"The sky was not made with you in mind. It cares nothing for the breath in your lungs or the ache in your marrow. The stars chart no path for the lost. No great machine turns in your name. If there is meaning, it is forged, not found. And yet, despite all this, we reach. We bind our will with blood. We whisper our names into machines and pray they remember us. Not because the world owes us a place, but because the world will not offer one. The forge of memory is the only altar left. If no god will swing the gates wide, then let the key be molded by human hands."
Excerpt from the Iron Synod manuscript “Truth Without Flame: A Catechism of Circuits”, attributed to Prime Scribe Avelln Oryl, circa 491 A.S.
By the time the port of Farsmoke came into view, the sun had dropped low enough to burn the edge of the sky gold. It filtered through the cloud shelf in long, splintered lines, catching on the soft stone spires and tapered roofs that marked the edge of town.
From a glance, Farsmoke wasn’t a fortress or a hub. The houses were squat and cobbled, rising in clustered tiers along the central ridge. Everything looked like it had been dragged brick by brick from a time before the Skyfall. Shingled roofs. Narrow chimneys. A modest dockyard hanging off the isle’s western ledge like an afterthought, just wide enough for a ship like the Wakesong. The entire town was a holdout, a small remnant, the kind of place the Crown hadn’t yet polished into gleaming perfection, and probably never would.
We coasted in slow as I dialed down the engines two clicks below full to avoid lighting up too many scans. No one hailed us and no patrols rested near the docks. The outer sensor net didn’t even ping and Portem had already confirmed what I suspected: no active patrols or any local relay towers.
“Gives me the creeps,” I muttered.
“You’d prefer an artillery welcome?”
“I’d prefer a sign. Or a dockhand. Or even that one overworked port clerk with the half-melted face and metal jaw who thought that doing the paperwork was all there was to life.”
“No movement detected. That may mean safety, or the opposite given your recent streak of luck.”
“You’re just a vault of positivity today.”
“Statistical caution is not pessimism, besides, you're not the one who can't move.”
I clicked the locking harness off and stood up from the captain’s chair. The motion sent a flare through my ribs, and I grunted as I stretched. “Alright. We’ve got a little time before local curfew hits, if they have one. I’m gonna clean up before heading down.”
“You’ll tear open your wounds if you move too much, and then promptly pass out in the washroom.”
“Then you can just drag me back to the medbay.”
“I’m currently hooked into a gantry with an injured leg.”
“Touché.”
I passed through the helm’s rear corridor, boots clanking lightly on the familiar steel floor. I’d seen a wash station marked in the rear-living quarter’s blueprint, tucked between what might’ve been crew cabins at some point. It took a minute to find it. The door had no label, just a faded, circular glyph etched into the surface, vaguely like a filter coil.
Inside, the room was simple: several basins, drainage grooves, and a single pressure valve per stall. The nearest one hissed faintly when I leaned near. No proper faucet, just a manual trigger feed and a basin half-coated in rust-stained mineral deposits. The walls were clean, though. Still-white tile, slightly curved to reflect light more evenly. Another strange blend of Crown sensibility and older, smoother engineering.
I stripped the coat first. It hit the floor with a wet slap. The blood had dried stiff in the seams. I grabbed a worn cloth from the wall rack and soaked it under the valve. The water sputtered, then ran cold and clean. Somehow, the filtration was still active.
“Bless whoever built this place,” I muttered.
I peeled off my shirt next and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Still pale. Still sharp around the edges. The wound on my ribs was angry, but the stitches held. My arm would bruise up by nightfall and my scalp had stopped bleeding, though the hair around it was stiff with dried crimson.
I scrubbed first, face, neck, arms, then ran the cloth gently down my ribs, hissing as the cool water hit the raw skin. I used one of the soap bars, but I refused to touch the bottles. Didn’t trust anything I couldn’t read the label on. After that I rinsed, repeated and watched the water swirl red, then pink, then clear again.
“Status update?” I asked between passes.
