The station hunches under its own weight, metal beams exposed like bones, walls streaked with rust and soot. Workers shuffle toward the entrance in loose herds, dulled by repetition and too many years beneath the city’s heel.
“Slouch more,” Kane hisses as we join the crowd. “You’re still walking like someone who thinks they matter.”
I drop my shoulders, loosen my stride. The elegance drilled into me claws for control, but I force it back. Every move sits wrong on my skin. I’ve spent a lifetime being seen, holding myself as someone worthy of space. Now, I press inward, dull my edge, and blur the shape.
Kane watches me falter slightly on the uneven pavement, lips twitching.
“Better,” he says, satisfied. “Now look tired.”
We merge with the steady stream of workers, our clothes blending seamlessly into the sea of ash-streaked uniforms and sun-faded coats. The station swallows us whole.
Ancient support beams groan overhead, and I wonder how much longer they’ll hold. Probably as long as the Founding Families need them to. Stable enough to keep the workers moving, not comfortable enough to make them want to linger.
Kane’s fingers brush my arm, guiding me toward the turnstile. “Right hand,” he breathes, barely a whisper. “Push, don’t pull. Keep your head down. Match their pace.”
Along the walls, grime-slick HoloScreens pulse with chirping color, animated banners flickering through static. A woman’s face beams down at us, her smile too perfect, her Vale Industries uniform gleaming pristine white as she gestures to charts and graphs.
“Attention, Lower Ring citizens!” Her voice oozes artificial warmth. “Due to the extraordinary success of our medical trials, enrollment in the Vale Medical Initiative is now mandatory for all employees. Together, we build a healthier tomorrow!”
Footage replaces her: workers sitting in tidy rows, sleeves rolled back and necks exposed as injections are delivered with rigor. Their expressions hold no joy, only submission carved into stillness.
“Remember,” the voice continues, “compliance ensures benefits and continued employment. Refusal will result in immediate revocation of both.”
Another screen flashes urgent red with the notice:ALL BLOOD RUBIES MUST BE RETURNED AFTER SHIFT COMPLETION.UNAUTHORIZED POSSESSION WILL RESULT IN DETENTION.CURFEW NOW STRICTLY ENFORCED. PENALTIES HAVE BEEN UPDATED.
“Worse than last time,” Kane whispers. “They used to at least pretend there was a choice.”
Ahead, a child lifts a hand toward the screen. “Mama, is that where you went—”
His mother silences him with a firm grip over his mouth, her eyes rising to the corner-mounted surveillance orb.
The train arrives with a screech of metal that makes me flinch, but Kane’s hand at my back steadies me, guiding us through doors that wheeze shut with hydraulic sighs. The car fills quickly, bodies pressed together in resigned familiarity. More HoloScreens inside continue their relentless parade of “good news”: medical breakthroughs requiring test subjects, new security measures for community safety, enhanced curfews to ensure public order.
A woman beside me shifts, her worn sleeve brushing mine. The fabric’s roughness bites at my skin, a far cry from the silks and cottons of home, and her wrist bears shallow red lines, still healing. When she catches my glance, she yanks the cuff down and drops her gaze. No words are needed. Pain is hidden here; fear masked; weakness denied.
“Three stops,” Kane says, his voice brushing my temple. “Then we walk. Glamour gives us two hours once we hit the Lower Rings. If we’re lucky.”
A new advertisement chirps across the screens: “Silva Public Academy announces streamlined education programs! Less theoretical study, more practical skills!” The woman’s artificial smile grows wider. “Preparing your children for immediate workforce integration. Because their future is Eclipsera’s future!” The footage shows teenagers in factory uniforms, their faces arranged in manufactured joy as they operate machinery.
A boy near the window presses his palms to the glass, voice hushed in awe. “Mama. The sky-cars.”
His mother pulls him closer, shielding his view. Her eyes stay fixed on the floor.
Outside, the hover-vehicles slice through the dusk, lit with flashing blue. Kane watches their path. “Pray none of those are for us.”
A bored voice cuts through the cabin. “Tickets.”
Every muscle in me locks.
“Keep moving,” Kane whispers. “Don’t stop. No ticket means interrogation if they grab us.”
I push through the crowded car, trying to match the exhausted shuffle of the other passengers. Kane’s palm presses lightly against my back, guiding me with subtle urgency. In the window’s reflection, the inspector weaves closer, scanner in hand, expression flat and unreadable.
Itrail my fingersalong the cool marble of Alexander’s private wing, noting how the stone remains immaculate and untouched by dust or time. My footsteps resonate through the corridor, unhindered by staff bustle or idle voices. Just pristine silence, as if the air itself knows to stay still.
Sunlight spills through the towering windows ahead, fragmenting across the floor in geometric precision. Diamond-shaped beams dance along polished tile, every reflection placed by design. Intent lives in the architecture—nothing accidental, nothing wasted. I catch my mirrored silhouette in a series of angled panels, posture slightly askew. I correct it.
A massive oil painting stops me in my tracks. Dark waves strike obsidian cliffs with feral rhythm, the pigment barely containing the energy sealed within it. My fingers hover above the surface, sensing the power woven into each brushstroke. This isn’t mere art—it’s a demonstration of control, of magic bound to beauty. Just like everything else in Alexander’s world.
