The Sanctioned Vault was a graveyard.

  What had once been an opulent circus tent, filled with roaring crowds and gilded performances, now y in charred ruin. Torn crimson fabric fluttered weakly from the skeletal remains of the rafters. Golden chandeliers had colpsed into the splintered floor, their melted wax pooling among the blood. The scent of burnt velvet, scorched flesh, and residual alchemy hung thick in the air, a noxious perfume of destruction.

  It was the eighth crystal outbreak this week.

  And just like the ones before, there was no trace of the one who caused it.

  Captain Adrien Roak of the Inquistion, led the squad inside, his every step methodical, controlled. His long storm-gray coat, reinforced with alchemic silver filigree, hung from broad shoulders, buttoned up to the neck in rigid formality. The high colr framed his sharp-cut jawline, his ashen-blond hair cropped short in a soldier’s cut, a single streak of white running through his temple like a mark of experience—or exhaustion. His piercing ice-blue eyes swept the destruction with a look of hardened indifference, though the tightness in his brow betrayed something deeper.

  “This makes eight,” he muttered, the words edged with irritation. “This is getting repetitive.”

  “To be fair,” Ari Vaust drawled, kicking over a broken chair, “this is one of the more exciting ones. Too soon…? Sorry. My bad.”

  Ari was the definition of reckless elegance. Her deep auburn hair was only half-tied, loose strands curling around her sharp, fox-like features. Her scarlet coat, trimmed with silver, was worn open over a fitted bck corset, a belt strapped diagonally across her hip where three daggers were sheathed in polished leather. She had the look of someone who could switch between charming or stabbing you without changing expressions.

  “Exciting?” Markus Renalt grumbled beside her. “You need a better hobby.”

  Markus was built like a war machine barely held together. His bck duster, tattered at the edges, had once been standard-issue before he had modified it with reinforced pting on the shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick forearms marred with deep, alchemic scarring—twisting, branching lines etched in burnt silver, remnants of an experiment gone wrong. His dark hair, streaked with premature iron-gray, was messy from weeks of sleep deprivation, his deep-set gray eyes hooded with exhaustion.

  “We keep getting called to these incidents,” he continued, rolling his stiff shoulder, “and we keep coming up with jack shit.”

  Enoch Duvain, always the quietest of the four, knelt beside a petrified corpse, gloved fingers tracing the fractured crystal skin. He was a shadow wrapped in midnight-bck robes, the high colr of his coat nearly swallowing his sharp, gaunt features. Unlike the others, he wore no visible weapons—only silver rings, each inscribed with intricate, whisper-thin runes that seemed to shift under the light. His jet-bck hair, straight and shoulder-length, was pulled back into a loose tail, but a few strands had fallen forward, casting a partial veil over his unnervingly dark eyes.

  “This is different,” he murmured. His voice was low, quiet, yet carried weight.

  Adrien turned toward him. “How?”

  Enoch tilted his head, tapping a fractured shard of bckened crystal. “The corruption pattern. The others spread outward, like a sickness.” His fingers traced the jagged edge. “This one looks like it was torn away. As if something was…” He paused. “Extracted.”

  Ari sighed, crossing her arms. “Great. Cryptic riddles again.”

  “It means,” Markus grunted, “we’ve got another dead-end.”

  A hush fell over the ruin as a new group arrived.

  Unlike the armored enforcers, these Inquisitors wore white.

  The Pale Choir was both feared and revered—the Inquisition’s healers, bound by an alchemic burden few could survive. Their long ivory robes, lined with blood-red embroidery, made them stand apart from the others. Hoods draped over their faces, some shadowed, others revealing pale, withered features—signs of years sacrificed for their craft.

  They did not wield weapons, but they did not need to. Their hands, scarred bck, worked over the wounded, channeling their own life-force into broken bodies. With every whisper of their incantations, the air shimmered, and the dying were dragged back from the brink—at a cost. A young novice staggered, eyes widening as his hands trembled over a fallen man’s chest. His own breath faltered. His elder caught him, muttering something firm, before taking over the healing himself.

  “Not all wounds were worth dying for.”

  Adrien watched impassively before turning away. Mercy had its limits.

