Rozeree had never imagined anything could move as fast as the metic horses. Their thunderous gallop cut through the desolate wastes at breakneck speed, leaving her surroundings a blur. She leaned forward in her plush seat, eyes cold and calculating as the walls of Graybarrow shrank rapidly into the distance. The town that once confined her was finally fading into irrelevance.
Her fingers brushed against the metal flower in her pocket. Its cold surface grounded her, reminding her of the power and freedom Vilrux promised. Freedom from that pit, she thought. No more Graybarrow. No more Silvas. No more Daglan. She scoffed at the thought of him, always content to play the obedient son, clinging to the pathetic hope that things would get better. He'll never understand why I had to leave, she told herself. He's weak, just like the rest of them.
She glanced across at Vilrux, her new mentor, whose mismatched eyes—one blood-red, the other serene blue—studied her with calculating assessment. She straightened her back, eager to prove her worth.
Father, she thought suddenly, what would you say if you could see me now? The image of her father filled her mind—his wild beard, his powerful hands. She remembered how she used to look up to him, waiting for him to come home night after night. But now, instead of pride, she felt only bitterness. He was gone. And Silvas... Rozeree clenched her jaw, thinking of their argument before she left. Silvas had always tried to protect her, but it felt more like a prison. Her aunt had kept them locked behind the walls, training, training, always training. She couldn't understand why Rozeree had to leave. She never understood.
"So," Vilrux began, his voice cutting through her thoughts, "I'm guessing you've never been to the capital before?"
Rozeree shook her head, blinking away the memories. "No, never. What's it like?" she asked, curiosity mixed with trepidation.
"You'll see soon enough, but first, there are a few rules you need to know about being a fixer."
"Fixer?"
"My– and now your– line of work. We do jobs fixing problems that people have."
"What kind of problems?"
She saw Vilrux's expression harden, his eyes narrowing. "Any. Now, are you going to ask questions the whole time I'm trying to explain, or are you going to listen?"
Rozeree sat back, chastened but resolute. "I'm sorry. Please, go on."
Vilrux continued, seemingly satisfied with her response. "Rule number one, and the absolute most important: risk everything, every time. You never want to be at the back or even the middle of the pack. You want to lead. Go fast and fight hard. Never stop or take the easy way out."
Hesitation is weakness, she thought. Her father used to say that in training. But her father was gone now. Dead. His strength hadn't been enough to save him, and she wasn't about to make the same mistake. She needed to be stronger, faster—better than anyone who came before.
"Rule number two, attitude and appearance are everything. You look and think weak, you're gonna be weak. But you look and act the part, you're gonna feel it and get the respect that comes with it. Once you get those two things down, everything else falls into place."
Her mouth tightened in agreement. Fear is power, she thought. That was what Silvas had drilled into her through endless drills and harsh training, each lesson reinforced by the constant threat of worse if she stepped out of line. Few words, just cold expectations, and harsher consequences. Silvas had meant to use fear as a chain, but instead, Rozeree would turn it into a weapon that ensured no one could cage her again.
The carriage jostled as it hit a particularly rough patch of terrain. Through the window, Rozeree caught glimpses of the barren landscape - withered trees clawing at the sky, expanses of cracked earth, and the occasional glint of what might have been bones bleaching in the sun.
"The last, and arguably most important rule," Vilrux leaned in close, "nothing is free. Whether that's money, reputation, or information - you do nothing without a price."
I'm ready, she told herself. The world outside Graybarrow was harsh, but she would thrive in it. She was determined to be more than just a girl from a forgotten town.
"I'm ready," she said, and this time there was no tremor in her voice. The memory of Silvas's disapproving frown, of Daglan's pleading eyes, hardened her resolve. They'd tried to protect her by keeping her weak. But true protection came from power, and she would seize it with both hands. "Show me everything. Whatever the cost."
A smile flicked across Vilrux's face. "Good," he said, settling back into his seat. "We'll make a fixer out of you yet."
As the horizon grew closer, Rozeree pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, determined to absorb every detail of this new world. The sun's descent painted the wasteland in hues of orange and purple, a sight so different from the familiar sunsets of Graybarrow that it seemed almost alien.
