TRAM

  The Iron Hearth tavern hummed with quiet energy, a low buzz of voices blending with the soft strum of strings from a trio of musicians tucked in a corner. Factory workers hunched over rough-hewn tables, easing the ache in their backs with warm stew and frothy ale. A few merchants, fresh off dealing scraps or small wares, nursed drinks by the wall. Even a couple of suspicious figures—likely Black Market types—lingered near the door, sharing a nod with the tavern’s regulars. Here, at least for an evening, they all belonged.

  In the thick of it, Tram wove between chairs and elbows. He carried a platter of hot bread and mugs of ale, trying not to spill a drop. The lamplight gleamed on the worn wooden floorboards, casting long shadows across mismatched furniture. A laugh rose from one table; a hush fell at another. Tram ducked and sidestepped, careful and quick, until he reached a group of hefty men halfway through their meal.

  His hand shook as he lowered a mug, and it slipped—just enough ale splashed over the rim to soak one man’s lap. Tram’s stomach clenched. “S-sorry, sir,” he managed, voice catching. “I’ll bring a fresh one and a rag straightaway.” The big man’s stare weighed on him, silent and unimpressed.

  As Tram turned, he bumped a patron who shot him a grumble and a glare. “Watch it, Tram! Keep your eyes open.”

  “It won’t happen again!” Tram called back, cheeks hot, before ducking into the kitchen.

  Inside, the kitchen’s cramped space was a world of its own: pans hissed over flames, steam rose from bubbling pots, and sacks of produce lined the shelves. The scents of roasting meat, onions, and peppercorn hung in the thick air, and a few flickering bulbs fought the shadows. Tram grabbed a clean rag, heart still hammering.

  “Tram!” The voice boomed above the din. Wayland, the tavern master, planted himself near the chopping block. He was a broad man with a bushy mustache and kind eyes that held a quiet authority. Tram braced for a scolding—he’d spilled drinks before, and Wayland always took notice.

  But Wayland’s gaze was calm, if a bit tired. “We’re outta flour,” he said. “Need you to run down to Sunlit Grains and fetch a few bags. Take the cart, be quick about it.”

  Tram blinked. That was it? No lecture about clumsiness? He swallowed. “Sure, Wayland. Just let me fix the mess I made out there first. I spilled a drink… The fellow I spilled it on looked like he might break me in half.”

  Wayland grunted, passing him a fresh mug of ale. “Put the flour on my tab. I’ll head down to pay tomorrow.” He studied Tram’s face for a moment. “Gonna miss havin’ ya ’round, lad. You’ve been a good help all these years.”

  A lump formed in Tram’s throat. He managed a smile. “Not gone yet. You’ll still have me underfoot until I start at the Stonemill.” In five days, he’d turn sixteen, and factory work waited like an inevitable dawn. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

  Wayland nodded, and Tram hurried to the common room with the fresh drink and a rag. He apologized softly as he mopped the table and set down the replacement mug, careful not to meet the big man’s eyes for too long.

  Then, leaving behind the hum of voices and the golden lamplight of The Iron Hearth, Tram stepped through the tavern’s door. Evening had settled over the island, painting the sky in smoky oranges and dusky blues. The air felt cooler out here, the distant grind of factories blending with muted chatter from below. A heavy handcart waited near the tavern’s side wall, its wheels caked with dust. Tram sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and gripped the cart’s handle.

  It was time to head into town.

  Tram guided the cart away from The Iron Hearth, which perched at the island’s highest point like a watchtower over a smoky sea. From up here, he could see it all: the factories clustered around the island’s edges, their silhouettes sharp against an orange-streaked sky. Tall chimneys belched thin plumes of smoke that curled into the twilight. Steel frameworks rose in uneven rows, each factory built with purpose and pragmatism—copper refineries near one cliff, mills near another, and The Foundry’s blazing furnaces scattered along the southern rim.

