of Brightfall itself… then went dead. Shorted.
Jasper stared at the blank screen, sweat dripping from her chin, and managed only a thin, exhausted smirk that said: Of course.
Frustration simmered. She shot a silent curse toward the bandit who'd knocked it from her grip earlier.
Jasper turned the device over in her hands, gentler now, fingers brushing its scratched casing with quiet sentiment. She inhaled, weighing her choices.
The gang was still on her tail. Her delivery window was closing. She couldn't afford another detour.
But this camera was everything. If she was going to reach Tereliva, she needed it working.
She tried her luck at the vendors, translator sphere flickering to life. But the first puppet dismissed her the moment her features bled through. The second waved her off closing early because they heard the Grave Digger was around. The third finally tilted its head and then gave her directions.
An Onyxsmith.
A master craftsman with hands in every machine and Mechanica. If anyone could fix her camera, it would be him.
Jasper perked up—only to feel her stomach sink when she realized the shop wasn't up here on the third tier. It was back down on the first.
She slumped against the railing with a groan, sweat already stinging her eyes. After dragging herself up all those steps for the perfect shot, now she had to turn around and march back down.
Muttering a silent curse she started her reluctant descent, boots heavy on the stone.
By the time Jasper made it back to the first tier, her legs felt like overcooked noodles. She staggered past families hauling crates and festival garlands, all of them heading toward Tereliva for the anniversary. The streets buzzed with chatter, hawkers shouting over one another, kids darting between stalls with streamers trailing in their hands.
She caught a snatch of conversation as two women hurried past with baskets balanced on their hips.
"Next AquaTran's in an hour," one said.
"Then we better move—no way I'm missing the fireworks," the other replied.
Jasper froze, panic tightening her chest. An hour. That was all she had to get her camera fixed and make the departure, or risk being stranded in Tyla with every bounty hunter in the south closing in.
Her pace quickened, sweat slicking her neck beneath the collar of her weathersuit. Every delay felt like the world was mocking her. She needed that camera. She needed that AquaTran.
Then—movement in the nearby alley.
Jasper ducked to the side, pressing against a corner. In the alley ahead, an old red-eyed man stood surrounded by bandits from earlier but now multiplied. They were questioning him—about her.
Jasper's stomach dropped. She had never seen him before, but to them all red-eyes were the same. Surely he was hiding her.
Her gaze flicked upward. A cracked sign swung above the door. The workshop. The Onyxsmith she'd been looking for.
And of course, he was boxed in by half a dozen armed thugs.