The smell of Lower Stone was unique. Sour, viscous, composed of layers: rotting refuse from the market, smoke from fires made of wet garbage, the acrid stench of overflowing cesspits, and something metallic, as if rust had seeped into the very air. Syn had long stopped noticing it. It was the smell of home.
He sat on the edge of a sagging barrack roof, his legs dangling over a narrow passage between buildings. Below, two drunken old men were arguing over a piece of moldy flatbread. Their voices blended into the familiar hum of the slums, as commonplace as the creaking of floorboards or the cough of consumptive neighbors. Syn didn't listen. He looked up.
Above Lower Stone rose the walls of the Citadel. Black basalt, polished to a shine by generations of stonemasons, soared a hundred meters high. Even from here, from the very bottom of the world, the walls seemed endless. At sunset, they reflected the blood-red sky, turning into a monolith of congealed blood. A beautiful and cruel reminder: up there, was another world. A world of order, plenty, power. And down here, beneath the walls, lived those unlucky enough to be born unimportant.
Syn clenched a crust of stale bread in his palm. Today's trophy. He had snatched it from a vendor's tray while she was distracted by an Army of Stability patrol. Sleight of hand, swift feet, the ability to dissolve into a crowd. Skills no one had taught him. They had come on their own, along with the understanding: in Lower Stone, it wasn't the strong who survived. The unnoticed survived.
"Lian would have said I'm a lazy thief."
The thought came on its own, sharp and familiar, like an old scar. He bit his lip and took a bite of the bread. Chewed slowly, prolonging the meager meal. Lian always scolded him when he brought home stolen goods. Her voice sounded clear in his memory, as if she were standing right beside him.
«Syn, you're smarter than that. You can do more than steal scraps.»
He smiled without joy. Smarter. Perhaps. But he hadn't been smart enough to keep her here, close. Three years ago, Lian had left. Not run away, not abandoned him. She had been taken. The Order of Resonance. She was a Tuner, one of those who could work with artifacts and stabilization pylons. A rare, valuable talent. They took her on an elite expedition. Promised to return her in six months.
Three years had passed. She was declared dead. An official document, sent to the slums via the local scribe, stated: «Resonator Lian, rank Adept, fell in the line of duty in Wasteland sector forty-seven. Body not recovered. The Empire grieves.»
Syn clenched the crust so hard it crumbled in his fingers. The crumbs rained down on the heads of the arguing old men. They didn't notice.
"The Empire grieves. What a lie."
The Empire didn't grieve. The Empire accounted. Every resonator was an investment, a number in a report. Lian had been useful while alive. Now she was a statistic. Another line in the endless list of the fallen. And he, Syn, was nobody. The brother of a dead heroine. A slum boy who couldn't even read her name on a memorial, because memorials were up there, in the Citadel, where the likes of him had no path.
He stood up, brushed off his palms, and jumped from the roof. Landed softly on bent legs and immediately slipped into the shadow between the barracks. The movement was automatic. The Army of Stability patrol had passed down the main street of the slums an hour ago, but they could return. Better not to be seen.
The narrow passages of Lower Stone were a labyrinth. Structures clung to each other without plan, without order. Wood, rusted metal, pieces of basalt stolen from construction sites. Everything swayed, leaked, threatened to collapse. But people had lived here for generations. They were used to it. Syn knew every turn, every rotten step, every hole in a fence. This was his world.
He turned towards the old well. The water was murky and tasted of metal, but it was drinkable. Several women stood in line with buckets. Syn walked past, not looking at them. One of the women called out to him.
«Hey, boy! You from barrack number twelve?»
Syn stopped, not turning around. His barrack had no number. No one here counted houses. But he knew what she was getting at. Barrack number twelve was where they had found a corpse three days ago. A man stabbed over a debt. The blood still hadn't been washed off the steps.
«No,» he answered curtly and walked on.
"Curiosity kills. Lian used to say that."
She was always quoting old sayings. He used to laugh at her. Now her voice was the only thing keeping him from complete indifference. Lian believed that even in Lower Stone, one could live not like an animal. She taught him to read, write, count. Brought home scraps of newspapers, stolen from vendors. Told him about the world above, the Citadel, the resonators and their battles with the Blight.
He listened, holding his breath. Not because he dreamed of being a hero. But because hope resonated in her voice. And he wanted to believe that hope was possible.
And then she left. And took the hope with her.
Syn reached his shelter. It was a half-ruined shed on the outskirts of the slums, almost right against the Citadel wall. Once, they had stored masons' tools here, but after the Rift the work stopped, and the shed was abandoned. Syn had found it two years ago. The roof leaked, but one corner was dry. He had dragged rags there, nailed together a makeshift pallet from planks. Here, he could be alone.
He squeezed through a narrow crack in the wall, which was covered from the outside by a rusty sheet of metal, and found himself inside. Dimness. The smell of damp and dust. He sat on the pallet and pulled a folded cloth scrap from inside his shirt.
Unfolded it carefully, as if holding something fragile. Inside lay a small locket. Simple, copper, darkened with time. It was engraved with a symbol: a circle with three wavy lines inside. The emblem of the Order of Resonance. Lian wore it around her neck. When they took her, she took off the locket and placed it in his palm.