  Far below, at the docks jutting from the island’s perimeter, air haulers hovered and drifted, their great engines humming. Some eased in gently, guided by crewmen shouting orders and flapping signal flags. Others, already loaded, soared away into the haze, carrying copper coils, iron rods, and machine parts bound for distant markets. The subdued roar of engines and the clank of cranes rose faintly to Tram’s ears, mixing with the hum of voices and distant laughter from below.

  He started downhill, cart wheels rattling over uneven cobblestone. Old neighbors and passing acquaintances greeted him—an old man who always winked and asked if the tavern’s stew was as good as last week, a weathered woman sweeping her doorstep who paused to call, “Evenin’, Tram!” A pack of grubby children scampered by, shrieking with delight as they chased a makeshift ball. Even here, so close to the factories’ relentless grind, a flicker of warmth persisted.

  Tram took care to avoid darker alleys, where Black Market dealers lurked in half-light, their whispered bargains barely audible. Instead, he kept to the main lane leading down toward the market square. From here, he could glimpse the steady flow of goods—bundles of raw materials rolling toward the factories, and carts of finished products trundling back toward the docks to meet the haulers. The island never truly slept; it only shifted gears as day gave way to dusk.

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  It was near a sputtering gas lamp that Tram spotted a familiar figure. Declan stood there, tall and lanky, long red hair hanging awkwardly around a face that never quite settled into ease. Though the air smelled of soot and distant cooking fires, Tram could almost sense Declan’s tension in it—an uneasy energy, like static before a storm.

  “Declan!” Tram called, slowing his pace. The boy turned as if startled from a deep reverie. He offered Tram a quick, uncertain smile, his gaze darting over the cobblestones before flicking briefly to meet Tram’s eyes.

  “Tram,” Declan replied softly, voice muffled by the hum of distant engines. He shifted his weight, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. In the background, an air hauler’s distant horn sounded, and the glow of factory furnaces tinted the horizon red.

  “How’s The Foundry treating you?” Tram asked, leaning on the cart handle. He kept his tone casual, though he knew Declan’s unease well. The other boy had a knack for understanding the island’s workings in theory—he could recall which factory specialized in what, or how an airship’s rigging functioned—but his body never seemed to cooperate when it came to the rough labor these jobs demanded.

  Declan let out a sigh, lips twisting in a wry half-smile. “Still clumsy, still knocking things over,” he said, words tumbling in a quick hush. “I think faster than I move. I know what’s needed—exact torque on a bolt, how the molten metal should pour—but my hands don’t match my head’s timing. The foreman glares, the men curse, and I’m left feeling like a spare cog rattling around inside some big machine.”

  Tram nodded, listening over the soft rumble of a distant hauler docking near the Copper Forge. “You’ve always been a thinker, Declan,” he said carefully. “This island forces us into certain roles, but it doesn’t mean you’re not good at something else. I remember you rigging up that makeshift crane from scrap beams and old rope when we were kids. Your head’s full of answers—just maybe not the ones The Foundry wants right now.”

  Declan snorted softly, an awkward, nasal sound that carried a hint of self-conscious laughter. He ran a hand through his wild hair, eyes darting toward a distant airship drifting overhead, its hull illuminated by deck lanterns. “I guess. But what good’s a head full of answers if I can’t put them to use?” He paused, shoulders hunching. “So, uh, what brings you out here?”

  “An errand for Wayland,” Tram explained, tapping the cart handle. “We ran out of flour. Tavern’s busy, and there are strangers in town—merchants, travelers, I’m not sure who they are. Something’s stirring, maybe new trade routes or big orders at the factories. It feels different tonight.”

  Declan nodded thoughtfully, eyes flicking between the distant silhouettes of factories and the slow crawl of another hauler edging closer to a dock. “More trade means more ships, more strangers… new possibilities,” he said softly, fingers twisting that thread on his sleeve. “I-I mean, not that I know much. Just guessing.”

  Tram smiled. “Your guesses are usually good, Declan.”

