The street was busy, and open; but it was not a Tyrenian street. Ismene watched from the eyes of an artificial body, masked and shelled, but clothed with garments that had no intention of hiding its inorganic nature. Others on the street were human; but there were crow-like people, too, and other artifices.

  Ismene saw these things with the immanent memory of dreams. The artifices were autonomous, but individual; she had been granted the visual feed, but the body was not hers. Not like the Hands.

  The buildings around her were solid and elegant; stone, sometimes, but nothing like the Tyrenian cities of hall and column. Those were built for grandeur and the use of the few, surrounded by factories and tenements. This city had far less drama; but it had so much more life.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  There were no servants here; only people. She had come to expect more than ownership in her custodianship of mortal lives, Ismene thought. This city was healthy, and planned, and run with very different priorities than Tyrene would be, centuries hence.

  She looked up as she walked and saw the stark lines and tower of the Castle ahead. That’s funny, she thought, seeing the asymmetry of the structure against the sky. My right wing must not have been finished yet.