The world outside was a blur of ocher and sky, a painting rendered at high speed. Startled birds erupted from the dunes, their wings beating in a frantic rhythm that was seen, but not heard. Inside the passenger capsule, an almost sacred silence reigned. The machine, a train that fused arcane metallurgy with precision engineering, glided over its rails without a single sound, a steel serpent slithering through the desert.
Seated on a crimson velvet seat, a boy watched his own ghost in the window's glass. The reflection showed a face with fine features, framed by hair of a reddish hue so dark it bordered on scarlet. It was cut short, in an almost military style that contrasted painfully with his large eyes and long lashes. Every time his gaze fixed on that image, a pang of anguish tightened his chest. That appearance, that farce, was a constant weight on his shoulders, a bitter reminder of what he had left behind.
He forced himself to shift his focus, to look past his reflection to the world beyond. Down below, the black metal rails pulsed with a soft, blue luminescence—the source of the silent energy that propelled them. Beyond the rails, the scorching yellow of the desert stretched as far as the eye could see, a sea of sand dotted with rocky, arid mountains that rose like the ancient bones of the earth.
And then, he saw it.
At first, it was just a series of dark needles piercing the horizon. But as the train drew closer, the shapes became colossal, terrifying in their sheer grandeur. Towers of dark steel, interwoven with gears the size of houses and pipes that spewed colorful vapors, climbed into the heavens, taller than any mountain peak he had ever witnessed. It was a scar of metal and ambition carved into the heart of the desert. The great merchant city of Chisanatora.
A sharp breath escaped his lips, his voice thin and low, almost a whisper to himself. "We've arrived."
The realization lit a fire within him, dispelling the shadow of his anguish. Apathy turned to urgency.
"We're here! Wake up, Gunder!" he exclaimed, turning abruptly to the man sitting beside him.
Gunder, a man with short, black hair, was fast asleep, a hardcover book covering his face. The boy poked his shoulder, impatience overflowing in an almost childish gesture. "Wake up!"
With exasperating slowness, Gunder raised his arms, stretching like a lazy cat. He took the book in both hands, lowering it to his lap in a drowsy motion. His eyes blinked open, hazy for an instant before they focused with surprising clarity. Despite a face still marked by sleep, his gaze was as sharp as a bird of prey's.
"We've arrived, have we…?" his voice trailed off, interrupted by a yawn he barely bothered to stifle.
The boy leaned forward, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. The reflection in the window now showed a determined glint in his scarlet eyes. A sharp, confident smile spread across his lips, wiping away any trace of doubt.
"Finally," he declared, his voice vibrating with purpose. "The first real clue to finding the Crown of Celeste."
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The air inside Chisanatora's terminal station was clean, filtered, and carried the subtle scent of polished metal and ozone. Well-dressed passengers moved with purpose across gleaming obsidian platforms while Gunder, with his usual efficiency, was already approaching a station guard for information.
Leaving him to his work, the boy walked toward the edge of the platform, drawn to a large safety railing. On the other side, the tracks that had brought them here simply ended, suspended in the air at a dizzying height. He gripped the cold metal bars and looked down.
His stomach plummeted. The world opened up beneath his feet.
He had known, in theory, that the train had stopped at the city's apex, but the reality was far more overwhelming. Below, an ocean of dark metal stretched as far as the eye could see, a metropolis of rust and soot contained only by the arid horizon of the yellowed mountains. Gigantic ducts, corroded by the desert's salty air, vomited clouds of acrid, yellowish vapor. Exposed pipes spewed a sickly-colored sewage into chasms between the buildings. The lower city seemed to rot, a decaying metallic organism. The few trees he could see were black skeletons, and the wooden structures crammed between the steel ones were old and twisted.
Then, the boy raised his gaze.
The contrast left him breathless. Above the station line, the city continued to ascend in graceful spires of pure opulence. The black metal was smooth and polished, reflecting the sunlight. The gears that moved elevators and platforms shone with a silver luster. Hanging gardens, bursting with vibrant green, sprouted from the steel structures, defying the desert's aridity. An expression of pure fascination washed over his face. A city of two worlds, a jewel built upon a junkyard. He had never even imagined such a thing.
"Tom, let's go." Gunder's pragmatic voice sounded from behind, breaking the spell. "Found an inn nearby that won't bankrupt us."
