The air is thick with the scent of smoke and iron, a sharp tang that clings to the back of my throat. Around me, worn-looking travelers shuffle past, heads down, shoulders hunched, each face as gray and sullen as the sky above.
The platform is dimly lit by sooty gas lamps casting a sickly yellow glow over the chipped stone and cracked tiles. I pull my coat tighter, trying to shake off the sense of grime that clings to everything here.
I've dressed myself as any respectable middle-class lady might—modest dress, a hat, sensible shoes, a wool coat fastened up to my chin—but in this place, even I can feel the difference. My clothes are too clean, too fresh, a little too Highspire for the weary bones of Gloam Station.
I move off the platform, trying to blend in with the hunched figures around me, though my eyes dart from shadow to shadow, taking in every grim detail.
The station is nothing like the bustling, polished terminals back home. Here, the walls are streaked with soot and damp, the floors stained and cracked. Each surface looks as if it's carried the weight of countless feet, leaving behind a weariness that even time can't cleanse. It feels as if the station itself has grown tired of people passing through, each one taking a little piece of its spirit with them.
I step outside and find myself on a narrow cobbled path that winds toward the bridge—a hulking, iron structure that stretches across a dark, restless expanse below. The bridge looms like a sentry, heavy and rusted, its beams twisting up like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. Flickering lanterns cast faint pools of light that barely push back the dark.
A storm brews, and the first drops patter against the stones as I step onto the bridge. My footsteps echo in the silence of my mind, a steady rhythm that contrasts sharply with the shifting figures I pass, each cloaked and faceless.
Below, the churning river hides secrets in its inky depths. The wind tears through the iron beams, biting through my coat until I clutch the collar tighter, each step an act of will, taking me further from safety, deeper into the unknown.
When I reach the other side, Crossreach unfolds before me. A town draped in shadow and grime, as though the sky itself presses down, oppressive and unrelenting. Cobbled streets snake into crooked alleys lined with buildings that lean, hunched and suspicious, over the passersby. Soot-streaked stone, cracked windows, and glimmers of eyes watching from behind dirty panes mark every direction.
The feeling of being watched prickles at my neck, but I keep my gaze forward, ignoring the figures hidden in doorways and half-drawn curtains. Here, strangers are an interruption, a curiosity, and each look I catch is assessing, measuring whether I am worth their trouble.
The first cold raindrop lands on my hand, and I glance up just as the sky unleashes its downpour. The rain pelts me, icy and unrelenting, soaking through my coat and dress in moments. I pull my hood up, but it does little to shield me. Quickening my pace, I scan the dim streets for refuge.
A sign painted in peeling letters catches my eye: Harris's Lodgings. The narrow doorway beneath it glows faintly from within, the fogged windows promising warmth. I push through the door and step inside, shivering as I shake the rain from my coat.
The lobby is dimly lit by a single gas lamp on the counter, its glow barely reaching the worn floorboards and cracked plaster walls. The scent of damp wool and stale smoke hangs in the air, mingling with the low crackle of a coal stove in the corner.
Behind the counter sits a woman with a lined face and eyes sharp as a hawk's. She glances up from her knitting, her gaze moving over my soaked dress, the mud on my boots, and the faint tremor I can't quite hide. A hint of amusement flickers at her lips.
"New here, are ya?" she asks, her voice rough, the local accent as thick as smoke.
I nod, pulling my hood back and trying to appear composed. "Just passing through," I say, my tone steadier than I feel.
Her eyebrow lifts. "Not many pass through Crossreach without a reason." Her eyes flick to my short, uneven hair, and her smirk deepens. "You've got the look of someone who's lost her way."
I sniffle, the warning in her voice lingering like smoke. "I just need a room for the night." I place a few coins on the counter.
She eyes them, then shrugs. "Second floor, last door on the left. Don't wander about after dark, and keep yer nose clean." She flicks the tarnished key toward me and returns to her knitting without another glance.
I mumble thanks and head up the narrow staircase. The steps creak under my weight, the walls pressing close as if they're holding their breath. The smell of tobacco smoke and something sour lingers, mixing with the damp scent of old wood.
The room is cramped and tired: a narrow bed shoved against the wall, a chipped washstand with a cracked mirror, and a lone chair by the window. I strip off my wet clothes, shivering as I pull on the rough trousers and shirt I packed at the bottom of my bag. They're a bit loose, the fabric scratchy against my skin, but they feel practical, freeing, like shedding the last remnants of the girl who left Highspire. I catch my reflection in the mirror—short hair, tired eyes, a flicker of defiance.
This is Mel, I remind myself. Just Mel.
I head back down to the lobby, where the woman's needles still click in time with the rain outside. Her eyes dart up as I approach, taking in my new appearance with a smirk.
"You're lookin' more like one of us now," she says, almost approvingly. "Still, keep your head down if you're goin' out again. Don't draw more eyes than you need to."
"Can I have something to eat?" I ask, the gnawing feeling in my stomach not quite hunger, but something close.
"If you've got the coin, you'll get what you need here," she says, and I slide a few silvers onto the counter. Her smile turns sharp. "...and you'll lose everything," she finishes, just as a servant arrives to guide me to the table. He brings warm bread, mushroom soup with a pat of butter and a drink I can't place
He is wiping his hands with a rag. "Ma'am told me to serve you well. Anything you need, miss?" He grins, freckles stark under the flickering light.
"I'm looking for Mr. Draven," I say, uncertainty curling in my chest as I sip the hot soup he sets before me. The rich, earthy taste mingles with the tension, yet cooling down at least my belly.
"Oh, him? Supplier of half the town's poison," the boy replies with a nod. "A Good man, in his own way."
"Can you tell me how to find him?"
"Down by the docks, past the warehouses, in the heart of Solisara. I can arrange a carriage, but not now."
"Why not?" I ask, the room warming me just enough for doubt to creep back in.
He leans in, eyes twinkling. "The dogs here smell fresh blood from miles away, storm or not. Best you wait for daylight. Besides carriage drivers are busy now."
What on earth are they busy with? Washing the vehicle?
Before I can press further, the door slams open, a gust and the metallic tang of blood rushing in. The servant and I turn, breath held.
A young man, angelic and terrifying, steps in, blood spattered across his face. He tosses a severed hand onto the counter with a smile that freezes me in place. "Pardon my intrusion," he says, eyes glinting.
The servant's grin widens. "Speaking of the devil."