“No response from port authorities. No lock protocols. Civilian population is estimated around one thousand. Primary industries: grain, glass, and minor machine repairs.”
I laughed dryly. “Sounds like a party.”
“We will blend better here than most places. They are not used to attention.”
“Yeah, well, they’re about to get a dose of it.”
“Riven.”
His tone shifted, sharpening to a knife's edge. I paused. “What?”
“Keep the gun close.”
I froze. Not in thought. In instinct. Portem didn’t say things like that lightly. He was usually calculative. But that tone, that wasn’t statistical, that was with worry. I reached for Beta and slid the muzzle from its dock, thumbed the coil to warm.
“Explain.”
“I… detected a change in internal atmospheric balance. Slight, a few ppm off as well as trace levels of iron.”
“More blood?”
“Possibly.”
“Could it be residual from earlier? From the medbay, I left a small mess there when I patched myself up, maybe that was it.”
“Could be," he responded with uncertainty.
“You don’t think it is.”
“…Unlikely.”
The gun in my hand felt heavier now, and not in a fcomforting way. I stood still for a long moment, listening. Not with just my ears, but with my everything. The way an old Ironwright learns to listen to pressurization in the weld lines of a cabin or the faint rhythm of something grinding in a machine.
The Wakesong groaned, quietly. Just metal stress. Maybe. Maybe not. I turned slowly and stepped toward the helm corridor, each footfall quieter than the last.
“Any movement?”
“No. But we’re blind, Riven. The internal sensors are still nonfunctional even at full power. If something’s in here… we won’t see it coming.”
“Great. Just what I needed.”
“We should sweep through the floor again.”
The door hissed open like it had a secret it was teasing me with. I stepped inside, weapon raised, not aimed, but ready. The lights were dimmer now. The viewing glass in this part of the ship painted the walls in golds and greys from the dying sun. I stalked forward to the next door and back into the familiar hallways near the helm.
I kept my steps light, shoulder grazing the wall as I passed through the same junctions I’d already cleared hours ago. The blood trail near the sensor room was gone now, cleaned. Even the smear at the floor’s edge, the one I’d half-stepped in earlier, was gone. No drag marks. No handprints. No blood. I hurried down the hall toward the sensor room, my senses screaming that something else was off.
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Inside however, the glyphs remained. Carved deep and still blackened at the edges. Still burning in the periphery of my vision like they didn’t want to be seen. I grimaced and glanced back, what a fool I was. I just ran through the hall and gave myself away.
I moved slowly and cautiously again, checking the rooms in succession. Medbay, still dirty with my blood. Storage rooms, undisturbed. Workshop, as I left it. Though the rooms were clear, the silence wasn’t the same as before. It felt more deliberate. Like the ship was trying to sound empty now.
My boots echoed with each step as I made my way back toward the helm. I hadn’t checked it yet, skipping it in favor of searching the blood stained halls, and something was nagging at the edge of my thoughts. There was a tightening in the chest, when your instincts catch something your eyes haven’t yet.
Halfway to the junction, the overhead voice chimed, flat and polite.
“Docking procedure complete. Outer hatch to the port is now open. Welcome to Farsmoke.”
I stopped cold. The gun in my hand rose an inch. “I didn’t tell you to open anything,” I said, voice low. No response. I broke into a full sprint bound for the helm. Fast and wild, my boots thundered and my grip on Beta went white-knuckled.
Then I saw it mid-hall. The mess hall door, the one that had been sealed, pressure-locked, jammed on one side, was now wide open. I stared at it. Long and hard. Then approached with the kind of caution you use around starving hounds. Inside? Nothing. Just the dim interior. Tables still bolted to the floor. Cabinets open, half-rusty, untouched.
But there were footprints inside. Barely visible in the thin layer of dirt by the threshold. Lighter than mine. Smaller. But not child-small. Just… narrow. Precise. Moving out of the room, I turned back toward the helm and double-timed it even faster than before.