The boy turned, a radiant smile on his face, the eagerness to explore this technological marvel taking over his entire being. "Right!" His mind was already racing, imagining where they would stay. A hotel made of polished steel? A room with a giant gear on the wall?
The fantasy shattered the moment his eyes landed on their destination.
"…Gunder… what the hell is this?" The disappointment in his voice was palpable, as sharp as broken glass.
They were in a damp, dark alley, squeezed between two rusted buildings. The wooden sign for the "Inn" was so rotten that the syllable 'In' hung by a single, crooked nail. Overhead ducts dripped an oily liquid that formed iridescent puddles on the ground. The few people slinking through the shadows wore patched clothes and avoided eye contact at all costs, moving like frightened rats.
"The inn I told you about," Gunder replied with a grin that showed not a shred of shame, walking confidently toward the crooked door.
Tom let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I should have expected this when we had to go down that dark staircase…" The memory from minutes ago was vivid: a spiral metal staircase, poorly lit by flickering mana lamps, that had led them from the immaculate platforms down into the fetid bowels of the lower city.
Gunder stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder with an air of false innocence. "Oh, come on, Tom. If you hadn't spent almost all our money on that 'one-of-a-kind' constellation map back in Faraam Port, we could afford a better room…"
Tom just shot him a death glare.
"I hate you."
After the reservation was made with a few bronze coins that Gunder practically tossed onto the counter, the two went up to their room. On the outside, the walls were clad in the same stained metal as the city, but inside, the space was almost entirely old, damp wood. The pervasive smell of mildew and cheap ale from the floor below was sharp. There were two beds that looked more like piles of straw covered by a thin sheet.
"At least they have mattresses…" Tom muttered to himself, the relief in his voice the only thing stopping him from complaining further.
Gunder didn't reply. He simply tossed Tom's pack onto one of the beds, raising a small cloud of dust, and threw himself onto the other with a groan that was part exhaustion, part pure bliss. The frame creaked in protest. "Alright, time for a nap."
"Not a chance!" Tom retorted, marching to the bed and grabbing the collar of Gunder's overcoat. "We have to go to the Sentinels' headquarters! To talk to the contractor!" His face turned red with the useless effort of moving the man, who seemed to have the weight of a boulder.
"And why go now? We can get a few good hours of sleep first," Gunder replied, his voice already muffled as he kicked off his boots and pulled a dubious-looking pillow over his head.
His stubbornness was the last straw. "Fine! Stay here by yourself, you lazy oaf!" Tom exclaimed, the irritation making his face burn like a chili pepper. "I'll go alone!"
"Yeah, yeah…" Gunder mumbled from under the pillow, waving a dismissive hand at him. He then pulled the thin blanket over himself, transforming into a human cocoon.
Harrumphing, Tom stomped down the inn's stairs, each step on the old wood echoing his frustration. He grumbled to himself, cursing his companion's laziness and obstinance, while the few patrons in the common room watched him with a mix of confusion and fear, shrinking away as if his anger were contagious. His steps were heavy, the rhythmic, angry stomping of a spoiled child who didn't get his way.
"I'll go myself, then!" he proclaimed to no one in particular as he pushed the door open and left.
Outside the alley, the reality of the lower city hit him. The streets were made of rough, uneven stone, with rusted metal grates serving as railings against sheer drops. The city was built in layers, ascending in a chaotic spiral of bridges, alleys, and staircases. It was a vertical labyrinth. Within minutes, Tom's confidence evaporated, replaced by a growing disorientation.
"Where… where is that staircase…?" he murmured, looking at the identical passageways around him.
The people here moved just as Gunder had described: like frightened rats. Hooded, their faces hidden in shadows, they scurried along the walls, vanishing at the slightest hint of attention. Standing in what seemed to be a small square, Tom felt dozens of eyes on him. The whispers were like the buzzing of venomous insects. It didn't take long for him to understand: the outlier, the potential prey, was him.
His clothes, though simple, were of a sturdy, clean fabric. His boots were worn, but made of good leather. He didn't belong here, and every inhabitant knew it. Tom swallowed hard, the sound echoing in his suddenly dry throat. Maybe… maybe walking around alone wasn't the smartest idea.
It was then that a different sound cut through the tension: laughter. Loud, hoarse, and soaked in alcohol. He turned toward the noise and spotted a shabby-looking tavern, its door swinging on a single hinge. It was a typical sight in any city, a den for drunks and loafers.
