“And thus it was meant to happen, regardless of might or chance.”

  The echoing words disappeared within the interior of the trembling gondola. Much louder yet hollow sounds regurgitated through the piping into the sprouting end of a gramophone, repeating pre-recorded chants: “Next destination: Dragon Cathedral district. Following route to: East Port Station, end of route.”

  Cold winds carved their way through the still-crowded streets, pressing against the rush of those eager to return to their families and homes.

  At the dawning hour, pale shadows already swallowed the main street of the East Port district. Lorien pushed through the tide of pedestrians, his gaze lingering on the bridges where long lines of commuters waited for the shuttles that slipped through the clouds toward the distant surface.

  A couple of fearless youngsters balanced along the street’s edge, laughing in mockery of the void. The lad with the silver eyes more or less envied their careless ease, though he knew the danger was nothing but an illusion. In reality, strong upward drafts rising from the precipice pushed anyone away from falling. Therefore, it only took belief in the wind to keep standing—perhaps no different from the megastructure kept aloft above them.

  However, Lorien slipped away from the busyness of the main street into the shadowed interior of an alleyway, where the cobbled floor was filled with shallow ponds and scattered bits of rubbish. He walked decisively through the vapor rising from various cracks in the stone, his gaze settling on an inconspicuous manhole cover.

  Burden met will as Lorien, trembling from the effort, barely managed to heave the heavy cover aside before vanishing down a rusted ladder into the underworld.

  Monotonous echoing leaks gave way to the splash of his landing—waves rippling through the black pond below. The unfolding labyrinth of darkness and uncertainty formed part of the city’s underworks, designed to gather condensation and rainfall. Despite entering a realm governed by shadows, Lorien guided himself through memory, which allowed him to see better than his dim eyes ever could.

  Pipes of various sizes crowded the walls, some hissing with hot steam. The system of underground conduits formed the unseen heart of the city. Those metal foundations were home to an existence denied by many, yet necessary to uphold the ‘paradise’ above.

  After a couple of minutes, Lorien finally noticed a gap in one of the metallic walls, light continuously seeping through. The unfolding scenery revealed a conjunction of narrow streets that did not shy away from their filth. He walked along a path crammed with storefronts and scrap dwellings desperately built around the city’s foundations.

  That was ‘Low Liceas’—a sprawling slum built around commerce, metal industry, and exospheric shipyards. The lower district housed poor workers and the homeless, but also a black market that thrived on contraband and other forms of illegal trade.

  Authorities had tried to remove the stain from the city in several attempts but ultimately resigned themselves to its existence, so long as the corruption remained beneath the surface. Thus, crime and poverty endured, tolerated through separation.

  Lorien crossed Low Liceas with measured steps while covering his face. Between the homeless and the pickpockets, he walked as everyone did—fully aware while pretending to be half-indifferent, a survivor’s truth ingrained in the lower citizens’ veins.

  In the end, the boy with the silver eyes noticed a stocky man standing at a shop’s door. His broad, ruddy nose and fiery mane were almost impossible to miss. Though the man’s gaze remained sharp, his body slumped from the drag of a grease-stained wooden leg—which Lorien always regarded with a trace of pity.

  The man’s tired eyes, already accustomed to the slum’s gloom, lit up for a moment as he spotted the familiar customer. “Well, well. Long time no see, boy.”

  “Glad to see you are doing well, Mr. Aristarchus,” Lorien replied.

  The shop smelled of stale air faintly tainted by oil and smoke. Nonetheless, the boy showed no discomfort in his expression.

  “You say well, but this store has seen better days. In any case, here for a piece like always?” The vendor muttered, tapping on a counter where grime and years had settled like old friends.

  Lorien nodded, only to be gently pushed further inside. “Go on, the place is yours.”

  Inside, the boy remained silent and watchful. His silver eyes roved over the shelves, scanning the rusted, greasy pieces and judging each by its worth.

  “I am looking for a coil of considerable size. These ones you have are either stiff or about to break… Has Mr. Aristarchuuhs collected some good ones lately?”

  “Need something better?” Aristarchus replied with widened eyes. “You ought to know better than anyone—in Low Liceas, even the right trash can be sold for the price of gold.”

  Lorien sighed at the man’s teasing, then fished a couple of alloy coins from his pocket, each stamped with a dragon’s crest. Scrap vendor Aristarchus snatched them up with practiced ease.

  “Forty drakes. That should be enough.”

  The man disappeared into the back of his shop for a while and returned with a near-perfect coil—gleaming faintly under the dim light. Lorien pressed it underfoot, forcing it to bend until it nearly hurled his frail body upward. He finally nodded, awkward but content. “That should be enough. Thanks.”

  “You’re always welcome around here. Till next time, boy.”

