A lone wagon waited in the stillness of the middle level for Arin. The night was cool, and the bay trapped the fog, smothering the streets in a dense, ghostly shroud. Even the flickering gas lamps lining the roads seemed muted, their light swallowed by the mist.
Few people were out at this hour. Not even soldiers. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant clank of machinery far below.
"Where is everyone?" Arin asked nervously, his voice barely louder than a whisper. His fingers twitched at his side as he watched Voln make the final preparations on the wagon.
The smuggler glanced at him sideways, a crooked smile on his face. "You don't know?"
His accent was still unmistakable with every word, a lilting reminder of his foreign origins.
The man's hands moved deftly, checking the straps on the crates and patting down the cover as he continued.
"How can it be that a man like me, who hails from the Strait, knows more about your city than you?"
"I know how to survive," Arin replied curtly.
"Ah, but you see, knowledge is survival," Voln said, his tone growing playful. He paused, turning his sharp eyes to Arin.
"Tonight, the Steamchurch celebrates the Metallic. Every soldier within a hundred miles is drunk in the Hall of Machines by now."
Arin only nodded. The mention of the festival did little to ease the knot in his stomach. He had no interest in the Steamchurch's festivities or traditions. But he had to admit, Erik knew what he was doing, planning the attack on this particular night. Still, it didn't do much to calm his nerves. The stakes felt insurmountable.
If the attack failed, it wouldn't just be his life on the line – Mayia's might end as well. The thought alone tightened his chest.
Voln, seemingly oblivious to Arin's inner turmoil, chuckled and climbed onto the wagon.
"Don't look so grim; the night's already dark enough," he said with a wink, patting an open crate with a knowing look.
Arin hesitated, his eyes scanning the street one last time. The mist swirled ominously, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw movement – a shadow flitting across the fog. But when he looked again, there was nothing. Just his nerves playing tricks on him, he thought. Shaking off the unease, he stepped forward and climbed onto the wagon.
"In you go," Voln said, his tone turning uncharacteristically serious.
Arin climbed into the crate and crouched down, his knees brushing the rough wooden sides. The space felt suffocating, the walls closing in around him as Voln placed the false bottom over him. The sound of it settling into place was like the lid of a coffin sealing shut.
"Be brave, little man," Voln said softly, his voice muffled now.
Then it went dark. The only sounds were Voln's steady movements as he loaded the rest of the crate with goods, followed by the creak of the wagon's wheels as it rumbled to life. Each jolt of the wagon sent a tremor through the crate, and Arin's heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in the suffocating silence. The mission had begun, and there was no turning back now.
The crate's wooden walls were rough against his arms and legs, and his knees were drawn close to his chest, leaving no room to shift. His backpack was strapped tightly to his front, wedged between his body and the crate's unyielding sides. Every jolt of the wagon sent it digging into his ribs. He tried to breathe steadily, but the air was warm and stale, thick with the faint smell of aged wood and the faint tang of the goods Voln had loaded around him.
His fingers clenched the straps of his pack as though it were his lifeline. His pulse was rapid, and his thoughts raced in tandem, each more urgent and irrational than the last. What if the false bottom gave way? What if they checked the crates? What if he made a sound? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away.
This isn't the time to panic. Focus. Just focus.
He forced himself to count his breaths.
In. Out. One. In. Out. Two.
The tightness in his chest began to loosen, though not by much. His entire body still hummed with nervous energy. Arin had been in tight spaces before – a necessity when hiding in the Undercity – but never for this long. Never like this. Here, every creak of the wagon's wheels seemed magnified, and every bump in the road made the crate feel more like a coffin.
What was considered a coffin anyway? He had his parents' bodies melted down in the great furnace next to their house. Was an oven a coffin? So was this crate one too?
What am I thinking?
The wagon slowed, and Arin froze. For a heartbeat, all was still except for the faint thrum of blood rushing in his ears. Then he felt the crate shift. A metallic clank echoed faintly outside, followed by a groan of machinery. The wagon jolted slightly before the unmistakable sensation of upward movement took over.
They were at the elevator.
The realization brought equal parts relief and dread. He had made it this far, but now the real danger began. The lift groaned as it ascended, its gears grinding in rhythmic protest. Arin imagined the world outside his wooden prison – the jagged cliffs of Crownblossom rising sharply above the middle level, the elevator suspended precariously as it carried them toward the Skyport.