  Then the temperature shifted.

  The air grew heavier, the distant crackling of embers swallowed by an oppressive silence.

  Lord Inquisitor Vulthein had arrived.

  He stepped through the ruined archway, his bck military coat flowing like a judge’s robes, adorned with obsidian filigree and gold-lined insignias of the Inquisition’s highest authority. Armor pting reinforced his shoulders, etched with runes of binding, the silver inys faintly glowing under the flickering light.

  His storm-gray eyes, cold as polished steel, swept over the wreckage with unhidden contempt. His jawline, sharp as a bde, was set in permanent disdain. A single streak of silver ran through his otherwise jet-bck hair, neatly combed back, though a few strands had come loose from the night’s wind.

  At his heels followed three identical men, their crisp uniforms unblemished.

  The Vulthein Triplets—unofficially known as Dumbass, Dumbass, and Dumbass, according to Markus—were eerily synchronized, each mirroring the other’s movements. All of them shared dark red hair, and light brown eyes with freckles and gsses.

  One spoke first. “Lord Vulthein, sir! This is truly the work of a vile heretic—”

  The second jumped in. “A criminal of the highest order, no doubt! A mark upon our city, a—”

  The third finished. “A disgrace to the ws you so valiantly uphold!”

  Ari muttered to Markus, “How the hell does he tell them apart?”

  Markus exhaled. “Dumbass one, dumbass two, dumbass three.”

  “Haha! Good one..”

  Adrien shot them both a gre. They shut up.

  Ari shoved Markus, “Nice going.”

  “Tch, that was all you. Shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Vulthein finally spoke, voice low, sharp, unwavering.

  “Lucien Albrecht is alive.”

  Silence.

  He stepped further inside, his boots crushing a broken crystal underfoot.

  Ari shrugged, “Ehhh. How do we know it’s not some fake imposter trying to be Lucien? The guy was pretty popur.”

  “And still be able to make a mess grand as this? Red hair in a braided ponytail? Definitely him, according to a child who said to have been saved by him.”

  His voice dropped, but the weight behind it only grew heavier.

  Vulthein turned, his coat billowing like a specter.

  “Lucien Albrecht must die. Again. Knowing how he was an insanely violent and dangerous Hunter Assassin for the Bck Chapel, he even killed many of our Inquisitors. I’m sure you all remember that day..”

  The squad looked down with ease and distraught, they remembered how Lucien dangled one of their officers on the edge of a building, ciming her to be a witch, and ripped her in half with his bare hands.

  Vulthien continued, “He wants to be seen, he doesn’t care. He’s even more reckless now. There is no imposter. It’s him. The witnesses and child detailed him perfectly. Get ready, because we’re going on a hunt again.”

  (Above, on the Rooftops)

  Drakhelm sprawled beneath Lucien, a restless machine of flesh and iron, stitched together by greed, survival, and desperation. From this height, he could see it all—the rich drinking their bck honey tea on high balconies, wrapped in their silks and safety, their boots never touching filth; the poor huddled under rusted awnings, lit by flickering neon nterns, their hands outstretched for coin that would never come. The Steel Gear automatons stood at their posts, unyielding and indifferent, their brass-pted torsos glinting under the smog-drowned moonlight as they monitored the streets with their lifeless blue eyes. Merchants hawked their trinkets—cursed lockets, bone charms pulled from the Hollow Wastes, alchemic tinctures promising strength, beauty, or forgetfulness.

  Same city, same story.

  Lucien barely paid attention.

  He was more focused on the damn cat in his hand, his hand wrapped around the cat's throat.

  Named Torch.

  Torch dangled from his grip, limp, golden eyes half-lidded in his usual apathetic stare, as if Lucien’s ongoing crisis was nothing more than an inconvenience. The small golden star on his back pulsed faintly, a brand of something unknown, something unnatural.

  Lucien scowled.

  “You little mythic bastard,” he muttered, shaking the cat lightly. “You just don’t stop, do you?”

  Torch blinked. Slowly. Unimpressed.

  Lucien scoffed, shaking his head like a man on the edge of a breakdown.