  Routine welcomed him as soon as he emerged back onto the surface. A cold, lingering darkness greeted him after he pushed the manhole cover aside—this time a byproduct of the reigning night. Before moving into the main street, Lorien paused for a moment, scanning the alley to confirm that nobody had followed or seen him.

  Back on the main road, he followed the glow of yellow streetlights, the seas of rush hour already faded into memory—its noise replaced by the hissing of steam and wind.

  Overpowered by tiredness, he walked deeper into the heart of the East Port district, stopping only before a five-story building with a metal framework humming faintly with heat. Its windows glowed like embers in the twilight, promising warmth behind the weary facade.

  Lorien made his way inside, replacing the lonely whistle of the wind with the clamor of a bustling cantina—a meeting point for thick laughter and clinking glasses, heavy with the scent of roasted meats. Servers weaved gracefully through the maze of wooden tables, delivering steaming plates and collecting empty beer jars.

  At the same time, the wooden floorboards trembled to the rhythm of dancing soles, guided by the playful melodies of an accordion. Its tune came from a dark-skinned man who played with a smile and closed eyes, measuring each note with the swing of his instrument.

  Lorien ignored the air of celebration within the hall and made his way to the busy kitchen. Plates and rushing staff flowed from one corner to another. Shouting, flame, and sweat pressed inward, creating a choking atmosphere.

  He tossed his heavy bag by the entrance and reached for the last apron hanging on the perch. Several towers of dirty plates awaited him at the metal sink.

  As he pulled on his gloves, the boy noticed a silent stare. It came from a tall woman with brown hair and sharp hazel eyes. While locked onto him, her blade cut through vegetables with the discipline of a soldier’s drill—measured, merciless, perfectly controlled.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “You are late.”

  Lorien swallowed. His eyes fell to the floor as he began to toy with the fine strands of his dark gold hair. During his commute, he had already prepared an excuse—one he hoped would dissuade her hunter-like focus.

  “Uh… there was an incident at the gondola station. All transports were delayed, so I had to walk my way here…”

  Her right eyebrow arched, but she had no time to press his alibi as incoming orders seized her attention.

  He let out a breath of relief, only to sigh at the work before him. He stared at the soap bubbles and rising steam without enthusiasm, thus beginning his halftime work at the Heeler Inn’s cantina.

  Lorien postponed his thoughts and feelings, focusing instead on rinsing each porcelain plate until it shone white and clean. Grease and scraps were cast aside while water hissed continuously down the drain. Despite his accumulated exhaustion, he pressed on regardless, hands scratchy and shoulders nearly numb beneath the weight.

  When he finally cleared the mountain of dishes, the woman with the hazel eyes stacked more towering piles into the kitchen sink. That said, relief only arrived when the ticking clock in the main hall struck midnight. By then, both the dining room and the kitchen had emptied. The fading clatter gave way to the low hum of pipes and the soft ticking of electric-powered lamps.

  He pulled off his gloves, tossed them aside, then hung up the dirty apron—not without scribbling his checkout time. Unsurprisingly, the woman—whom Lorien knew as the inn’s owner—remained the last to leave. She stood cross-armed, observing as he passed by. She said nothing at first, but when his steps nearly faded into the hallway, she finally spoke.

  “Don’t make a habit out of coming in late.”

  Lorien stopped in his tracks and sighed once more before turning back.

  “I’m sorry Larissa… I promise it won’t happen again.”

  The woman maintained her sharp demeanor beneath the kitchen light.

  “You said it was not your fault. Besides, don’t make me any promises you know you can’t keep.”

  Knowing he had been caught, he expected a loud reprimand—yet her tone remained direct and measured. “Goodnight, Lorien.”

  The boy with the silver eyes nodded slowly before making his way to the wooden stairs at the end of the hall. His knees trembled as he reached the fifth floor, leaning against the wall for a heartbeat before forcing open the attic door.

  Chilly currents poured through a pair of open windows on the opposite side of the room, stirring the thin silk curtains, his messy hair, and several blueprints scattered throughout the floor.

  The wooden flooring creaked as he crossed to the workstation ahead and shut the windows. Resigned to the mess, he dropped his bag onto the cluttered table, where half-finished ideas and fragile prototypes awaited.

  He pushed spare bolts and screws aside, making space for the unpacked prototype and the recently bought coil, only then turning on the nearby lamp—its glow flaring like a dim sun at the edge of a dying universe. With the last of his focus, he fitted the piece into the contraption.

  Victorious but worn, he leaned back in the wooden chair, ready to rest—but his intentions were short-lived. Curiosity drew him back to his bag to retrieve the ornamental cube he had picked up at the gondola station. Free from the pressure of the moment and the scrutiny of witnesses, he inspected the mysterious object beneath the lamp’s glare.

  Carvings etched its surface in symmetrical patterns that bore no apparent meaning or function. Alongside them lay narrow gaps suggesting a hollow interior. Lorien tried to peer inside but encountered only deep darkness.

