Every evening, as the sun sinks beyond the sea's horizon, the heavy bells of Last Bay fill the damp air with their deep, resonant toll. Their echoes reverberate off the cliffs while the massive sluice gates slowly begin to close. Countless gears and steam engines churn into motion, locking the ton-heavy doors and sealing off the passage to the open sea. With a thunderous groan, the waters ebb back, and the bay is cut off for the night.
At that same hour, outside a modest tavern on the middle level of Crownblossom, an exhausted alchemist found himself once again longing for rest after a tedious day in the laboratory. Despite the heat emanating from the Hundred Forges and the Thousand Machines that churned tirelessly in the depths of the southern capital of mankind, a pleasant breeze drifted here in the middle level, cool against the alchemist's cheek – not that he cared, for his mood was boiling over.
With a heavy shove, he threw open the door to the taproom. It banged against the wall inside the tavern, sending vibrations through the few windows and setting them rattling. The patrons might have fallen silent – if it weren't already dead quiet.
Over the years, the alchemist had noticed fewer and fewer visitors frequenting the tavern. Tonight, for instance, only three other citizens of Crownblossom were in the establishment. They sat apart, seemingly with nothing to do with one another.
The alchemist paused briefly, glaring grimly at the empty interior. There was Ben, the innkeeper, polishing a glass that was already clean – as always. Before him sat a man with short chestnut hair, and though the alchemist could only see his back, he knew immediately it was a young man – perhaps not even a man yet.
Another figure sat in the middle of the taproom at a round table that was hardly more than a wooden plank. One of the few wooden tables, as most of the others were made of metal. The patron wore a grimy cloak, hood pulled up so the alchemist couldn't make out his face. Judging by the stains on the cloak, though, the man was likely a craftsman or a tinkerer. Whatever the case, he was absently sipping from a glass… of water?
What a bore, the alchemist thought to himself. Who came to a tavern to drink water?
Still, as the alchemist spotted the last remaining patron, he realized he'd take any dullard over that oilrat sitting in the corner. Like every piece of scum from the undercity, the oilrat wore soot-smeared goggles and a cloth mask against the oppressive smoke and steam that perpetually cloaked the lowest level of Crownblossom.
The alchemist grimaced. He could swear he smelled the stink of oil and rust wafting from the oilrat all the way from the doorway. Since Lord Asakar had taken control of the city's administration, it was true that these people were permitted to visit the middle levels – but that didn't mean the alchemist, or anyone else in the middle level, had to approve of it.
It was simple, really. The age of gears and metal was here. A golden age for humanity, as the Sky King had declared it. It was the age of machines. And like every machine, every part had its purpose.
Crownblossom was nothing less than that – a machine. Every district in the capital, every structure, even the bay, the cliffs, and the sea itself were cogs within that machine. Through the sea harbor and the skyport, goods and people flowed into the city. House Jarakan, the rulers of Crownblossom, oversaw these goods and the citizens from their fortress atop the cliffs in the uppermost level.
But the alchemist knew the truth: the people of the middle level, his people, he himself, were the heart of the city. Alchemists, scholars, artisans, inventors, and artists lived here, forming the center of all knowledge and culture in the southern human realm. Everything that propelled this golden age forward came from here, pushing the frontiers of human greatness.
At least, that applied to most humans. Whatever those barbarians in the northern kingdom did was none of the alchemist's concern. Let them swing their Soularts and Soulweapons like those ridiculous dwarves. Still, they were part of humanity's machine, even if they were the arm that held the sword and not the heart.
And anything with a heart needed ground to stand on and feet to support it. That was the purpose of the lowest level of Crownblossom, and those oilrats were the gears that kept the mechanism alive. Progress and invention had to be produced, after all. Hence the factories below churned out those marvelous creations en masse – even if it meant the people down there didn't smell particularly pleasant.
But the alchemist was weary from the day and had no energy to waste on this oilrat or the thoughts it stirred up. It was the only one that had even glanced up when the alchemist had stormed into the tavern with all that clamor, but the alchemist didn't care. He walked heavily toward the bar, leaving the door swinging open behind him.
"Ben! The usual," said the alchemist, settling onto a barstool two seats away from the young man with chestnut hair.
Ben grunted under his breath but placed the clean glass in front of the alchemist and fetched a bottle of wine from the shelf. He poured it, and the alchemist nearly leapt up in fury.
"Wine? Are you mad? Since when do I drink wine?!"
Ben paused, his gaze indifferent as he answered in his steady, harsh voice:
"Beer's scarce. Take the wine."