What was only a few seconds felt like it stretched into minutes before I reached the helm, the viewing glass showed the port lights of Farsmoke flickering into full glow. The ship had settled. The engines had idled. The systems showed idle status, docking clamps sealed, and the outer hatch marked as "currently open."
Right now even the air felt wrong. I keyed in fast. “Access internal logs. Display door access for the past twelve hours.”
The console hesitated. Please, please load! Then lines began to appear, lots and lots of them, more than just mine. The helm, the medbay, the relay corridor. The mess hall. All accessed at times I hadn’t been near them. Doorway pings registered, logs stamped and spread out, like someone had been waiting for me to move before they did.
And then, fifteen seconds before docking, one last line: [Outer Hatch 03] — Opened (Manual Override) — User ID: UNREGISTERED
They were gone. Not a trace. No name. No alert. Just a trail of doors behind them and now a port town in front of me that had no idea what just slithered off my ship. I leaned forward, palms on the edge of the console, breathing shallow through my nose. Portem’s voice came through Beta, quiet, softer now.
“We missed them.”
“Yeah,” I said. My voice was dust-dry. “We really did.” I stared out at the skyline of Farsmoke, the low roofs and cobbled streets, the faint lights glowing warm against the stone. Whoever they were, whatever they were, they were out there now. I stood there for a long second. No movement on the monitors. No red lights. No screaming alerts. Just a neat little log string of doors opened by someone who wasn’t me, walking where I walked, stepping past me, maybe watching me, and then slipping off the ship like it was just another port stop.
“Wakesong,” I said, voice sharp. I was an idiot about my wording before. “Lock out all users. No access permissions. No external hatches open unless confirmed by my voiceprint and Portem's override.”
A pause. “Confirmed. User Holt designated as sole access authority. All other credentials revoked.”
“I don’t care if the Emperor’s grandmother shows up in a gilded skiff, nobody gets in.”
“Acknowledged.”
I leaned back in the chair and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. My pulse hadn’t slowed. If anything, it was worse now. A low, drumming rhythm behind my ribs. Cold sweat starting to creep along my neck.
“Portem?” I asked.
“Yes, Riven?”
“System integrity?”
“Stable. Power core at thirty-two percent. Motor functions available for baseline movement. Combat systems still offline. Internal diagnostics remain clear… for now.” He paused. Then, softer, less sardonic. “You’re not wrong to be worried.”
I let out a slow breath. “This whole time I thought I was being careful. Thought I was three steps ahead of whoever else was on this ship. And it turns out…”
“Whoever was on here was a stowaway. Or they were the cause behind what has happened here.”
The weight of Beta’s full-frame form hung heavy in my right hand as I holstered it against my back brace. The coat was still damp at the hem from where I’d rinsed it off, and my shirt stuck to my ribs from sweat. I didn’t feel like a captain on this ship, I felt like a dead-man walking.
“I need you ready,” I said, already heading for the exit. “More than patched. You need to walk, Portem. Soon.”
“I’m already running cooling models for the brace. If we get a few more hours on that charger, I can walk. Maybe even keep up.”
“I’m not worried about you keeping up.”
“Then you’re worried about whoever got off this ship.”
I stopped in front of the hatch to the docking corridor. My hand hovered over the panel. “I’m worried it wasn’t just a person,” I said.
“If it was someone accompanied by a Possessed, it wouldn’t have left without causing more harm.”
I let out a tired sigh. "If a Possessed got free because of me, that would be the worst outcome. I don't think I could handle the guilt."
I stepped through the last seal into the port access corridor. The lights flickered as they shifted from ship-standard to external atmospheric calibration. Warm tones, keyed to daylight. The door behind me sealed tight, and I watched the indicators cycle through each layer of lockdown, bolts, inner pressurization, and the final seal. It didn't feel like enough.
Portem’s voice buzzed back into my ear. “The town’s layout is pretty simple. Central street, market square, three repair shops. Northern quarter shows the most structural integrity. That’s likely where their power grid sits.”