  After finding nothing relevant, he stood and made his way to the wooden-framed bed, falling into place without changing from his daily clothes. He held the cube aloft, turning it idly as his mind began to settle.

  The thought of keeping the artifact crossed his mind briefly, though he acknowledged that the police were most likely already searching for the stolen goods.

  I’ll return it tomorrow morning…

  He imagined a scolding, but nothing serious enough to become a true problem.

  Not long after closing his eyes, Lorien found himself surrounded by nothingness. The desire to rest never arrived. Instead, his consciousness remained awake, unable to distinguish anything except himself—and even that began to fade.

  He felt suddenly imprisoned, dragged into a realm deeper than sleep, confusion quickly curdling into dread. Panic rose—raw and wordless—as the barriers defining his ego began to dissolve, allowing him to disperse infinitely through space.

  For a brief suspended moment, Lorien glimpsed countless reflections of himself in sequence. There was no limit to their number or to what they were doing. Some were blurred remnants of past actions; others were projections of what he might have become.

  One by one, they collapsed into seeds of noise that spread like a tumor until everything became unrecognizable. Just before vanishing entirely, Lorien beheld a powerful light that revealed a familiar world unfolding before him.

  Suddenly, the silver-eyed boy stood on the main street of the East Port, the cobbled avenue leading toward the docking stations. A faceless crowd surged past, making him feel like a stone lodged in a river. Still disoriented, he struggled to grasp the scene as others ignored his presence entirely.

  Wasn’t I here earlier?

  Wait… Did I ever leave at all?

  The recent events of the second half of the day now felt as though they had never happened—mere fragments of a drifting daydream. The realization made him feel foolish, yet it seemed reasonable enough. Perhaps exhaustion or the dull blur of routine had warped his perception.

  In the end, Lorien forced himself to act dismissively, blending into the blurred march—until a familiar voice called from behind.

  “Are you really just gonna walk away? Can’t you feel that something doesn’t sit right?”

  The call was high-pitched and youthful, demanding an answer. Lorien slowly turned his head, and the concern he had tried to suppress erupted. The one calling him from the homogeneous crowd was none other than himself. Another Lorien stood there—different clothes, same voice, the same uneasy hue in his eyes.

  “What’s happening… What’s all of this supposed to be?”

  His thoughts spilled aloud, his voice trembling at the manifestation of the unknown.

  “You have been pretending to live normally for a while now, but in doing so, you’ve stripped away almost everything that makes us alike,” his mirror figure said, stepping closer. “Don’t get me wrong, maybe it's not such a bad thing for us after all...”

  His other self was undeniably sharper than he was—a difference of night and day. Quiet and mild by nature, Lorien flinched at each word spoken in his own voice.

  “Soon, the world as you know it is going to turn upside down. By then, you will have to make decisions about how you want to act and who you want to be. It is not going to be easy, but you’ll quickly understand how much is really at stake.”

  The warning carried an ominous weight, yet Lorien struggled to grasp its depth. Confusion still churned within him, blurring the boundary between seriousness and illusion.

  “I don’t understand… For starters, what are you to me?”

  His other self looked aside for a moment, unable to meet the light in his eyes. “That doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that, for once, you’re letting yourself choose.”

  Frustration flickered across Lorien’s face at the locked meanings hidden behind such cryptic words. “You’re talking about making decisions—about what?”

  The other finally smirked faintly as he raised his right hand and pointed directly at Lorien. The surrounding air thickened, humming with energy until white sparks of lightning began to crawl around the mirrored figure.

  “The power to change the world… what will you do with it?”

  The message carried the echo of a challenge, passed to him by none other than himself.

  Young and impressionable, Lorien froze, trembling before the unnatural glow of the white sparks, yet his pale eyes shone with wonder. He recalled the phenomenon as similar to what he had witnessed at the gondola station.

  There’s only a variation in color, but the energy still doesn’t seem to be harmful at all.

  The realization came quickly, for it did not take long for the sparks to surround him as well. They felt playful and seemingly harmless, though they defied his understanding of electrical currents.

  Yet the moment they touched him, he felt a convergence of ideas and emotions that were not entirely his own. He sensed a distant connection to something—somewhere—that had awakened from a long slumber merely to turn its attention toward him.

  Overwhelmed, he stepped back from his other self, already convinced the dream had lasted far too long. Only then did he feel a growing shadow stretch from behind.

  A tall, horned amalgamation of darkness stood there, holding a steady grin as it met Lorien’s wary silver eyes. Its presence felt heavier and more unsettling than his mirrored counterpart—predatory, almost malignant—yet paradoxically calm and inviting.

  When it finally spoke, its voice carried an unsettling charm and confidence that seemed to ratify all defiance against its form.

  “Don’t amuse yourself quite yet,” he warned, almost as if mocking him.