Port Landa did not announce itself with spectacle. It revealed itself through scale. Shane registered the city the same way he had been trained to register battlefields, by flow, density, pressure points. Roads layered atop one another in deliberate tiers. Canals bisected districts with the indifference of arteries carved long ago and never questioned. Towers rose where commerce demanded them, not where aesthetics suggested they belonged.
The city was not alive. It was operational.
Shane adjusted his pace as soon as they passed the checkpoint, blending into pedestrian traffic without effort. He had been taught how to disappear in plain sight long before he understood why such a skill might be necessary. Zao educated its ruling families thoroughly, even when it pretended otherwise.
Matthew walked beside him, carrying their bag, posture loose but attentive. He did not scan the crowd the way Shane did. He didn't need to. Matthew watched Shane instead.
Elementals moved through Port Landa with practiced normalcy.
A golem stood at a major junction, its massive form directing traffic with slow, economical gestures. This was not a guardian. This was infrastructure. Shane did not stare. Staring implied ignorance, or fear. He had neither.
Dragonkin passed through the crowd in larger numbers, after all, this was their state. Their scales were fine and tight, colored greens, reds, blues—soft enough in luster to resemble skin unless caught by motion or certain light. When they walked, there was a faint rasp beneath clothing, the whisper of scale against fabric.
Above, harpies occupied the higher paths, railings and the edges of rooftops. Their wings replaced arms entirely, feathers layered and expressive, hands folded at the joint when not in use. Their legs bent backward like birds', designed for sudden launch rather than long marches. They moved with the confidence of creatures for whom gravity was an inconvenience, not a law.
Near the canal, mermaids navigated both water and stone with equal ease. Shane noted how their fins sealed tightly against their bodies on land, folding into smooth contours beneath clothing, only loosening once they returned to the water. In motion, the transition was seamless.
They angled toward the human district without discussion, toward the southern side of the city, in what residents called Old Port Landa.
Shane and Matthew couldn't walk the entire distance. They left their vehicle behind before entering the city proper. It was a rental, after all.
"Pass," a young, disinterested dragonkin mumbled.
He sat in a narrow booth leading to the platform for the city's tram system, a network that connected Port Landa end to end. The design was unmistakably human, efficient, layered, and quietly monitored. It was familiar. Too familiar.
Zao had trained them well, he admitted.
"Looks like they're really using that last trade agreement to the fullest," Matthew said as they stepped through.
"Good for us," Shane replied. "Easier to get around."
"Three o'clock," Matthew whispered. "Officer."
Shane had already seen her.
The female dragonkin officer walked casually along the platform, posture loose, eyes alert. Shane guided Matthew away without urgency. He didn't need her getting curious. Carrying a sword wasn't illegal, but since entering the city, Shane had noticed how closely authorities watched humans who carried weapons.
They took seats on an empty bench, setting the bag between them so it stayed out of her line of sight. Shane let his body slacken, years of training allowing him to mimic exhaustion instead of readiness.
You look unassuming. People believe you are.
Matthew pulled a city guidebook from his coat and began flipping through it.
The officer passed, her gaze lingering but her pace unbroken. Shane tracked her through his periphery until she was far enough away to stop mattering.
"I don't think we need to be that tense," Matthew said quietly. "Humans are allowed here. We even changed clothes."
"Caution isn't a flaw," Shane snapped.
"I didn't say it was."
They waited in silence until the next tram arrived. When it did, they joined the crowd and moved toward the rear. Every elemental race glanced their way, some curious, some hostile, some simply wary. Shane had grown up aware of how Zao treated elementals. How policy reduced them to labor and rhetoric framed them as necessary but lesser.
Here, resentment flowed the other way.
Humans weren't respected in Port Landa, humans tied to Zao even less so.
A muttered insult followed them.
Shane didn't turn.
The ride itself was uneventful. Matthew read while Shane stared out the window, thoughts circling endlessly around one thing, how to catch his brother.
The lead was thin, but it was a direction.
The Church of Saints.
Shane knew of them. Years ago, before everything collapsed, he had encountered their members attempting to claim land in his home province. They had seemed harmless then. Small and earnest.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
From what little Shane knew, the Saints preached peace for the entire world. An impossible promise. Yet here in the Republic, they held influence. Enough influence to recruit Erin.
A murderer. Shane doubted redemption had anything to do with it.
The tram carried them beyond the city's polished heart and into Old Port Landa. The change was immediate, though unmarked. Everything sank lower than the rails. Buildings narrowed. Maintenance grew inconsistent. The air smelled of oil and boiled grain instead of stone and glass.
The wealth of central Port Landa fell away behind them.
Their station was filthy. Trash overflowed from bins, spilling into the walkways. Homeless figures huddled in corners and alcoves, human and elemental alike. Poverty showed no preference.
"Follow me," Matthew said. "The human district is close."
Here, the city flattened. No elevated walkways. No layered traffic. Everyone shared the same cracked roads. Ancient stone formed the foundations of every structure, relics of a past no one bothered to repair. Potholes scarred the streets. Vehicles rusted where they stood.
