Adjusting his goggles and pulling up his mask, Arin balanced deftly atop the long gas pipelines, the faint hiss of escaping vapor and the acrid scent of oil mingling with the ever-present hum of machinery around him. Dozens of meters above what was loosely referred to as "ground," he moved without hesitation. After all, he'd been walking this route for years - though calling it a "ground" or "path" was generous at best.
Ground implied stability, something solid upon which structures could stand, but in the deepest levels of Crownblossom, such concepts were laughable. There were no floors, no true levels. At least, none that Arin had ever seen. Factories, machinery, and platforms of metal and wood twisted together in chaotic, overlapping layers. Like an endless tumor, the architecture of the Undercity sprawled in all directions: upward, downward, suspended in midair, and into the pitch-black depths.
Rickety bridges jutted out at impossible angles, connecting to scaffolds that clung precariously to massive smokestacks, while spiraling staircases vanished into shadow and smoke, their destinations a mystery. The pathways and structures formed a maddening tangle that defied logic, as if it had grown wild and unchecked for centuries.
The pipe beneath Arin's feet began to vibrate. Without breaking stride, he quickened his pace, stepping with practiced ease to avoid patches of oil that dripped like rainwater from the labyrinth of machinery above. Smoke and steam veiled the distance, but he knew this section of the city well enough to trust his instincts over his vision. Just as the gas surged through the pipe beneath him, he sprang into the void.
He landed lightly on the shaky roof of a metal foundry, or what remained of it. A moment later, the heat from the pipe blasted past his neck. Unfazed, he climbed over the roof's uneven surface and waited at its edge, crouched and patient.
Three, two… there it is.
As expected, a cargo hook shot out of the smoke below, the rope suspending it tied somewhere far above, beyond his sight. Without hesitation, Arin stepped into the void again, dropping only half a meter before landing securely on the hook. One hand gripped the grimy rope as it yanked him skyward. He soared past falling ash and the massive, hovering smelter that churned day and night near his home, processing the endless metal demands of the Undercity's factories.
Before the hook could carry him to the top, he leapt again, landing precariously on the so-called "entrance" to his dwelling: the last rung of a fire escape that dangled uselessly into nothingness. The lower half of the structure had left them a few months ago.
This, in the Undercity's lowest depths, was what passed for a path. True, there were bridges and walkways that might be generously called roads, but they were scattered haphazardly, and elevators to the higher levels of Crownblossom were just as rare.
As always, the entire staircase wobbled and screeched in protest beneath his weight, but it held. Within moments, he stood before his door. Still, he knocked first, his voice muffled but cheerful through the filthy cloth covering his mouth.
"It's me!"
A girlish voice answered from within, strained but spirited.
"Password?"
Arin cleared his throat, grinning.
"Uh… The Battle of Narrow Crossing?"
"Wrong! Come on, brother," his sister groaned from the other side. "You know this!"
Laughing, Arin pressed down on the latch and peeked inside. His little sister sat upright in bed, pouting at him.
"The Ghost of Last Bay?" he ventured, though he already knew the answer.
Her pout melted into a playful smile as she raised a hand, beckoning him inside.
"You may enter, noble Sorcerer."
Arin pushed the door open fully and bowed as extravagantly as he could manage.
"Milady, I have-"
"My Lady!"
He nearly flinched, blinking at her in surprise. "What?"
Mayia pointed upward with an air of authority.
"Milady is the informal version. The proper pronunciation is My Lady."
Her serious expression was almost enough to fool him. Straightening, Arin sighed and gave her a half-distracted look before shrugging.
"I have brought the Lady a gift," he said, deliberately sidestepping her correction.
He walked to the bed and sat on its edge. Mayia didn't look pleased with his answer, but she also didn't press further. Years of trying to correct him had turned the game into something of a ritual between them.
Like him, Mayia had chestnut-brown hair, though hers was long and meticulously braided - a style Arin had helped her with that very morning. The only reason why she could wear such extravagant hair was that her illness kept her confined to their ramshackle home, unable to venture outside.
Her face still carried the softness of youth; at thirteen, her features hadn't yet shed their childhood roundness, a fragile reminder of the health and energy her illness had stolen away. Arin couldn't help but wonder how, in just five years, she might grow to resemble their mother, save for her eye color and a few signs of age.