The higher they climbed, the cooler the air felt, even inside the crate.
The Skyport itself was a marvel of engineering, carved into the cliffs of Last Bay. He had only seen it from down below, but even then, it was astounding. It overlooked the sprawling sea harbor below, where ships docked and unloaded their cargo amidst a constant bustle of activity. Unlike the chaotic, smoke-filled docks below, the Skyport was orderly, its platforms suspended high above the water, built right into the cliffs, reinforced with iron beams and massive chains.
It was here that airships docked, tethered like great leviathans of the sky. Elevators like the one Arin now ascended connected the middle level of Crownblossom with the Skyport, while a massive bridge spanned from the Skyport to the uppermost level of the city. The architecture was both practical and imposing, a testament to Crownblossom's industrial might.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
So this is what it felt like to be this high up.
Funny. I'd have thought it would take more than risking my life to get here.
The ascent gave him time – too much time – to reflect on the plan. He played it over in his mind, again and again, as though repetition could smooth its jagged edges.
Two objectives. That's what Erik had drilled into him. Two clear, simple objectives.
First, infiltrate the Red Ship. The Ariana. Arin's pulse quickened at the name. The more he had learned about it, the less he believed in the actual success of the raid. Lord Askar's prized airship was a fortress in the skies.
Arin's mission began with disabling the artillery cannon mounted on the main deck. It was the key to Erik's strategy. Without it, the Smoking Guild had no chance of storming the vessel. Even if Lord Askar had outlawed the production of smaller firearms within Crownblossom, such as the old revolver Arin had inherited from his father, that didn't mean the Ariana wouldn't be armed to the teeth. A single volley from the cannon would reduce Erik and his forces to ashes before they could even board.
Which meant they needed someone on the inside first. Someone who wasn't just one. Arin's Incarnations would give him the advantage, but the thought of walking directly into the heart of the ship's firepower made his skin crawl.
Then there was the second objective. The true reason for the heist. For Erik and Voln, it meant riches beyond their imaginations. For Madame Corvin it meant fulfilling her duty. And for Arin, it meant his everything.
At the stern of the ship, beyond the artillery deck and hidden from plain sight, was the chamber Voln had emphasized repeatedly during their briefing. On the schematics of the Ariana, the area was unmarked. Empty. A deliberate blank space.
"On an airship," Voln had said, "there is no wasted space. Especially not on the Ariana, Lord Askar's jewel. Whatever is there, it's something no one is meant to find."
And whatever it is, it's where the Soulfuel will be. It has to be.
The lift shuddered to a halt, and the crate shifted slightly. Arin's breathing hitched as he braced himself, his knuckles white as they gripped his pack. A rush of cooler air seeped through the gaps in the crate, brushing against his face.
The Skyport. He was there. Higher than he had ever been in Crownblossom. The thought brought a fleeting, bitter humor to his mind. What a view it must be. And what a great fall from the cliffs, if he fails.
His fingers tightened on the straps of his backpack. No. There's no failing here. Not tonight.
Suddenly, Arin heard voices.
"Halt!"
The wagon came to an abrupt stop.
"Identify yourself."
Then he heard Voln's calm, familiar voice.
"My name is Voln of Narrow Crossing. I've brought supplies for the Ariana."
"Supply deliveries don't come until morning. Turn back," a gruff voice barked.
Voln laughed loudly, the sound hearty and disarming.
"No, no, my friend, you misunderstand. Not for the ship, but for the crew. Come and see."
Arin's heart hammered in his chest as he heard one of the crates being opened. His whole body tensed, and for a terrifying moment, he was certain his hiding place would be discovered.
"Is that..." the soldier's voice trailed off.
"Enough wine for every one of you," Voln said smoothly. "The Steamchurch sends its regards."
There was a pause, thick with tension, as silence stretched over the scene. Arin could hear his own breathing, shallow and rapid, blending with the faint creak of the wagon's wood. Then, finally, the sound of footsteps. More soldiers approached.
"Take one of the crates down," the gruff voice commanded.
Arin felt the wagon shift slightly. A moment later, the sound of a crate being lifted off sent a surge of relief and fresh fear through him.
"Bring the rest to the ship," the voice grunted.
And just like that, the wagon began moving again. Arin exhaled slowly, though his heart continued to pound.
The mission was still on.