Near the coast, they turned onto a pedestrian-only street glowing with neon signs. Storefronts beckoned. Vendors shouted. Street performers filled the air with noise and motion, music clashing with laughter, coins striking stone, someone shouting prices that changed by the second.
Matthew moved forward without hesitation.
No one stared here. No hostility. Just humans surviving in a city that tolerated them without welcoming them.
They stopped at the only inn on the block.
It was narrow and forgettable, its hand-painted sign peeling with age. 'The Oyster's Pearl', the name barely legible, letters cracked and warped by salt air. Inside was worse.
Shane noticed the smell first. Damp rot, mold, and old seawater soaked into wood that had never properly dried. Matthew recoiled visibly as they crossed the threshold.
Shane scanned the foyer and found nothing worth his attention. One hallway branched to the right. To the left, a sitting area with a fireplace long gone cold, furniture slumped and misshapen, as if hauled straight from the bay and never forgiven for it. Damp cloth clung to the cushions. Bare stone walls closed in without decoration.
Not a pearl. More like the chum bin.
The innkeeper studied them the moment they entered.
"You looking to stay the night?" she asked.
Matthew leaned an elbow on the counter like he had all the time in the world.
He was still handsome in a way that made people forget his age, broad-shouldered, posture relaxed but assured. His hair had gone mostly gray, cut short and kept neat, and his beard was trimmed into clean lines that sharpened a strong jaw and pronounced chin. His eyes were bright, an easy blue that caught attention without effort. Beside him, Shane looked like something unfinished. Lean, rigid, dark-eyed. Where Matthew invited attention, Shane repelled it.
"That depends," Matthew said lightly. "On the room. And the company."
Her eyes narrowed, then softened. A slow, appraising look traced him from boots to beard.
"I don't usually offer both," she said. "But I charge extra when I do."
Matthew smiled, easy and practiced. "I find most worthwhile things cost more than expected."
Shane turned away with a low grumble. He didn't have patience for this. The woman was old enough to be his mother. Maybe older. Whatever beauty she'd once had had been sanded down by years of salt air and disappointment. Her dress was threadbare. Her hair knotted carelessly at the back of her head.
Matthew, of course, didn't care. He probably matched her age.
"Thirty-five a night," she said, eyes still on him. "That's for a room that doesn't collapse and neighbors that mind their business."
"We prefer neighbors who don't," Matthew replied. "But discretion has its charms."
Her smile sharpened. "Street access costs more."
"Everything does," Matthew said. "That's life."
She leaned closer over the counter. "And how long you planning on staying, handsome?"
Matthew met her gaze without blinking. "Until we're no longer welcome."
A pause. Then a soft laugh from her throat.
"The units don't have baths," she said, straightening. "Communal steam room and pool in the back. Breakfast from six to eight, if you wake up early enough to care."
"Sounds almost civilized," Matthew said.
"You'll be in one-ten," she added. "Second floor. Faces the street."
Matthew paid. The exchange ended as cleanly as it began.
Shane grabbed their bags and turned sharply toward the hallway. And ran straight into someone.
The impact knocked the breath from her chest. She stumbled backward with a sharp gasp, arms flailing, a stack of folded linens slipping from her grasp.
Shane caught himself and stepped aside, already annoyed.
"I—sorry," she said quickly, crouching to gather the fallen linens. "I didn't see you."
Her eyes were green, bright, alert, and too alive for this place. A young woman. Her dark hair was pulled back tight, loose strands already escaping. There was a flush to her cheeks, from exertion or embarrassment, he didn't care enough to decide.
He said nothing.
"Rebecca!" the innkeeper snapped from behind the counter. "You done standing around or you working?"
"Yes—sorry," the girl said, standing too fast. She gathered the linens against her chest and offered Shane a small, apologetic smile. "Welcome to the Pearl."
Shane had already turned away.
Matthew glanced back once, something thoughtful crossing his face, before following Shane down the hall.
The room was small but clean. Two beds. Nothing else to ask for. Shane set the bag down and stood still, listening to the city through the walls. Old Port Landa did not roar. It murmured, thousands of lives intersecting without pause or permission.
"We need a better lead," Shane said. He stood by the window looking down at the street, just out of the eye line for the passerbys.
Matthew nodded. "The Church."
"Tomorrow, we visit, looking for anything that will lead us to Erin."
"There are a few churches in Old Port Landa, let's start there and widen the search if nothing reveals itself."
"First thing in the morning," Shane said to himself. He would find Erin. Hopefully soon.
The Church of Saints occupied a wide plaza, its white stone clean without ostentation. It rose out of the surrounding district like a deliberate contradiction. The streets leading to it were cracked and uneven, storefronts sagging under neglect, fabric awnings patched and re-patched until their original colors were guesses at best. But the plaza itself was swept. The stone was whole. Not new, maintained.
Doors stood open. No guards. No visible authority.
People moved in and out freely. Some lingered near the steps, hands wrapped around cups of warm broth. Others left with softened expressions, shoulders sitting just a little higher than when they'd arrived. Shane noticed how many of them came from the streets just beyond the plaza, human, elemental, old, sick. No one was turned away.
Before they reached the doors, Shane slowed.