The thought brought him a bittersweet pang of joy.
Pushing the memories aside, he shook his head. Mayia eyed him skeptically.
"Don't tell me we have to eat that horrible bread again," she said, sliding back slightly, a look of exaggerated horror crossing her face. "It was harder than metal!"
Arin tilted his head, smirking.
"I told you, you just need to put some oil on it. Makes it softer and tastes better. And yes, we'll keep eating it… but today, I have a gift. For you and me."
Before finishing his sentence, he pulled a small, cloth-wrapped piece of chicken from his pocket. Mayia's green eyes went wide, and a delighted squeak escaped her lips as she realized what her brother had brought. Her joy filled Arin's heart with pure, unfiltered happiness.
"Where… where did you get this?" Her hands reached forward reverently, her eyes sparkling as they rested on the meat.
"It's still warm!" she exclaimed, her voice brimming with wonder.
Arin grinned, savoring her delight.
"You won't believe it..."
Because it's not true.
"...But it literally fell from the sky. Some fool in the middle levels must have dropped it - straight down into the Undercity, right into my hand. Hard to believe, huh? The fanatics of the Steam Church would call it a sign of the Metallic."
"You shouldn't call them that!" she chided, though her focus remained on the treasure in her hands. "It's their faith. You have no right."
Arin chuckled.
"Fine, fine. Let's eat before it gets cold."
He tore the chicken in half, giving Mayia the larger piece. She accepted it eagerly, her expression one of pure bliss.
"You won't believe this either," she murmured between bites. "It's… transcended!"
Arin raised an eyebrow as he chewed his portion.
Transcended, huh?
Another of her words, likely gleaned from one of the old books their parents had left behind. He hoped there were still a few she hadn't read yet. If getting chicken was a struggle, obtaining books was a monumental feat.
Soon, the meal was gone. Though neither of them was truly full, they were content. But the peace was short-lived.
Mayia's face twisted in pain as she erupted into a fit of harsh, racking coughs. Her small frame convulsed, and Arin hurried to her side, holding her close and patting her back until the episode subsided.
"Are you okay?" he asked, though he knew the answer.
Mayia nodded weakly.
"I'm fine," she lied. "I just swallowed wrong."
Her brother's heart clenched with guilt. For nearly two years now, Mayia had suffered endlessly. Both she and Arin were Sorcerers, their souls shaped for a purpose. At least, his was. Hers…
Where are they with the Soulfuel? he cursed inwardly.
"Lie down," he urged gently, guiding her back against the pillows.
She resisted.
"What's the point? Whether I sit or lie here, I won't get any healthier soon."
"Don't say that!" he shouted, the raw emotion in his voice startling even himself. Mayia flinched.
Regret surged through him.
"I'm sorry. You won't… die. I promise. I'll make sure of it."
He tried. He really tried. He fought, stole, and brought trouble to their door, all in a desperate attempt to save her, even as their days together dwindled.
What choice did he have? They needed food. Bread was growing scarce; House Sheshir's shipments had slowed. Every day, he scoured the Undercity for more. And this crumbling ruin of a home… three months ago, the cellar had collapsed. They'd have to leave soon, though Mayia might not survive the heartbreak of abandoning the last relic of their parents.
The new liquid Soulfuel could prolong her life but finding it had become nearly impossible. The last reliable suppliers had vanished, either scared off by the perils of the lower levels or seduced by richer clients in the upper city. Buying it was out of the question for an Oilrat like him anyways, but at least he knew whose hands to pry it from. Now more and more of the Soulfuel was taken by Lord Askar himself, to propel some kind of project he called the answer.
Now, every failed search felt like another nail in the coffin of his sister's hopes. Six weeks without success. Even when he did obtain some without getting caught, it was never enough - just a temporary reprieve, never a cure. And Soulfuel wasn't food. They still needed to eat, and if a heist were to go wrong, he'd be executed, leaving his dying sister all on her own and-
"Brother," Mayia's gentle voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. He blinked, focusing on her again. She smiled, nodding toward the door.
"The others are back."
Arin turned to see the door ajar, three figures standing in its frame. Each bore the same chestnut hair and gray eyes as him.
His doppelgangers - or rather, his incarnations.
The Stubborn, the Fool, and the Cold, as he had appropriately called them, for they were the manifestations of his own being.
His Soulart.