As they continued their journey, Vilrux painted a picture of a world beyond Rozeree's imagination. He spoke of a sprawling city where technology and humanity intertwined, of advancements that pushed the boundaries of what was possible with technology and flesh. Rozeree listened intently, careful to keep her face neutral despite the mix of fascination and revulsion building within her.
"Now, let's talk about the tools of our trade," Vilrux said, his voice cutting through her thoughts.
Rozeree turned to see him produce a sleek pistol from his jacket, its metal gleaming in the harsh sunlight. She felt her body tense involuntarily, eyes widening slightly at the casual display of weaponry.
"Firearms like this are common enough," Vilrux explained, "but in Nacrila, true power lies in how you augment yourself." He pulled up his sleeve and produced a small, sharp blade.
"Remember what I said about looking the part?" Vilrux asked abruptly. Without waiting for a response, Vilrux plunged the blade into his own arm. Rozeree tensed again, watching as blood welled up immediately, bright red against his skin.
Vilrux's flesh parted like curtains, revealing a horror show of technology beneath. Crystal plates pulsed with an inner light, their edges fused directly into muscle fiber. Hair-thin wires threaded through his tissue like metallic veins, each one alive with current. Rozeree's throat closed up, her mouth flooding with bitter saliva. Her body understood the wrongness of it before her mind could process what she was seeing. Yet she forced herself to lean closer, even as her hands trembled. This was power—raw, terrible, beautiful power—and she needed to understand every aspect of it.
"Metics," he explained, seemingly unbothered by the blood trickling down his arm and dripping onto the carriage floor. "This one's called Survivex. Blocks damage, and accelerates healing. Without tech like this, you won't last long in our line of work."
Rozeree leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied the marvel of engineering embedded in Vilrux's flesh. Her fingers twitched, longing to touch it, to possess that power for herself. She could almost feel the strength it would give her, the invulnerability she craved, even as a part of her recoiled at the thought of mutilating herself in such a way.
"That'll be our first stop," Vilrux continued, letting his skin fall back into place, the bleeding gradually slowing. "Getting you outfitted. Can't have you die on me, can I?"
A ghost of a smile flickered across Rozeree's face, there and gone in an instant. She turned back to the window, a new tension in her shoulders, a mix of anticipation and dread in her eyes as she gazed at the distant smudge on the horizon that marked their destination.
"I'm ready," she whispered to herself. "Whatever it takes."
The carriage sped over the cracked earth, the metic horses never tiring. Rozeree stared out the window, watching the endless parade of desolation and ruin. Graybarrow was far behind her now, a fading memory. She allowed herself one final thought of Daglan, but there was no warmth in it. He had been the only one who ever truly cared about her, and that had been his weakness. He hadn't even tried to leave. Let him rot there, she thought, her mouth curling into a sneer.
Despite her resolve to stay alert, Rozeree felt exhaustion creeping in. The day's events – leaving her old life behind, the revelations about metics, the sheer enormity of what lay ahead – weighed heavily on her mind and body. Her eyelids grew heavier with each passing mile.
Darkness fell, but the journey continued unabated. The relentless thunder of metic hooves provided a steady rhythm, punctuated occasionally by the sharp crack of a rock kicked up by their passage. Rozeree drifted in and out of consciousness, each time she opened her eyes greeted by a landscape bathed in starlight and shadows.
In her half-awake state, the boundaries between reality and dreams blurred. Visions of gleaming cities melded with memories of Graybarrow pulsed and danced behind her closed eyelids. Through it all, the metal flower in her pocket remained a constant, its cool surface anchoring her to her purpose even as sleep claimed her.
When Rozeree finally stirred fully awake, watery daylight was filtering through the carriage windows. Her neck ached from sleeping upright, and her mouth felt dry and gritty with the dust that seemed to permeate everything in this desolate place. Time had clearly passed, but the stark landscape rolling past looked much the same as it had the night before, an endless canvas of destruction and decay that she now observed with sharper, more wakeful eyes.