The woman from the inn stood at the edge of the plaza, a tray balanced against her hip as she handed out cups of water. The same white robes. The same single gold armband. In daylight, he noticed how carefully she moved, deliberate, economical, as if she had learned not to waste effort.
She looked up.
Recognition flickered across her face.
"You," she said, then caught herself. Her eyes moved to Matthew, then back to Shane. "From the inn."
Shane gave a short nod. Nothing more.
"I didn't expect to see you here," she added. Not suspicion, just curiosity. "Are you… seeking aid?"
Before Shane could respond, Matthew stepped in smoothly.
"We're travelers," he said. "Passing through. We heard the Church keeps its doors open to anyone willing to listen."
Rebecca studied him for a moment. Shane could see the assessment happening behind her eyes, not hostile, but careful. Then her gaze dropped briefly to Shane's sword.
"We do," she said. "Listening is the first step."
"And the bands?" Matthew asked gently, gesturing toward her arm. "I noticed them outside."
Her hand went to it instinctively.
"They mark devotion," she said. "Service and time. The trials you endure without turning away from peace."
"How many trials does it take?" Matthew asked.
She smiled faintly. "Enough that you stop counting."
Shane watched the exchange without speaking. He didn't like how easily she answered. No rehearsed phrases. No strain. If she was lying, she believed it too well to show.
"And you?" she asked Matthew. "What brings you here?"
"Curiosity," Matthew replied. "And concern. This city feels… strained."
Her expression softened. "It is. That's why we're here."
Shane met her eyes then, just long enough for her to register him properly. He saw the moment she realized he wasn't there for comfort.
Her smile dimmed, but she didn't step back.
"If you want," she said, "Carro can speak with you. He's good at explaining things."
"That would be fine," Matthew said.
Shane turned toward the doors.
Rebecca hesitated, then added, quieter, "You don't have to stay long."
Shane didn't answer. He passed her without a word. Behind him, Matthew thanked her again, polite as ever.
She watched them go, then returned to her work.
Inside, the space was practical rather than reverent. Benches were arranged loosely, not in rigid rows. Volunteers moved among them offering water, food, and the kind of quiet reassurance that didn't ask questions. The air smelled of clean stone and broth, not incense. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a waiting room for relief.
A dragonkin approached them, smile calm, posture open. His scales were a muted bronze, polished by care rather than ornament. He had three bands on his arm.
"Welcome," he said. "I am Carro. Are you here for comfort, or clarity?"
"Clarity," Shane replied.
The kin nodded and gestured toward the benches.
Shane did not sit. Matthew did.
Carro's eyes flicked briefly to the sword at Shane's hip before returning to his face.
"The world is tired," Carro said. "Wars decided by people who never fight them. Politics that demand sacrifice without meaning."
A pause.
"The Cardinal teaches that these systems aren't broken, only obsolete"
Shane listened without reaction.
"We follow peace," Carro continued. "Not borders. Not empires. The Cardinal will lead us into a new world, one free from inherited conflict. Where no one is born owing allegiance to violence."
"And the way people look at each other?" Shane asked.
Carro smiled gently. "There will be no reason to discriminate when we are all equal and at peace."
Matthew shifted slightly.
"And nations?" Shane pressed.
"Tools," Carro replied. "Useful once. Dangerous when clung to."
Shane glanced at Matthew. The older man gave a slight nod.
Shane nodded once. "That's enough."
"If you want to speak again, come back," Carro said. "We'll be here."
Outside, the plaza continued its quiet motion. Shane glanced back once at the open doors, at the people entering with visible relief.
"Similar to the Church in Zao," Matthew said softly. "I wasn't sure it was the same thing."
"I had the same thought," Shane said. "I wonder who this Cardinal is."
"Not someone we want noticing us," Matthew said.
"It's strange," Shane muttered. "Why would a church like that need weapons?"
Matthew didn't answer immediately.
"I'm curious too," he said at last. "And how Erin made his way into their midst."
Shane's jaw tightened.
"It's sweet words," Shane said. "Sweet enough that people stop asking who decides what comes next."
"Excuse me."
Shane turned, hand already on his sword. Matthew's hand rested near his hip, where a dagger was hidden beneath his coat.
A young priest stood behind them, nervous smile fixed in place.
"I noticed your blade," the priest said. "Do you feel the weight of it?"
"The sword is not what weighs on me," Shane said coldly.
"Weapons like that are why people keep hurting," the priest said. "The Cardinal teaches there's another way, if we stop clinging to control—"
"I don't care," Shane snapped. "Your words mean nothing to me."
"I only care for those who suffer."
"I am not suffering!" Shane said, his voice rising despite himself.
The outburst turned heads. Conversations stalled. Matthew stepped in immediately.
"Thank you for your kindness," he said, not raising his voice. "Come on, Shane."
They disappeared into the crowd, Port Landa folding around them without resistance. Somewhere in this city, Erin had heard the Cardinal's promise, and chosen to believe it.
Shane felt no awe. Only inevitability. Port Landa was where things converged. Trade, belief, power. And Shane had come to make sure it did not decide his brother's fate for him.