  “Every time. Every. Single. Time. I leave you behind? You find me. I throw you off a train? You’re waiting at my next stop. I set you on fire? You don’t even flinch. I buried you, buried you, and you came back looking cleaner than before!”

  Torch yawned.

  Lucien’s eye twitched.

  “Ever since I came back, ever since that damned goddess shoved me back into this world, you’ve been there. Stalking me. Watching me. And every time I think I’ve finally gotten rid of you—”

  He let go.

  Torch fell.

  Lucien watched with satisfaction as the cat plummeted, twisting weightlessly through the air. No reaction. No resistance. He simply descended, staring up at Lucien the entire time with that same infuriatingly calm expression.

  And then—impact.

  Torch hit the cobblestone hard. A brutal, visceral sptter of fur, bone, and blood. Civilians screamed, staggering back in horror, hands cpping over their mouths. Some ran. Others just stood there, gaping at the grotesque dispy of what had once been a cat.

  Lucien stood still for a moment, staring down over the edge.

  Then, slowly, his shoulders began to shake.

  A chuckle slipped through his lips, quiet at first, then growing, building, rising into a full-bodied cackle of manic triumph.

  “I DID IT!” he bellowed, throwing his arms out wide, tears of ughter in his eyes. “I FINALLY KILLED THAT LITTLE STALKER!”

  Behind him, his summons exchanged gnces.

  The Joker tilted its masked head, its split face twitching as if deciding whether this was a cause for concern. The King merely folded his arms, silent, while the Queen snapped open her fan, hiding whatever expression y beneath it. The Jack flipped a silver coin in the air, unimpressed.

  Lucien wiped at his face, grinning wildly. “Finally, some peace.”

  And then—something heavy nded on his shoulder.

  His blood went cold.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head.

  Torch sat there.

  Perfectly fine.

  Not a single scratch on him.

  Lucien stared.

  Torch blinked. Flicked his tail.

  Lucien screamed.

  “WHAT THE FUCK?! I SAW YOU DIE!”

  In a pure panic, Lucien grabbed Torch with both hands around the throat, and smmed him onto the rooftop, pinning him down like he was wrestling a demon incarnate.

  “YOU WERE DEAD! I SAW IT! I SAW YOU DIE! YOU EXPLODED! THERE WERE ENTRAILS! DIE! DIE NOW!”

  Torch remained unbothered, yawning and keeping a straight face as his tail wagged.

  Lucien’s fingers tightened around the cat’s throat.

  “WHY WON’T YOU DIE?! WHO ARE YOU?!”

  The Joker tilted its head.

  The Queen’s fan lowered slightly.

  The King exhaled quietly through his nose.

  And the Jack, ever the nuisance, flicked a coin at Lucien’s forehead.

  Lucien flinched as the silver piece bounced off his skull with a sharp tink! He snarled, rubbing his temple.

  Torch used the distraction to wiggle free.

  Lucien cwed at his hair in exasperation.

  “I HATE YOU! I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU!”

  Torch sat down a few feet away, tail curling around his paws. He began grooming himself, completely indifferent to Lucien’s existential breakdown. Then the Queen kneeled down to pet him, stroking his fur, smiling.

  Lucien colpsed onto his back, staring up at the cloudy sky, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

  I hate this. All of it. Being controlled. Being followed. Being bound to things I don’t understand.

  He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose.

  ‘It’s always something. Always. Ever since I cwed my way back, there’s been a chain around my throat. The goddess who owns my soul. The cursed debt that binds me. The mark burning into my spine. Even my own existence isn’t my own. And now, this cat.’

  His fingers twitched.

  ‘I hate the feeling of being controlled. I always have. I hate people thinking they can put their hands on my life, shove me into their little pns, pull my strings like I’m some leashed dog. That’s why I don’t keep people close. That’s why I don’t trust, why I don’t let things linger. Because love, loneliness, regret—It’s all just another form of control.’

  Lucien let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face.

  But still, the thoughts crept in, unwelcome. That quiet, gnawing weight of solitude. He shoved it away.

  ‘This is better. It has to be…even when I try not to let the loneliness get to me..is that why I prance around here like a maniac? Not afraid to get caught? Enjoying society because I hate solitude…? Am I really that alone…?’

