Burton pulled Eve into the frenzied banquet, and all became clear. The long corridor stretched toward the depths, but like a spider’s web, it branched into dozens of side paths as they advanced. At every intersection, glassy-eyed figures lay sprawled, lost in dreams from which they seemed unable to wake, as if trapped in an endless, intoxicating reverie.
“What is this place…” Eve nearly choked, her voice trembling with disbelief.
“The Feast of Elysium,” Burton replied flatly, untouched by the electrifying atmosphere. His gaze lingered on the bodies tangled on the ground, their embraces fervent yet dazed, as if collectively drowning in a dream they never wished to end.
This was just the outer rim. Who knew how many more lay lost in this underground labyrinth, chasing oblivion?
But Burton ignored them, pulling Eve onward, stepping over writhing forms.
“What are they doing?”
“Chasing dreams—their escape,” Burton said, guiding her through the chaos.
“Know the hallucinogens plaguing the Outer City? That’s what they’re injecting. A single dose lets them flee reality for hours. It’s part of Sabo’s ball ‘entertainment.’ Down here, they call this the Feast of Elysium, a collective ascent to paradise in their eyes.”
His voice chilled. Burton had no patience for such escapism.
“Though it’s only temporary. Eventually, they crash—plunged from paradise back into the filth of the Lower District, sobbing in despair.”
Eve froze. The world’s cruelty, glimpsed only briefly, pressed heavily on her.
“W-why do they do this?” she whispered, as if pleading for sense in the madness.
…
This was the age of steam, where roaring engines propelled technology forward, yet their blessings were not universal, not even in Old Dunling, the heart of Inverweig.
The city lay in a sickening twist, its sky choked by clouds, Zeppelins hovering perpetually. Cutting-edge tech thrived here, but at a staggering cost: air fouled by exhaust, forests incinerated to feed industrial furnaces, leaving only wastelands in their wake.
Technology prioritized war, driving Inverweig to victory in the century-long Glorious War. Military might and war profits catapulted it to dominance, but the price was a society fractured beyond repair. The Lower District was a wound that refused to heal, its inhabitants cast aside like refuse, left to rot in squalor until madness became their only escape.
“Old Dunling is a pyramid,” Burton stated coldly. “Layer upon layer of hierarchy, each pressing down until the weakest bear the weight.”
“Machines need no wages, no rest. Humans do—so they’re discarded, left to rot here.”
Eve said nothing. As a noble, she had no words to bridge this chasm.
After a lengthy trek, assaulted by sights and sounds, they entered the true ballroom, and Eve finally drew a breath.
By the time they arrived, all guests were present. The doors sealed behind them, music swelling as couples took to the floor, the world outside forgotten in a haze of heat and light.
A colossal chandelier dripped with crystals, their reflections turning the vaulted ceiling into a blaze of artificial day. The hall was vast, its tiered architecture reminiscent of ancient Roman arenas—a paradox of opulence in the Lower District’s squalor, as if all its wealth had been funneled here to build this temple of excess.
“Can you dance?”
Burton bowed, sweeping Eve into the throng before she could protest, their steps fluid amid the swirling crowd.
“I’m not very—”
“Nobles should master this. Your future husband might be met at a ball, no?”
Burton moved with surprising grace, guiding her like a marionette, their bodies swaying to the rhythm.
“How do you know? Detectives learn dancing too?”
“You recall, most mistress cases ended at balls.”
His tone was dry, awkward even—acknowledging his unsavory past.
Eve smirked, tension ebbing. Forget their mission, and this could pass for an ordinary ball.
“Watch our surroundings. We need to find Sabo.”
He spun her, her gown blooming like a lotus.
“You don’t know his face?”
“I’m a detective, not a clairvoyant. We’ll have to identify him.”
“Vikings are tall—he’ll stand out, right?”
Burton shook his head. “He won’t be on the floor. He’s the host; this is just the warm-up. Kings observe from above.”
His gaze scanned the gilded hall, mask hiding his scrutiny—like a thief eyeing his target.
“This is his kingdom. A king sits highest, watching his domain. Nothing escapes his notice.”
Her waist was delicate in his grip, their steps precise as they weaved through the crowd.
“Like Zeppelins above the clouds—they see all, untouched by the chaos below.”
Finally, his gaze fixed on a loft above the throng, where privileged guests reclined, sipping wine, plotting in whispers.
“Is he among them?” Eve murmured during a spin.
“Higher.” Burton nodded to the tier above, where stained-glass panels depicted myths, absurdly sacred in this underground den.
“Underground yet adorned with cathedral glass. Behind those panes lies a chamber—his vantage point. He’s watching us now.”
“Shoot through the glass?” Eve suggested bluntly.
“Then we die here tonight. This labyrinth’s exit is the only way in. A single rifleman could hold it against an army.”
Like Thermopylae, he implied—an unyielding bottleneck.
“Then what?”
“Wait.” Burton’s confidence never wavered. “Opportunity will come.”
