The airship hanger sprawled before us like a mechanical parade. Steam whistled from a dozen vessels tethered to iron moorings, their brass fittings gleaming in the afternoon sun. Workers scurried between the crafts, hauling supplies and checking rigging while captains barked orders from elevated platforms.
Father strode ahead of us, his black coat billowing as he inspected our family's pride—the Ascendant, sleek and golden, seemed to be twice the size of how the vessel looked in the Kuznetsov Exhibition Hall. Her copper hull caught the light like burnished armor.
"The boilers are primed, Lord Gregor," reported one of my father's minions, wiping grease from his hands. "Steam pressure optimal. She is ready to move."
"Excellent." Father's voice was satisfied, but his eyes remained sharp. "And the... incident at the reveal?"
There was party, no great revile-only the promise owed to the many investors who insisted on not allowing the incident of the night before to ruin such a glorious invention-with many clinging to the idea they would be the first to fly across the skies of Braxmond.
"Word hasn't spread beyond the hall. We've contained it," I heard the whisper of a chief advisor to my father claim moments before we left the estate.
The procession from the factory floor to the main hangar had been nothing short of extraordinary. Teams of draft horses strained against reinforced harnesses, their hooves striking sparks against the cobblestones as they hauled the massive Ascendant through Braxmond's winding streets. Steam-powered winches groaned and spit, their brass pistons gleaming as they guided the airship's frame around tight corners. Workers in leather aprons jogged alongside, steadying guy-ropes and shouting warnings to clear the thoroughfares.
The sight drew crowds like iron filings to a magnet. Shopkeepers abandoned stalls, children pressed faces against windows, factory workers paused to witness the spectacle. The Ascendant's copper hull reflected afternoon light in brilliant flashes across gathering faces. At the wharf, the departure platform teemed with onlookers pressed against barriers, voices rising excitedly. Street vendors hawked pies and ale while pickpockets worked beneath history's shadow. The municipal brass band stationed near mooring posts, instruments gleaming, prepared triumphant departure fanfare.
"This should put an end to the gossip," Mother said softly in an elegant gown of jewel tones emerald with golden lace. "The wives of the lords would not stop asking of the poor man's health. Exhaustion is a devil's trick."
"Forget such matters, Rhylorin." Father's words severed my musing. "Cease your staring. We depart shortly. This exhibition shall guarantee the future of this house for generations."
But it wasn't exhaustion, I thought as my mind tried to recall what I had seen lurking over the two men. The shadow had been real—I was certain of it. Yet each time I summoned the memory, the figure grew more distorted, more faint. Was I losing my grip on what truly happened? More of a trick my mind had played on me.
The Ascendant trembled as her engines roared to take flight. Pistons pumped and gears whirred beneath brassy visages, whispers of steam curling like a sorcerer's breath around her massive hull. Excited murmurs swept the crowd as they released ropes tethering us to the ground.
Mother touched my arm gently, drawing me aside. "I won't be joining you, Rhylorin." Her eyes, pools of sky colored tranquility, searched mine. "Superstition... clouds my judgment today." Her embrace was tender, like sunlight warming on a winter morning. A part of me wanted her presence up there, the solace she provided if Lord Gregor's temper gets out of hand.
Pulling away, I joined Father on the deck, where the city unfurled below us like a tired tapestry. Sunlight shredded through the haze, casting grim shadows over Braxmond's smog-choked expanse. I looked upon the grimed-grey factories spewing smoke, the river of brass at its stifling heart. Beneath the grime, Braxmond was uglier than most dared whisper. The city's decay passed unnoticed, a tale neither glamour nor industry would acknowledge.
Father barked orders, commanding the crew with phrases as crisp and mechanized as clockworks. The city's elite—those whose gilded mansions brooded alongside my own—wandered the deck, engrossed in their chatter.
I watched them with detached amusement, finding their enthusiasm almost comical. How easily they're impressed, I mused. They spoke of dominance unrivaled, how this airship, our Ascendant, signaled a bold new era for Braxmond. To witness their awe, you'd assume Father had discovered flight itself. As if brass and steam could truly lift us above our nature. Enlightenment wasn't found amidst machinery; it was murals of skyward visions only—or so my thoughts meandered. Mother would understand this restlessness, this sense that something greater waits beyond their mechanical dreams.
Amidst the hubbub, Oliver Veynar adjusted his hat, approaching. Heir to Lord Bastien's coal empire, his affluence perpetually annoyed me, along with his fresh-faced earnestness.
"Rhylorin," he began, "have you looked over the academy exams? Everyone's saying this year will test us hard."
I shrugged, nonchalant. "Nothing I can't manage."
"Your confidence masking the nerves of this flight?" Oliver chuckled.
Picking idly at the brass railing, I replied, "Confidence or disinterest, you decide."
A sudden lurch silenced the deck, conversations shattered as this illusion that gripped everyone faded. The ship juddered, pitching like an ironclad stallion. Gasps. Glances alive with nerves.
Lord Gregor, ever a conductor amid chaos, remained composed. "Minor complications," he called, waving off concern with dismissive authority. "The altitude shift needs adjustments—nothing more."
Crew raced to their stations. Beneath Father's assurance shimmered uneasy, his authority apparent in every command. The Ascendant continued its climb, her shadow a stark contrast against Braxmond's stained elegance below.
Above the clouds, fear dissolved like morning mist. The Ascendant cut through crystalline air with silk-smooth grace, her engines humming their mechanical lullaby. Below us, Braxmond's suffocating smog spread like a diseased blanket, but here—here the sky breathed pure and endlessly.