  Then, something warm pressed against his chest.

  Lucien opened his eyes.

  Torch was sitting on him.

  Lucien screamed again.

  “GET OFF ME!”

  He flipped over, grabbing the cat and pinning him back down with both hands, his summons moving in the background, watching like spectators at a colosseum fight.

  Torch stared up at him. Blinked. Yawned.

  Lucien’s eye twitched.

  “I will end you. I swear to every god left rotting in this world.”

  Torch flicked his tail.

  Lucien’s hands trembled, then let go. Sitting back on his bottom, saying, “Ughh. What am I even doing?”

  …

  The air was cold against the rooftop a few blocks away from the Sanctioned Vault, the wind tugging at the frayed edges of Lucien’s coat. The city stretched below, a sprawling byrinth of gas-lit streets and crumbling stone, its veins pulsing with the movements of Inquisition patrols scouring the wreckage for answers they would never find.

  He exhaled slowly, the distant hum of officers barking orders a dull murmur beneath him. His gloved fingers absentmindedly flipped through his deck of soul-bound cards, the edge of the Joker card glinting under the moon’s sickly glow.

  And then, she arrived.

  Lucien felt her before he saw her.

  A presence like a storm—calm, contained, but heavy with the promise of violence.

  Sel Varcosta stood at the edge of the rooftop, poised in a way that made it look as if the wind itself had pced her there. Her long, dark coat, lined with silver embroidery and intricate alchemic sigils, billowed slightly as she crossed her arms, leaning against the worn brick wall with a practiced ease. The dim blue glow of Aether mps below illuminated the sharp, sculpted angles of her face—high cheekbones, dark shes, lips curled in something between amusement and disdain.

  Her emerald-green eyes, piercing and calcuting, found his immediately; Lucien let out a short chuckle, tapping the deck of cards against his palm.

  “Didn’t take you long,” he muttered.

  “Like I’d lose your scent,” Sel replied smoothly with a seductive smile, pushing off the wall and walking toward him—slow, deliberate steps, the kind a predator made when it knew the kill was inevitable.

  There was something striking about her, a presence that demanded attention without ever asking for it. The way her coat was fitted, cinched at the waist with elegant silver csps but worn enough to show years of movement and use. The way her raven-bck hair, streaked with the faintest hints of green at the tips, cascaded over her shoulders in controlled chaos. The way her gloved fingers twitched, ever so slightly, like she was resisting the urge to grab something.

  ‘What is this feeling… ?’

  Or someone.

  Lucien watched her with his usual smirk, but his eyes flicked—just briefly—to the way her gaze kept shifting. Not to his weapons. Not to his mask. But to his neck.

  A hunger. Sharp. Sudden. Unwelcome.

  Her heart pounded once—loud, demanding.

  ‘What the hell is this? This is my first time being so close to him…and yet…I feel a weird hunger…’

  She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus.

  “You know why I’m here,” she said, voice smooth as gss. “I’m going to kill you, Lucien.”

  Lucien let out a soft ugh, stretching his arms behind his head. “Yeah, yeah, join the club. You said that before.”

  Sel’s eyes flickered dangerously. “This isn’t a joke.”

  “It’s a little funny.”

  She stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that Lucien could smell the faint traces of gunpowder, old books, and something floral beneath it.

  She smelled nice.

  “You think I want to be standing here, talking to you?” she murmured, her voice lower now, sharp with something she wasn’t sure she could name. “I don’t. I despise you, Albrecht.”

  Lucien raised a brow, smirking. “That so?”

  “I’ve devoted everything I have to the Bck Chapel,” she continued, ignoring the way her pulse quickened again. “I wasn’t there when you were, I was in a different sanctuary, but when I learned what you were—what you became—I knew I had to make myself worthy of hunting you down.”

  She stepped back, composing herself.

  “The Bck Chapel exists for a reason,” she continued, eyes narrowing. “We were founded in the shadows.. When magic and alchemy ran unchecked, when this world teetered on the edge of colpse, we did what the Inquisition couldn’t—we purged the corruption.”