The wasteland rolled past in an endless parade of desolation. Rozeree watched as shadows lengthened across the cracked earth, her eyes catching on the occasional glint of bone or twisted metal half-buried in the dust. The metic horses never tired, their mechanical joints clicking in perfect rhythm as days disappeared beneath their relentless pace.
The first time they approached one of the outlying cities, Rozeree mistook the towering plumes of black smoke for storm clouds. The acrid scent hit her before Vilrux's explanation did.
"Crystal processing plants," Vilrux said, gesturing toward the sprawling complex. "The lifeblood of the capital. They turn crystal into energy." Through the carriage window, she watched massive grinding machines pulverize glowing crystals into fine powder. The air shimmered with heat and residual energy, making her eyes water.
The workers moved like shadows against the artificial twilight, but as they drew closer, Rozeree could see the truth of them. Gaunt figures in tattered clothes that did little to actually protect, their skin mottled with chemical burns and years of scarring. Some had crude mechanical attachments – rusted joints and exposed wiring that spoke of back-alley surgeries rather than proper metic enhancement. Many coughed violently as they worked, their bodies wracked by the crystal dust. She felt no sympathy for them. Weakness has its price.
"Not everyone gets to wear the nice metics," Vilrux remarked coldly. "These people process the power that drives the capital's prosperity, but they'll never taste it themselves."
The pistol Vilrux had given her clicked against the metallic flower in her pocket– an alien objects that she was still learning to trust. She practiced drawing the weapon each night, its weight becoming more familiar with each passing day.
She found herself gripping the pistol tighter as they passed through the processing city's outskirts, where makeshift hovels pressed against the factory walls like desperate parasites. Children with hollow eyes watched their carriage pass, their bodies already showing signs of malnutrition.
Days later, they reached the second processing city. Though smaller than the first, its smokestacks still belched the same thick black clouds into the sky. The industrial symphony assaulted her ears – not from crystal grinding this time, but from massive purification systems that churned and bubbled with murky water. The smog was just as dense here, blotting out the sun and leaving the city in an eternal twilight broken only by the sickly glow of crystal-powered lights.
"All this technology, all these advancements," Vilrux said, gesturing at the wasteland stretching out around them, "it leaves the country like this. Dead earth, poisoned water." He nodded toward the facility's massive tanks where dark liquid roiled and churned. "That's why cities like this exist. They purify water so the capital and its cities can drink without dying."
Days turned into weeks as the metic horses thundered across the wasteland, their mechanical joints clicking in perfect rhythm. The sound had become so familiar that Rozeree noticed it now only in its occasional absence, like a heartbeat you only miss when it skips. The horizon ahead grew brighter with each passing day, the collected glow of the Capital creating a false dawn that never quite faded, as if the city itself had swallowed the natural order of things.
Rozeree leaned forward in her seat, studying the horizon through bright blue eyes, dark hair falling across her face like a curtain. The glow had become a presence unto itself, a creeping radiance that devoured more of the sky with each passing mile. Where stars should have sparkled, there was only an inky void, the darkness between the artificial glow and horizon absolute and alien—nothing like the gentle fade of dusk she'd known in Graybarrow.
Her fingers brushed the metal flower in her pocket, its weight seeming to grow with each passing city. The processing cities haunted her thoughts: shuffling workers, crude mechanical attachments jutting from flesh, joints squealing in protest with each movement. Their bodies were monuments to failed ambition, warnings of what happened to those who reached for power with trembling hands.
What transformation awaited her in the Capital? The question settled in her stomach like a cold stone, but she refused to let it root. Her changes would be nothing like the desperate grafts and failed enhancements of the processing cities. She would not become another half-broken thing scrabbling in the shadows of progress. Her transformation would be different—it had to be.
Above, the Capital's glow carved out its own piece of the heavens. It's watching me, she thought, a sharp smile forming on her lips. Let it watch. I won't just survive in this city—I'll rise above them all. They'll whisper my name in fear and awe, and one day, she promised herself, my legacy will outshine even the Capital's glow. I'll become the greatest Ascendant they've ever seen.