«Keep this for me, Syn. I'll come back and get it.»
He clenched the locket in his fist. The metal was cold.
"You promised to come back."
But promises in this world were worthless. He knew that. Saw promises break every day. Vendors promised fair prices and shortchanged. Guards promised protection and beat with clubs those who couldn't pay a bribe. The Empire promised order and stability, but in the slums people died of hunger and disease.
Lian had been the only one who kept her word. Always.
"That means she's alive."
The thought was irrational. He understood that. Three years in the Wastelands. No one survived that long without support. Even resonators died there by the dozens. But he couldn't make himself believe in her death. There was no body. No proof. Just a piece of paper with a seal.
And papers lied.
Syn hid the locket back inside his shirt and lay down on the pallet, looking at the ceiling. Through a hole in the roof, a piece of sky was visible. Red, always red. After the Rift, it never changed. No blue, no clouds. Only the bloody hue the old men called «the world's weeping.»
He closed his eyes.
Sleep came quickly. In the slums, one slept lightly, always half-alert. But today, Syn sank deeper than usual. And he dreamed.
He stood in a void. There was no ground under his feet, no sky above his head. Only endless blackness. And silence. Absolute, oppressive, as if the world had stopped breathing.
And then he heard a voice.
«Syn.»
Lian's voice. Quiet, distant, as if coming through a thickness of water.
He turned around. No one. Only darkness.
«Syn, don't abandon me.»
His heart plummeted. He took a step forward, then another. The void swallowed his steps without a sound.
«Where are you?!» he shouted, but the voice didn't escape. The words stuck in his throat, muffled and useless.
«I'm here. I'm always here. But you have to find me.»
The darkness quivered. A shadow emerged from it. A tall, thin figure. Lian. He recognized her silhouette, the curve of her shoulders, the tilt of her head. She stood with her back to him.
«Lian!»
He ran. But with every step, she grew more distant. The shadow dissolved into the dark, growing paler.
«Don't go! I'll find you, hear me?! I'll find you!»
She turned around. And he saw her face.
It was empty. No eye sockets. No mouth. Only a smooth, white mask.
Syn woke with a jolt, gasping for air. His heart was pounding so hard it seemed it would burst from his chest. He sat up on the pallet, clutching his head in his hands.
"A dream. It was just a dream."
But his hands were trembling. And there was a lump in his throat.
He raised his head and looked at the shed wall. On it, in a beam of light breaking through a crack, shadows danced. Ordinary shadows from a piece of cloth fluttering outside.
But one of the shadows was motionless.
Syn froze.
The shadow was his silhouette. It stood on the wall, even though he was sitting. And slowly, very slowly, raised its hand. As if reaching for him.
He blinked. The shadow disappeared.
"What was that?"
He rubbed his eyes. Fatigue. Hunger. Nightmare. All mixed up. He lay back down, pulled the rags over his shoulders, and forced himself to breathe evenly.
But sleep didn't come until dawn.
Morning in Lower Stone began with a bell. It rang at dawn, summoning the Labor Fund to their shift. Most slum dwellers worked in factories inside the Citadel or in the quarries at the foot of the mountains. Twelve hours of hard labor for a bowl of gruel and a piece of bread.
Syn didn't go to the factories. Lian had left him a little money, hidden in a stash. It lasted a year. Then he started stealing. It was easier than breaking his back for pennies.
He left the shed when the streets had already emptied. Everyone had gone to work. Only the crippled, the old, and children remained. Syn headed to the market. There was always something useful to be found there. Or someone who knew something useful.
The market of Lower Stone was a pitiful imitation of real trade. A dozen stalls with rotten vegetables, stolen tools, and rags. The vendors shouted, drowning each other out. There were few buyers.
Syn walked along the rows without stopping. He was interested in one person. An old man named Karl. A former Administration scribe, fired for drunkenness. Now he traded in rumors and old newspapers. Syn bought scraps of news from him, hoping to find something, anything, about the missing expedition.
Karl sat on an upturned crate, huddled in a tattered cloak. A stack of yellowed sheets lay before him.
«Ah, boy,» he said hoarsely, seeing Syn. «Looking for news again?»
Syn nodded and tossed a copper coin onto the stall. Karl snorted and handed him one sheet.
«Fresh. From yesterday. They say there was another Outburst in the north. A strong one.»
Syn took the sheet but didn't read it. He looked at Karl.
«You used to work in the Administration.»
«So.»
«Can you find out about an expedition? Three years ago. Sector forty-seven.»
Karl grimaced.
«Boy, I told you already. That's closed information. Even if I still worked there, I couldn't get it.»
«Try.»
The old man sighed.
«Stubborn, you are. Like your sister.» He paused, then added quietly: «Alright. I'll ask some acquaintances. But don't expect miracles.»
Syn nodded and left, clutching the sheet in his hand.
He didn't believe in miracles. But he believed in stubbornness.
And if Lian was alive somewhere out there, in the Wastelands, he would find her.
Even if he had to burn the whole world down.