“Good. It shouldn't be too hard to find my way around.”
“Be cautious, you don’t blend.”
“Figured the bloodstained coat wouldn’t sell me as local nobility?” I gave a poor attempt at a joke to cover the anxiety.
“You’re jittering. You twitch when you’re stressed, Beta is showing that your shoulders tighter, fingers flex more.”
“I’m carrying a rifle with a machine spirit in it and someone just ghosted off my ship, Portem. You want me to be relaxed? How? How?" Some of the anger bled through. I winced. I shouldn’t have snapped at him, not now. He didn’t respond.
I stepped through the final door and out onto the dock. I took a breath to clear my head. The air was cool, dry, faintly sweet with the scent of distant pine, woodsmoke, and old stone. The sun had just begun to dip below the far side of the isle, throwing long shadows across the cobbled streets. A few windows were lit but no one walked the streets. For a second, it almost felt serene, like a fairytale town. But my hand never left the pistol's grip. And my eyes didn’t stop moving.
I hit the cobblestone like I was late for a war. Not exactly a run, due to my injuries, but damn close, long strides, quick pivots around corners, boots smacking the uneven road hard enough to draw eyes if anyone had been around to see it. Farsmoke wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t busy either. A few shadows moved behind windows. One old man by a smithy glanced up as I passed, then turned his eyes back to his cup like he hadn’t seen anything.
The streets narrowed fast. Low buildings pressed in on both sides, old stone with iron-rung gutters and steep roofs that turned the wind into a whisper around corners. It smelled like soot, boiled grain, and someone’s half-burnt supper.
I scanned everything, doorways, windows, shadows. Whoever slipped off the Wakesong couldn’t have gotten far. Minutes, maybe ten. Fifteen if they were fast and knew the terrain. But unless they had a map in their head, they’d be feeling their way through the streets same as me. Or maybe they already knew the town. That thought hit me harder than expected. Because if they did… this wasn’t just an escape. It was planned.
I turned into the central street. A few empty stalls lined the open space, shuttered now, but still holding the faint scent of brass polish and fruit oils. Beyond them stood what looked like a supply depot, three stacked layers of stone with a towered lookout and a massive cogwheel carved into the arch above the main doors.
I didn't stop to gawk, not yet. I was still scanning. Still chasing the hope that I might catch a figure slipping down a side alley, or the shape of a cloak turning too fast out of view. Still thinking I might find them. Then Portem’s voice crackled through my Beta with a quiet whisper.
“No more movement within the perimeter.”
“Scan failure?”
“Negative. I’ve mapped all current paths within a three-block radius. Whoever left the ship is either indoors or out of range. But they are gone.” I slowed, just slightly. My breath had started to spike again. The pain in my ribs was back, even more wrathful now. My pulse still hadn’t dropped since the logs revealed what I already feared.
I stopped under an old lamp post, hand on the cold metal, and let the moment settle as I resisted the urge to lash out again. I could keep chasing shadows. Pretend I had a chance in hell of catching someone who’d already danced circles around me in my own ship. Or I could fix the one thing I knew wouldn’t leave me behind.
I looked up at the depot again. Brass-bound windows. Machine parts in the windows. A familiar shape mounted in the corner, part of a godshell joint frame, stripped down and hanging, but recognizable. If it was a leg I could see about replacing Portem's, and if the mechanic here knew a thing or two, I could probably fix a few other parts properly as well. And I had maybe one shot at not looking like a Crown fugitive.
I clicked the comm. “Portem. Pull your specs into a shareable schematic. Minimize identifying tags. I’ll get what we need.”
“You’re letting them go.” He gave a despondent response.
“No,” I said quietly. “They’re already gone.”
A pause. Then: “Understood.”
I walked into the depot with a tighter jaw and a flatter voice than I wanted. But I had a job now. Something I *could* control. There were answers out there. In the alleys, in the escape route, in the things I’d missed. But there was only one Portem, and I wasn’t about to abandon him for some fruitless scraps.
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