  The red-haired boy fell quiet a moment, then ventured, “Your birthday’s in a few days, isn’t it? You’ll start at the Stonemill?”

  “Yeah,” Tram answered, trying not to sound resigned. “Time’s up, I guess. Stonemill’s not as bad as The Foundry, but still… not exactly freedom.”

  Declan’s brow furrowed. “We’re all stuck, aren’t we? Factories, loading haulers, forever tied to these docks and smoke stacks.” His eyes drifted to the sky where the airships sailed away. “I used to imagine farming or tinkering with machines in a better way, not just brute force labor. It’s silly, sorry.”

  “It’s not silly,” Tram said firmly. “I believe we can find another way—someday. Maybe even get off this island. If we do, we go together.”

  Declan’s gaze snapped to Tram’s face, and for a second, he looked genuinely touched, his anxiety loosening its grip. “I… I’d like that,” he said softly, voice nearly lost beneath the distant clatter of machinery. “Really.”

  A faint clanging from The Foundry direction made Declan start. “I should go. Need to rest before tomorrow’s shift.” He gave a small, awkward wave, turning as if unsure whether to run or linger. “I’ll try to drop by the tavern sometime—if that’s okay.”

  “Of course,” Tram said, offering a reassuring grin. “I’ll be there.”

  Declan managed a hesitant nod, then slipped into a side lane that led toward The Foundry’s dim outline, the lamplight catching in his hair before he vanished from sight.

  Tram watched him go, that familiar mixture of admiration and sorrow tugging at his chest. He took a breath, tightened his grip on the cart, and continued downhill toward the market square. Behind him, the tavern’s warm glow still marked the highest point of the island, while ahead, ships and factories shaped the world he was bound to.

  As Declan’s footsteps faded into the gloom, Tram continued downhill, the cart’s rattling wheels echoing against worn cobblestones. The closer he got to the market square, the brighter the lamplight grew. Shops and stalls crowded together at odd angles, a jumble of patched roofs and hand-painted signs. Somewhere, a baker was still pulling loaves from cooling ovens; elsewhere, a cloth merchant’s lanterns threw flickering patterns on faded bolts of fabric.

  Tram’s mind wandered back to Declan. He remembered the boy’s excited rambling about beans, of all things. Years ago, when life was nothing but scavenging scraps, Declan had coaxed a tiny garden patch to life beneath a warped window ledge. He’d shown Tram how small green leaves unfurled, how delicate blossoms promised nourishment. For a brief moment, they had tasted possibility—something other than ore and sweat and choking smoke. Even now, Tram held that memory as a quiet spark in the back of his mind.

  At the edge of the square, he pulled the cart to one side, taking care not to block a narrow alley where two men in hooded coats haggled over something he couldn’t quite see. Tram kept moving, weaving around a knot of travelers who murmured to each other in unfamiliar accents. New faces everywhere—Declan wasn’t imagining it. The island felt on the cusp of something.

  As he passed a tall post hammered into the stone, Tram’s eye caught a flash of color. He recognized it instantly: a bounty board, the parchment nailed haphazardly in layers. The largest and most weathered sheet bore the face he’d never forget: Captain Victor Thorne. The pirate who had destroyed his world eight years ago, leaving so many orphaned children in his wake. A hundred thousand gold pieces offered for Thorne’s capture—dead or alive. Around it, smaller scraps advertised lesser criminals, their crimes and rewards scrawled in shaky ink.

  Tram paused, heart twisting. He didn’t linger. There was no time for old anger and grief, not with Wayland’s errand waiting. Still, the memory stuck to him like soot on his hands. He could almost feel the gunshots echoing through time, his parents’ faces flickering at the edges of his vision.

  The flicker of torches and glow-lamps pressed him onward, guiding him through the last stretch of the square. Finally, the sign of Sunlit Grains came into view—a painted sheaf of wheat bathed in soft lamplight. The windows were aglow from within, promising warmth and stocked shelves.