An idea sparked in his desperate mind. He was lost and needed directions to the upper city. And a drunk, for the promise of another drink, would probably give him the information he needed. It was a simple transaction, an exchange of coin for words.
At least, that's what Tom naively thought.
The tavern door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing an atmosphere thick with the smell of cheap alcohol, sweat, and smoke. A tuneless melody was being plucked from a stringed instrument in the corner, but it barely managed to drown out the coarse laughter and the clash of tankards. Following the customs of his homeland—a sign of politeness and respect—Tom announced his presence in the clearest voice he could manage.
"Excuse me…"
It was as if a switch had been flipped. The music stopped with a screech. Laughter died in throats. The clinking ceased. In unison, every gaze in the den turned to the door, fixing on the slender, youthful figure standing in the entrance.
Every pair of eyes followed him like a predator tracking its prey. Tom forced himself to walk toward the bar, keeping his posture straight and his face a mask of seriousness. Inside, however, an icy discomfort spread through his veins. This wasn't the kind of attention he was used to.
"Not from around here, kid?" The bartender's voice was coarse gravel.
He was a bald, heavyset man in a simple white shirt under a stained apron. He watched Tom sideways, with only his left eye, a sharp gaze that bore down on the boy, making him feel even smaller. Compared to these men, he felt like a lost cub among bears.
"No. I'm from Faraam," Tom replied, sliding a few bronze coins across the worn wood of the counter. The metallic sound seemed to break the spell, and slowly, the music and chatter resumed their sloppy rhythm.
"That's a long way off," the bartender stated flatly, drying a mug with a rag that had seen better days. "What'll you have?"
"Milk, please."
The bartender paused for a moment, then turned his back, bending down to grab something. "Cold or hot?"
"Warm, please."
He straightened up. With a snap of his calloused fingers, a small, bluish flame danced on his palm. He turned and placed a glass bottle in front of Tom. The ethereal flame slid from his fingers, enveloped the glass without touching it, and a gentle steam began to waft from the neck.
Tom muttered his thanks and took the bottle. As he raised his gaze to the man's face, his spine froze. The bartender's right eye was a dead, white orb, the center of a web of old scars that pulled the skin from his temple to his cheek.
With two fingers, the man separated two bronze coins and pushed the rest back toward Tom. Ignoring the gesture, the boy brought the bottle to his lips and drank the warm milk in a single, long gulp. With his free hand, he pushed the coins back.
He slammed the empty bottle down on the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his sharp gaze trying to mask the shock he'd felt. "I need information."
The bartender stared at him with his good eye for a long moment. "Right… what do you want to know?"
"The way to the upper city."
The man sighed, a weary sound. "Outta here, on the street to the left of the square, there's a bridge. It leads to the station stairs," his voice was monotone, almost bored. "Didn't need to pay for that. Could've just asked anyone."
"Oh…" Tom let out, feeling his face flush with embarrassment.
As he was about to give his thanks, he nearly jumped back. The man who had been slumped over the counter next to him awoke with a loud snort. "Who are you?!" Tom yelled, caught by surprise. He hadn't even noticed the passed-out figure there.
"…If you keep gettin' startled like that… you'll be an easy target… girl…" the drunk slurred, his voice thick. His hand reached for a bottle but was intercepted by a swift swat from the bartender.
"Thanks for the advice, but I'm a man!" Tom proclaimed, his voice higher than he intended.
"Whatever you say…" the drunk mumbled, letting his head fall back onto the wood with a dull thud.
Tom turned to leave. "Keep the change. Thank you." Annoyed and flustered, he marched out of the bar.
A malicious gaze followed him from a corner table. And someone at the bar had noticed.
"That kid's strange," the bartender commented, wiping the spot where Tom's bottle had been.
"She's going to get us in trouble… sooner or later…" the drunk commented, his voice now surprisingly clear.
The bartender looked up, his eyes narrowing as he saw a group of men get up and whisper amongst themselves, heading in the direction Tom had gone. Suddenly, his expression hardened. "Wait, what do you mean, 'us'? And didn't you hear him say he was a man?"
"Trust me…" the drunk slurred again.
"Vernh!" the bartender protested in a warning tone.
"Alright… alright…" Vernh pushed himself off the stool, stretching with a crack of his joints. He nearly lost his balance but steadied himself and, with a surprisingly stable step, turned toward the exit.