The alchemist blinked several times in confusion, then leaned over the bar.
"What do you mean, scarce?"
Ben shrugged, placing the wine back on the shelf and nudging the glass closer to the alchemist.
"House Sheshir's striking again. Claim the Sky King demands too many tributes for the North." He resumed scrubbing a glass, his eyes averted as though disinterested. "When the Sheshirs are unhappy, there's less grain. But you'll come back anyway, whether I pour you wine or beer."
"Pah!" the alchemist barked, snatching the wine reluctantly.
"If those wretched farmers-" He took a large swig. "Ahh… If the Sheshirs are causing trouble again, the Sky King ought to deal with them! What's the point of having a king at all? Crownblossom already has House Jarakan!"
The innkeeper froze for a moment – but this time, his gaze flickered uneasily around the tavern. The alchemist also leaned back, calming himself. He'd said too much. If the wrong ears heard him, he might hang for it. Fortunately, in the tavern, there were only the oilrat, the cloaked dullard, and…
"Does it make a difference to you, Alchemist?"
The young man with chestnut hair had spoken, his voice cutting through the silence. The alchemist spun around, slightly surprised and a little confused, to stare at him.
His face was lean but not gaunt. The hair was short and unevenly cut, almost like the style of those in the lower level. Down there, people kept their hair short to avoid oil and grime. Even the women did the same – only the ladies of the uppermost levels, where the air was clean, wore their hair long.
Still, there was nothing else about this young man that marked him as an oilrat, and so the alchemist calmed again. Or at least, he tried to. The young man's intense gaze, those gray and weary eyes, unsettled the alchemist more than he cared to admit.
The alchemist sniffed and shifted uncomfortably on his stool, but he held the gaze and the question.
"Of course it makes a difference," he finally replied.
He briefly wondered how the young man knew he was an alchemist, but he attributed it to his attire – another sign the young man wasn't from the undercity but from the middle level, like himself. That was enough for the alchemist to entertain the conversation.
"What kind of difference?" The young man asked.
After taking another swig, the alchemist answered:
"Every kind. The city steward dictates how we think, and therefore what we invent and research. And as long as he has to think for the Sky King, Lord Askar acts like a pussy-licker. Do you want to be ruled by some pussy-licker, boy?"
The young man almost smiled.
"House Jarakan and Lord Askar, like any other house, swore an oath to the Sky King, didn't they? So, in your view, that isn't honor but rather… what's the word?"
"Docility."
The alchemist spun again, startled. The reply hadn't come from him or Ben, but from the hooded dullard in the middle of the tavern. Yet the man didn't look up, merely raised his glass of water and took another sip.
The young man beside the alchemist clapped his fist into his palm.
"Exactly, docility. Thank you. So, Alchemist, is my assumption correct?"
For a moment, the alchemist stared at the hooded man before slowly letting his gaze drift back to the young man. He regarded him skeptically.
"Do you know each other?"
The young man raised his eyebrows.
"Him and me? No, I'd never associate with such a dullard. Don't you see? He's drinking water. Ben! More wine, please."
The alchemist's skepticism faded. He even smiled slightly.
The boy gets it.
"Same here."
Ben the innkeeper refilled both their glasses. The alchemist turned back to the young man.
"You misunderstand me, boy. Of course it's important to uphold the oaths and traditions of the Old Age-"
"But?"
"But," the alchemist continued, ignoring the interruption, "look around you. See what we've accomplished because we don't cling to the old ways. The skies belong to us now. It's not just the Sky King's Skywhale soaring through the clouds – our airships fly as well. Crownblossom connects to every significant city in the southern realm by locomotive, almost as fast as an elf's Soulbeast, but our rides don't get tired. And soon, our Soulweapons will rival those of the dwarves."
The alchemist could barely contain himself now, prattling on without care for who might be listening:
"We've got liquid Soulfuel! All of this in just the last hundred years, because we dared to change. The old gods are being replaced by the Steamchurch. And if religion is changing, politics will follow soon enough. It's time for those above to learn to see the future. Imagine what we could accomplish if House Jarakan didn't bow to the Sky King's idiotic demands."
With that, he took a long swig. The alchemist didn't notice the way the young man's mouth twitched ever so slightly at the mention of liquid Soulfuel.
"Truly. You've convinced me," the young man said, a gleam in his eye. "You must be a great part of this transformation yourself – a pioneer, I would say. Isn't that right?"
"Oh yes, and how!"
With a swig, the alchemist emptied his glass again.
