The eye pulsed, a malevolent ruby beacon against the overcast sky. It wasn’t merely an optical illusion; Bogran could feel its gaze bore into him, an icy scrutiny that sent a tremor through his very bones. A voice, deep and resonant as a collapsing cathedral, boomed across the sky-bridges, echoing with unnatural power.
"Intruders detected. Identify yourselves."
Panic threatened to choke Bogran, but he shoved it down, replacing it with a bravado he didn’t quite feel. "Name’s Bogran," he called back, voice barely a squeak against the booming pronouncements of the celestial eye. "Just passing through, admiring the...unique architecture." He gestured vaguely at the gargantuan crimson orb, praying it wouldn't interpret his lie as an act of defiance.
The reply was immediate and chilling. "Bogran. Your presence is unauthorized in Skyborn airspace. State your purpose or be eradicated."
Bogran cursed under his breath. This wasn’t part of the plan. His quest for Anya had taken a sharp turn into cosmic horror territory. He couldn't face whatever monstrosity controlled that eye – not without more loops, and definitely not with a snot monster brewing in his nasal cavity. Retreat was the only option, but how to escape without triggering an interdimensional laser-show?
His eyes darted around, landing on a cluster of maintenance drones lazily patrolling the sky-bridges. An idea, audacious and slightly ridiculous, sparked in his mind. He channeled his magic into the ring, not for offense, but for manipulation. With a flick of his wrist, he aimed at one of the drones, sending a surge of energy that hijacked its controls. The drone whirred erratically, veering towards the crimson eye with alarming speed.
"Incoming...intruder!" Bogran yelled, hoping to create enough confusion to buy himself precious seconds. The drone slammed into the eye's periphery, causing a momentary flicker and distortion. It was a pathetically flimsy distraction, but it bought him time. He sprinted towards a service ladder leading down to the labyrinthine network of back alleys below, adrenaline pumping through his veins.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
He scrambled down, heart hammering against his ribs, the colossal eye’s enraged roar echoing behind him. Dodging maintenance bots and fleeing technicians, he plunged into the city’s underbelly, the Skyborn district shimmering tantalizingly above. The air grew thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and desperation, a far cry from the sterile opulence he sought.
He navigated the twisting alleyways with practiced ease, his boots crunching on shattered glass and discarded tech scraps. Finally, he reached a dimly lit tavern called "The Drunken Goblin," its warped wooden sign creaking ominously in the perpetual drizzle. It was known to be a haven for information brokers, shady dealers, and those who whispered secrets for the right price. Bogran pushed through the heavy oak door, the cacophony of drunken laughter and raucous conversations washing over him like a wave.
He spotted a hulking figure hunched over a chipped table in the corner, nursing a drink that glowed with an eerie green luminescence. This was Grimstrong, infamous for his encyclopedic knowledge of New Firenze’s underbelly and willingness to trade it for a hefty sum – preferably in gold, but a good story would do in a pinch.
"Grimstrong," Bogran called out, weaving through the throng. "Got a question for ya, one that’ll make your luminous concoction taste even sweeter." He slid onto the opposite chair, his silver ring glinting under the dim lanterns.
Grimstrong grunted, his gaze fixed on his drink. "Spit it out, then. Time’s money, and I ain’t got much of either."
"I’m looking for someone," Bogran began, leaning in conspiratorially. "Anya Molotova. Last seen associating with the Skyborn elite. Any whispers about her whereabouts in those gilded towers?" He paused, gauging Grimstrong’s reaction. "And maybe...something about a crimson eye that watches from the clouds?"
Grimstrong finally looked up, his one good eye narrowed. A slow smile spread across his scarred face. "Crimson eye, you say? Now that’s a story worth its weight in gold..."