  Lucien’s smirk didn’t fade, but his fingers curled slightly. He already knew this.

  She continued, circling him now like a wolf speaking to its prey. “We don’t just hunt witches. We prevent the return of the gods. That rumor that’s been spreading around about god's being trapped in the sun and the moon, and the Marked Ones trying to release them.”

  Lucien finally tilted his head at that. “So the Bck Chapel’s scared of bedtime stories now?”

  Sel’s lips curled, but there was no humor in it.

  “The Architect’s pn has been known to us for centuries,” she murmured. “The Marked Ones think they’re fighting for a new world, but we know the truth. If they succeed, this world ends.”

  Lucien let out a slow whistle. “Heavy stuff. Who’s this Architect guy?”

  “It’s just…something I heard from the Exarch.”

  Sel ignored him. Instead, she reached into her coat, pulling out a silver pendant on a thin chain, holding it between her gloved fingers.

  A bck cathedral, a sun split in two.

  “This,” she said, voice softer, but no less sharp, “is what we fight for. A world without gods, the pgue, witches, everything.”

  Lucien’s gaze flicked to it, unreadable. Then, slowly, he grinned.

  “And yet,” he said, “you still haven’t tried to kill me.”

  Sel’s jaw clenched.

  She wanted to.

  She really, really wanted to.

  But something stopped her.

  Something she didn’t have a name for.

  So instead, she took a slow breath and stepped even closer, until her words were a whisper against his skin.

  “I will kill you, Albrecht,” she murmured. “I will stay by your side until I find a way to do it. You’re not special. Everyone dies. No one is immortal. But you’re toughness is troublesome.”

  Her heartbeat smmed against her ribs.

  ‘Why am I craving something…? What even is it? I keep looking at his neck, like something is reaching for me there…’

  She clenched her teeth, forcing the thought down.

  Lucien barely reacted. Behind him, his summons—The Joker, King, Queen, and Jack—looked at each other, silently exchanging gnces.

  Lucien sighed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Great. Another stalker. No thanks.”

  Sel blinked. “What? I-I command you to allow me to follow you!”

  Lucien shrugged. “I’ve already got an annoying cat who follows me around, and a goddess who won’t shut up in my head. I don’t have room for any more clingy people.”

  Sel’s eye twitched.

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Aww.”

  She exhaled, shaking her head, then smiling seductively, “Hmm. It’s strange. If you know I’m going to kill you, why don’t you just kill me first?”

  Lucien met her gaze, and for a split second, there was something—not pyful, not mocking, but tired.

  “I don’t kill unless I feel threatened,” he said simply. “Or if I get paid.”

  Sel stared at him. “…You’re serious?”

  ‘Tch! He’s not threatened by my presence?! After all I've done to get strong enough to kill him?!’

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Not really a fan of random murder.”

  There was something about the way he said it, something that made her pause. She inhaled sharply, then turned on her heel, stepping toward the edge of the rooftop. “The Bck Chapel won’t hear of this.”

  Lucien raised a brow. “Yeah? Gee thanks.” He didn’t mean it.

  “But more hunters will come for you,” she continued. “And next time, I won’t just be watching.”

  Lucien yawned, stretching his arms behind his head. “Sounds exhausting. Why don’t you wanna tell them? Ya know, you ALL could just attack me at once? Overwhelm me and shit. It’ll be epic.”

  Sel ughed, “Ha! That would be foolish. I don’t want anyone to cim my prize. And if I bring your head to the Exarch…I will finally be worthy of the power he promised.”

  Lucien pointed at himself, teasing, “I’m your prize huh? Are you trying to romance me?”

  Sel slightly became flustered, and she scoffed, “Pfft. You wish. I don’t have time for romance, retionships, only my duty.”

  “Yeah? Same here.”

  Sel shot him a sharp gre over her shoulder. “I’ll find you ter.”

  Lucien smirked. “HOLD UP. I didn’t say you could just follow me around!”

  “Hm? Guess you didn’t. Since you won’t force me away, I made my own choice.”

  Her emerald eyes lingered on him.

  Just for a second.

  And then she was gone.

