The Palace of "night & Day" did not follow the rules of nature. Perched atop the highest spire of the Western Sector, It was a monolith of glass and gold that seemed to scrape the belly of the heavens. Here, the sun lingered longer than anywhere else, bathing the halls In an eternal, bleeding twilight.
King Midas sat upon his throne—a monstrosity forged from solid, unblemished gold. It was not comfortable, but comfort was for the poor. The throne was designed to remind the sitter of the weight of the world, and the weight of the wealth that controlled it.
The scratching of a quill against parchment echoed through the silent, cavernous hall.
Scritch. Scratch. Scritch.
With a flourish of his wrist, Midas signed the decree. The ink was red, a subtle cruelty that pleased him. He set the quill down and looked out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
From this height, the world below looked like a toy set. The "industrial Quarter," with Its roaring furnaces and sweating millions, was nothing but a smudge of gray soot against the horizon.
"Do you smell that, boy?"
Midas didn't turn his head. He spoke to the figure standing silently by the window.
Silver, the Crown Prince of the West, leaned against the glass. He was dressed in robes of white silk so pure they seemed to glow, embroidered with threads of silver. He held a crystal goblet of wine In his hand, swirling the crimson liquid with a look of utter, devastating boredom.
"I smell nothing, Father," Silver replied, his voice flat. "The air filtration system In this palace costs more than the entire GDP of the Iron District. We smell only what you pay for us to smell: lavender and money."
Midas chuckled, a dry, rattling sound like coins shaking in a bag. He stood up, his heavy golden robes dragging across the marble floor as he walked to his son's side. He placed a heavy hand on Silver's shoulder and pointed downward, toward the massive, black chimneys that vomited thick smoke Into the lower atmosphere.
"Look closer," Midas whispered, a twisted smile curling his lips. "That Isn't just smoke, Silver. That is the smell of the weak burning to keep us warm."
The King took a deep breath, savoring the Idea of it.
"Gold does not grow on trees, my son," Midas continued, his eyes gleaming with a cold, merchant's madness. "It grows in the lungs of the poor. Every cough down there adds a coin to our vault. And this…" He gestured to the decree on the table. "…this tax on the air sectors will squeeze the sponge just a little tighter."
Silver looked at the decree. "The Oxygen Tariff Act." It was a death sentence wrapped in legal paper.
He looked at his father. He didn't see a monster; he saw a parasite that had grown too fat to realize its host was dying.
Silver raised the goblet to his lips, but the smell of the expensive wine suddenly made his stomach turn. It smelled like blood. He lowered the glass, his expression shifting from boredom to a cold, razor-sharp disgust.
"Be careful, Father," Silver said softly, turning his gaze back to the smoke rising from the abyss below.
"Careful of what? The rats?" Midas scoffed.
"Physics," Silver replied. He tapped the glass with his ring, a hollow clink that sounded like a warning bell. "Smoke alwayss rises, Father. It never falls. You can build your throne as high as you want, but eventually... the smog will reach us."
He looked directly Into the King's eyes.
"It might choke us one day."
Midas's smile faded for a second, replaced by a flicker of annoyance, but he quickly dismissed it. He turned back to his throne, waving his hand dismissively. "You think too much, Silver. Go. Drink your wine and enjoy the view. It's the only one that matters."
Silver didn't answer. He watched his father return to the gold, then turned his back on the room.
He looked down, far down, past the clouds, past the industrial smog, to the very bottom of the world. There, barely visible through the haze, lay the massive, rusted ventilation shafts that led to the Underworld. The vents that breathed for the Abyss.
His eyes, which had been dull a moment ago, now burned with a strange, dark intensity.
"Let it rise," Silver whispered to the glass, sipping the bitter wine. "I'm waiting for the fire."