I gripped the brass railing, lungs drinking deep draughts of clean air. This is what freedom tastes like. The weight that perpetually pressed against my chest—Father's expectations, the exhibition's chaos, which cursed vision—lifted away. Wind sang through the rigging, a celestial chorus beckoning me skyward.
Come higher, something whispered in my thoughts, gentle as silk. Leave the brass and blood behind. Ascend.
The passengers had recovered their composure, chattering excitedly about the panoramic vista. Oliver pressed against the rail beside me, pointing at cloud formations with boyish wonder. Even Father seemed pleased, his stern features softened by satisfaction as he surveyed his mechanical triumph.
But as we drifted eastward, the horizon began to reveal something that strangled my newfound peace.
The Citadel of Convergence. What remained of it.
Black spires jutted from corrupted earth like broken fingers. Mountains twisted into impossible shapes, their peaks weeping shadows that pooled in valleys below. At the center, a crater yawned—dissolving the earth, dark cracks and chasms stretching in all directions. From its depths, tendrils of otherworldly darkness seeped upward, defying wind and gravity.
My breath caught. The ethereal voice that had called me heavenward fell silent.
No. Not here. Not now.
I blinked hard, trying to focus on Oliver's excited babble about engineering marvels, but the shadows had followed me aloft. Brass pipes gleamed too brightly—metal fangs catching sunlight. Steam hissed from valves—the same rasping voice that had spoken in my vision. Engine pistons pumped like a massive heart, beating the rhythm of something hungry and ancient.
"I sense something unusual about you."
The words echoed in my skull. I pressed palms against my eyes, willing the phantom sensations away. Just imagination. Stress from the exhibition. Nothing more.
"Rhylorin, I'm glad you were able to witness this," Father's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.
I forced my hands down, manufactured a smile. "Truly remarkable."
But the shadows danced in the corners of my vision, and the crater's darkness seemed to pulse with each beat of my heart. The sky that had promised freedom now felt vast and empty—a void where things without names might dwell.
As the airship began its slow turn, Braxmond stretching below us like a sea of wrought iron and stone, Father's voice rose triumphant over the wind.
"There, observe!" Father boomed, hands sweeping toward the horizon. "Remember this day. This... marvel! Our yield to the skies is but the first. Soon, fleets like the Ascendant will soar, spreading the Kuznetsov name far beyond these borders."
A ripple of appreciation swept through the passengers as Braxmond's familiar smoke approached—a gray shroud that felt strangely comforting after my unsettling experience. Home, I thought, though the word felt hollow. The shadows that had whispered began receding, replaced by tangible reality of soot and steam, and I wondered if any of it had been real. Perhaps Father is right. Perhaps I let my imagination run wild. The vision, the whisper—they'd felt so vivid, but here with wind in my face and engines thrumming beneath me, they seemed like echoes of a half-remembered dream. Oliver chatted nervously beside me about academy gossip, sympathetic to my earlier withdrawal, and I let his gentle words fill the silence left by the shadows. As we descended, my worries flitted away on wind drafts while crew members followed practiced routines, flinging ropes with precision to secure the leviathan to her mornings. The rhythmic clanking of landing gear ceased as we touched down with grace that spoke of countless hours perfecting every detail. Father stood at the bow, basking in another successful venture, his outline stark against the city's industrial sprawl—a leader who would wring dreams from flesh as efficiently as his relentless machines promised fortune.
"Remarkably executed!" Lord Gregor roared, shaking the captain's hand with thunderous applause from gathered dignitaries. "Please feel free to leave a favorable account of events to the local reports while you make your way off the Ascendant. Thank you all for your support."
A genuine statesman through and through. Father had lately secured commanding influence over the House of Lords within parliament and had been operating through his frigid and methodical disposition. Strange how politics can soften even the hardest edges, I mused, watching him work in the crowd with practiced ease. It still seemed unusual to Mother and me, but at least he was much more pleasant to be around.
"Rhylorin," Mother's voice fluttered from the wagon. I removed myself from the excitement as I didn't feel like being onboard any longer. Her presence was felt as I walked up to her, and it made me calmer. Her expression sought assurance more than understanding, as if she'd sensed my struggle but refrained from asking outright. "How did it go?"
"Mother," I responded, weaving comfort into my tone. The vessel's machinery faded to whispers at my back. "It proved fascinating—certainly the pinnacle of Father's achievements—even Grandfather would have felt pride."
Behind polished brass shutters, insulated carriages awaited—the convenience of wealth shuttling us home. Mother and I settled in, the wooden seat invigorating beneath me.
Her touch, a gentle inquiry upon my arm, beckoned conversation. "You seemed distant earlier," she prodded softly, her words an invitation across the silence.
I hesitated, words gathering like clouds on the horizon. "During the flight... I saw the Citadel, or what was left of it. There was darkness like I've never seen," I finally admitted, my voice low. "Shadows that moved... felt alive."
Blue eyes met mine, a flicker of concern and something akin to belief passing through. "It sounds like a vision, or a nightmare stretched too far."
"Perhaps." My gaze flicked towards the carriage's window, watching the dock workers wash down the gas bags of the airship. "Mother, it's strange. These visions, they feel—"
The door swung open, Father's voice interrupting. "Well, not much longer and they will be calling me to be king," he quipped, settling across from us. Oblivious, full of victorious energy, the stark contrast between how I felt.
That interlude disappeared, leaving these moments unfinished as we jostled toward home—secrets held tightly, Braxmond moaning under canopy of soot with dreams of clear skies reduced to brass and toil.