  Lucien sighed, and he stood there, thinning, ‘Am I really letting her follow me around? I’ve heard of her, she was definitely in another sanctuary of the Bck Chapel, as there are plenty all over the world. I like my loneliness…I don’t need anyone trying to destroy that. But I’m entertained by this honestly. But for Sel, the main reason I want her around, I can possibly figure out why the Exarch took me down before. It wasn’t because I wanted to carve my own path? Was it because I left without warning? Because I was almost caring about some of my own Hunters? I didn’t want to form any retionship, seeing how being tied down to anything makes your life even more stressful, less free. I left before I could feel bad for anyone dying in front of me. I hardened my heart for a reason. And even through all of that, I can’t even love myself.’

  …

  The streets of Drakhelm pulsed with the feverish rhythm of the city’s restless heart, the train station at its center a roaring beast of steam, iron, and ceaseless movement. The scent of burning coal and alchemic oil mingled with the damp musk of bodies packed too close together, voices rising and falling like an untamed tide.

  Lucien, with Torch in his shoulder, walked through the crowd, his new attire catching the gaslight in sharp, elegant contrast. His suit—a deep, arterial red—was embroidered with white filigree along the cuffs and pels, the fine silk lined with hidden yers of reinforced stitching. A matching mask, pale with crimson etchings, concealed the upper half of his face, leaving only his vivid red eyes exposed. His braided ponytail swayed slightly as he moved, each step measured, unhurried, untouched by the chaos around him.

  The city never changed.

  It was always people, rushing to be anywhere but where they were.

  A group of workers slouched near a smoking automaton, its brass limbs worn from overuse as it helped reconstruct a fire-gutted building.

  “Another one up in fmes,” one muttered, rubbing soot from his face. “Damn rats set their own shop on fire just to collect insurance.”

  “Nah. That’s Red Death cleanup, ain’t it? That pgue?” Another grunted, adjusting his cap. “They say when the infection reaches the lungs, the coughing alone can burn a house down.”

  A woman nearby pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, gncing nervously toward a cluster of figures hunched beneath a tattered awning. Their bodies were wrapped in sackcloth, faces hidden, though the faint sound of wet, hacking coughs could still be heard.

  “It’s getting worse,” someone whispered. “The pgue ward’s overrun. They’re just letting them die in the streets now.”

  Lucien scoffed under his breath.

  ‘Pathetic. Look at them—huddling together like dying animals, clinging to a life already lost. They should have the dignity to rot in private.’

  His gaze swept the station, cataloging details like ink in a journal. A merchant peddled alchemic trinkets, ciming his charms could ward off sickness. A gun seller dispyed his wares on a velvet cloth, his voice loud, insistent—each bullet handcrafted, each barrel polished to perfection. Near the ptform’s edge, a young woman argued with an officer automaton, its metal frame standing rigid as it reviewed her identification papers in its mechanical voice.

  And then there was the paperboy, standing atop a wooden crate, waving the evening news in ink-stained fingers.

  “PLAGUE RIOTS IN THE LOWER QUARTERS! RED DEATH CASES UP 200%—QUARANTINES FAILING!”

  “BLACK CRYSTAL OUTBREAK IN SOLRITH—INQUISTORS STRUGGLE TO CONTAIN THE MARKED!”

  “CIRCUS SLAUGHTER! FAMOUS WITCH HUNTER BELIEVED TO BE INVOLVED—AUTHORITIES INVESTIGATING!”

  “BLACK CHAPEL SIGHTINGS! ORDER OF SHADOWS EXECUTES SUSPECTED CULT LEADERS IN VUELPORT—NO BODIES FOUND!”

  “AETHEROS TRADE ROUTES DISRUPTED! GUILD CONFLICTS ESCALATING—PRICES EXPECTED TO SKYROCKET!”

  Lucien smirked beneath his mask as the murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  “Bck Chapel, huh?” a man muttered to his companion. “If those zealots are moving, it means someone important pissed them off.”

  “Tch. Doesn’t matter. They only hunt in the dark. You never see ‘em coming.”

  “Huh?! They hunt night and day!”

