INTERLUDE: THE IRON FLEET
[The Ashen Belt - 06:00 AM]
[Border between Westminster and Aethelgard]
The world here was dead.
Stretching between the golden walls of London and the black smoke of the Iron Kingdom lay the Ashen Belt—a graveyard of the old world. There were no trees, no birds, no human settlements. Just the skeletal remains of pre-Collapse skyscrapers jutting out of the mud like broken teeth.
The air was thick with poison. A lethal cocktail of Carbon Monoxide and volatile Ether-Methane swirled in the wind, turning the fog a bruised purple color. A normal human would dissolve in minutes without a filtration mask.
But above the toxic clouds, something moved.
It wasn't a bird. It was a leviathan of iron.
A massive Aethelgardian airship pierced the cloud layer, its armored hull glistening with oil and soot. Gears the size of houses turned slowly on its flanks, powering the Ether-Turbines that kept the monstrosity aloft.
It wasn't alone.
Behind it, a dozen more emerged from the smog. A fleet.
Hundreds of Ether-Cannons swiveled in their turrets, aiming West. They moved slowly, inevitably, like a glacial slide of death, heading toward the heart of the world's finance and defense: The Kingdom of Westminster.
The Sword was coming for the Shield.
[Central London – Bond Street Plaza]
[Time: 08:00 AM Sharp]
Lucian stood in front of the building, feeling entirely out of place.
He was still wearing his rugged, bloodstained clothes. His black wavy hair was a mess, and his dark eyes, broken by years of survival, stared up at the polished sign.
[Guild of Preservation – Bond Street Branch]
"Pretty convenient," he thought, a cynical smirk touching his lips. It wasn't a fortress or a castle. It was a modest, two-story building made of high-quality red brick, featuring elegant Victorian architecture and large glass windows that must have cost a fortune.
He stared at the mahogany door with determined eyes.
Go in, or let it be?
If he walked away, he kept his freedom but starved. If he went in, he sold his soul to the Reaper but gained power.
I already sold my humanity to being named "Lucifer", Lucian reasoned. Selling my labor to a Guild is nothing.
He sighed and pushed open the front door.
Ding.
A soft bell announced his arrival.
The interior was a different world. The smell of rot and wet dog that permeated the slums was gone, replaced by the scent of lavender and old paper. The room was spacious, with rows of plush velvet seats on the right for waiting guests.
The walls were covered in elegant emerald wallpaper, adorned with paintings of the Angels. Above, a crystal chandelier burned with yellow mana-stones, casting a warm, golden glow over the room.
At the far end sat a receptionist's desk made of polished oak. Behind it sat a woman who looked too clean to exist in this city.
She was pale—porcelain white—with hair like spun platinum. She wore a layered dress of blue and white silk, complete with petticoats and lace, looking more like a noblewoman than a clerk.
She looked up. Her eyes, blue as gems, swept over Lucian's ragged appearance. There was no disgust. No judgment. Just a professional, practiced warmth.
"How can I help you, sir?" she asked, her voice melodic.
Lucian blinked. He wasn't used to respect. He nodded stiffly, unsure what to do with his hands.
"Umm..." Lucian cleared his throat. "I am looking for Azrael Aziz. He... introduced me to this place."
The woman's smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth.
"Oh, Mr. Aziz. He is expecting a visitor."
She pointed a gloved finger toward the staircase behind her. "He is on the second floor. Please take the stairs. It is the first door on your left-hand side."
She lowered her hand and tilted her head slightly.
"My name is Grace Elizabeth Smith. Or you can simply call me Grace." She picked up a fountain pen. "May I have your name for the guest log?"
Lucian froze.
The memory of the alleyway flashed in his mind. The moment he had said his name to Azrael, his soul had been ripped from his body.
Is she like him? Lucian wondered, his muscles tensing. If I say my name, will she send me to the river too?
He stared at her. She just smiled, pen hovering over the paper, innocent as a dove.
Cowardice is a Sin, the voice in his head reminded him.
"Lu... Lucian," he said, the stutter slipping out before he could catch it.
Grace waited. For a few seconds, silence stretched between them.
"Just Lucian," he added firmly. "No last name."
"Understood." Grace wrote it down in elegant cursive script. Lucian. 08:05 AM.
"Please, have a nice time," she said, bowing her head.
"Thank you," Lucian muttered.
He walked past the desk, feeling the weight of the opulent room pressing down on him. He climbed the carpeted stairs, the wood creaking softly under his worn boots.
Second floor. First door on the left.
A brass plaque on the wood read: [Branch Master: Azrael Aziz].
Knock. Knock.
Lucian rapped his knuckles against the wood twice.
"Come inside."
The voice was deep, calm, and unmistakably dangerous.
Lucian turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Bright morning sunlight flooded his vision. The office had a massive window facing East, and the sun was directly in Lucian's eyes, turning the room into a silhouette for a moment.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw walls lined with bookshelves, stacked floor-to-ceiling with leather-bound tomes.
Sitting at a large desk, backlit by the blinding sun, was Azrael.
He wasn't wearing the tuxedo today. He was in a crisp white dress shirt, the top button undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked relaxed, almost human—except for the crimson red eyes scanning a newspaper. A cigar smoldered in the corner of his mouth, releasing a thin trail of gray smoke.
Azrael lowered the paper and looked at Lucian.
"I expected you," Azrael said, smoke curling around his words.
He gestured to the empty chair opposite him.
"Welcome to the Guild of Preservation."