"More wine for my friend!" the young man called, winking at the alchemist. "On me, of course. But in exchange, you'll tell me more about your accomplishments. Surely, you've achieved something remarkable yourself."
The alchemist hesitated for a moment – then laughed loudly.
"Oh, how grand it is to have someone intelligent to talk to again! I won't disappoint you… by the Metallic, this wine is incredible!"
The man refilling his glass spoke in a voice that barely seemed to belong to Ben the innkeeper, but the alchemist didn't look up as his glass was filled.
"See? Wine or beer, no difference."
The alchemist laughed again, clearly drunk on exhaustion, the wine, and the young man's company. But mostly on the delicious wine.
"Yes, yes, but this isn't about you. It's about me – and my wonderful listener, of course."
The young man gave a theatrical bow, and the alchemist continued:
"My accomplishments, yes? Well, though everyone thinks the credit belongs to the professor, that old miser has no idea how to even make Soulfuel! What a laugh – a Sorcerer, but no alchemist. Last time he tried to make liquid Soulfuel, the whole lab exploded!"
The young man laughed loudly, pounding the table.
"Oh, I would've loved to see that. But you succeeded?"
Puffing his chest out with pride, the alchemist nearly fell off his stool.
"Of course! One of the only ones in the city who can do it! Just today, I managed to produce three full vials. Who would've thought this would be the second-best moment of my day – right after this incredible wine!"
A loud belch escaped the alchemist, but he didn't care, even as it blew directly into the young man's face. The young man didn't even flinch, grinning widely instead.
"Three! A true masterpiece! By the Metallic, how did you manage it? Such a shame you have to hand it all over to that damned professor…"
The young man leaned in slightly toward the alchemist.
"…or do you?"
The alchemist paused mid-drink, narrowing his eyes. Slowly, he set the glass down and examined the young man before him. Then he smiled slyly.
"Want to know something? As if I'd hand all my work over to that old fool. I'm no Lord Askar. No, my Soulfuel is mine… I even have… it with… me… what's happening here…"
The alchemist's voice trailed off. His vision blurred, and he gripped the bar to keep from sliding off the stool. His head suddenly felt heavy, and as his elbow gave way, he knocked the glass of wine to the floor. It shattered on the metal-plated ground.
The wine…
"B-Ben! Fuck, Ben… what's wrong with this wine…"
The alchemist struggled to form the words, to even move his tongue. Internally, he screamed for the innkeeper – but as he focused, trying to peer through his clouded vision, his eyes widened.
It wasn't Ben standing behind the bar anymore. Instead, it was…
"You oilrat… what are… you… doing… there…"
Finally, his mind and body gave out, and he collapsed unceremoniously onto the tavern floor. His chest still rose and fell, but even the fat on his face seemed to sag with the effort of staying attached to his body.
The man, the oilrat that had previously sat silently in the corner, wearing the soot-stained goggles and cloth mask, now leaned over the bar and peered down at the unconscious alchemist. A dissatisfied grunt escaped him.
"Weakling. Didn't even put up a fight."
He pushed his goggles up, revealing sharp, stern gray eyes beneath his close-cropped chestnut hair.
"Point for you. What's the score now?"
The young man on the stool whistled with satisfaction.
"Five to four. My lead."
"Tsk."
The man in the middle of the tavern stood up, pushing his hood back as he strode toward the unconscious alchemist. His hair, too, was brown, his eyes just as gray. But unlike the other's stern gaze or the first's weariness, his were cold and lifeless.
But that was where the differences between the three ended.
While the one with the cold eyes knelt beside the alchemist and silently began rifling through the unconscious man's pockets, the one behind the bar rolled his eyes. He turned to the other and mimicked him with exaggerated, mocking gestures.
"A true masterpiece!… By the Metallic!… Fuck, it hurt to listen to you grovel like that. How is it possible for every word out of your mouth to be so utterly insufferable?"
The accused never lost his grin. He twirled his empty glass absently in his hand.
"Why are you so worked up? It was a complete success – as always, when I take the lead."
"I could've just taken him the moment he walked through the door. We could've skipped this whole ridiculous performance."
"The innkeeper would've intervened."
"As if. The coward bolted the second I mentioned Erik's name. I could've handled both of them. I told him, one of us would've been enough-"
He fell silent at the sound of clinking glass. Both his gaze and the other's snapped to the cold-eyed man, who had just pulled two full vials of liquid Soulfuel from the alchemist's pocket.
The cold-eyed man looked up at his two counterparts. There was no smile on his face, but all three of them knew exactly how important this heist had been.
"Let's go. The Original and our sister are waiting."