  Lucien filed the information away, as he always did. He never trusted news to be entirely true, but it always held a sliver of something useful. At the edge of the ptform, the train conductor stood beside a rge, brass-pted ticket automaton, its clockwork fingers counting coins with meticulous precision. Lucien approached, reaching into his coat.

  He withdrew a single coin, slipping it onto the counter.

  The currency was unique—a circur piece of obsidian metal, its center carved with an intricate spiral of interwoven symbols. This was no ordinary fare. The conductor’s eyes flickered with recognition, but he made no comment. He simply nodded, gesturing toward the train doors.

  “Ha-Have a good ride sir…!” He said with weariness.

  Lucien stepped inside, knowing the conductor was aware of who he was, just by the hair and the eyes.

  The automaton at the entrance whirred to life, its mechanical voice ringing out with a grating cheerfulness.

  “WELCOME, PASSENGER. PLEASE OBSERVE THE FOLLOWING RULES.”

  Lucien’s eye twitched.

  “NO OPEN FLAMES. NO UNREGISTERED ALCHEMIC SUBSTANCES. NO EXCESSIVE NOISE. NO PETS. NO—”

  Lucien shoved past it with an irritated grunt.

  Torch, perched comfortably on his shoulder, flicked his tail.

  “NO PETS DETECTED.” The automaton chirped, its glowing eyes scanning Lucien. “HAVE A SAFE JOURNEY.”

  Lucien stared at it, deadpan. Then at Torch.

  Torch stared back.

  Lucien shook his head, muttering under his breath as he walked deeper into the train.

  ‘The automatons can’t see him?’

  The cabin was empty.

  Good.

  He took a seat near the window as the train doors hissed shut, gears shifting, levers clicking into pce. A deep mechanical groan rolled through the floorboards, and then—the lurch of movement.

  The city began to slide away, its lights fading behind a veil of steam and smoke.

  Lucien leaned back, arms crossed, watching the blurred skyline disappear.

  Torch settled beside him, his small frame barely making a dent in the seat.

  Lucien sighed.

  ‘People always look happiest when they’re with someone else. Holding hands, sharing food, leaning on each other like the world isn’t a festering corpse beneath their feet. I can’t decide if I envy them or despise them.’

  He tilted his head slightly, watching a family still visible on the station’s ptform—two parents, a child between them, ughing as they waved someone off.

  ‘They’ll cling to each other, tie themselves down with love, marriage, jobs they despise, homes they can’t afford. They’ll make their lives smaller and call it happiness.’

  He scoffed.

  ‘Idiots.’

  His gaze flicked to the reflection in the gss—his own masked face staring back at him, unreadable.

  ‘Then again… being alone isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either.’

  His fingers tapped against his arm, thoughtful.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Attachments are just chains with fancier names. People lie. People leave. People die. It’s better this way. No gods. No masters. No fate.’

  Torch let out a slow, drawn-out yawn beside him.

  Lucien gnced at him.

  “…You’re not people.”

  Torch blinked once, then curled his tail around his paws.

  Lucien exhaled, closing his eyes as the train carried him further into the unknown.

  The train rumbled forward, cutting through the vast industrial veins of the city, a machine gliding across the bones of a dying world. Lucien sat with his elbow against the window, his gaze drifting across the ndscape as flickering street mps and smokestacks blurred together in ribbons of light and soot.

  Outside, the world remained a grand mess of iron, brass, and decay. Steam vents hissed from beneath the streets, releasing gouts of vapor that momentarily swallowed passing carriages. Massive airships hovered above, their hulking frames casting long, sluggish shadows over the rooftops. Bridges of metal and stone crisscrossed the cityscape, where merchants peddled wares even in the dawn of the day and dead of the night—alchemy sellers hawking their bottled miracles, bck-market arms dealers whispering promises of bullets that could kill anything, even ghosts.

  A group of workers toiled near the base of a ruined factory, automatons assisting them in rebuilding what looked to have been an old alchemic refinery, recently reduced to a skeletal frame of charred steel beams. Nearby, officers in dark coats stood in a loose circle, dragging a man out from an alleyway—his skin sickly, his breath rattling.

  Lucien let out a slow sigh—

  And froze.

  There was someone sitting beside him.