Note + Writing Update [CH1&2] from Kayla

Hi everyone, Kayla here. Sorry it's taken some time for me to start catching up on our Patreon plans. I promise, we are still working hard—Daniel and I will actually be watching "The Rocketeer" for our movie this month, and we'll have that up for you soon!

I also wanted to personally thank everyone who supported us over the past few weeks. Whether it was through merch, here on Patreon, or even just sending kind messages, it's helped more than words can properly express.

 I'm still working with Beehiv to get our newsletter up and running, but I figured, in the meantime, I'd share some more writing updates on my own book! I already posted the first draft of my Prologue, so here's my Chapter 1 & 2 for my (still untitled) cosmic horror-existential fantasy novel.

I'm sure it goes without saying that things will ultimately be changed/need to be improved and that first drafts have to happen no matter what in order reach the final product etc etc. Even so, I think it's always good to get feedback and see what (if anything) resonates. :)

Be back soon. Sending you all love.

-K
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Fifteen years later.

Chapter 1

Perspiration beaded Sille’s upper lip, and she wiped it away impatiently. Damp hair clung to the back of her sweat-soaked collar; she pulled it free, sighing as a cool breeze drifted across her neck. The topside uniforms were stifling, and she tugged at the stiff fabric in hopes that it might loosen, but the stubborn material had molded to her frame like a second skin, so she settled for unbuttoning her sleeves.

It wasn’t her first bout of surface sickness—as a natural consequence of prolonged exposure to the Sprey, long-term fevers and nausea were to be expected. Each time she dove Below Deck, her internal temperature dropped until she’d reemerge half-frozen. As her body adjusted, it turned on itself, rejecting its own warmth like an unwelcome guest. 

A wave of dizziness washed over, and she sucked down air, planting her feet to keep herself upright. She steadied herself against the counter, focusing on the bitter scent of coffee and the warm glow of brass fixtures until it passed. 

The Zifferberg Café was as much a home to Sille as her own flat. Built inside a giant clocktower, the café had carved out a rather enviable space five floors above street level, boasting a panoramic view of Faldstadt in its entirety and glimpses of the neighboring regions beyond. 

To one side, the signature glass domes of the Artisan’s Market sparkled like gems amidst a vibrant tapestry of pastel-colored edifices, each ranging from buttery yellow to cool mint, soft peach to striking aquamarine. Behind her, the city-state stretched into the foothills of the Tahl mountains, while to her right, canals zig-zagged down to the harbor. Sunlight sparkled along the water, reflecting off the abutments of the CentraLine Viaduct Rail as a steam locomotive cut a course across above Hollowell Bay. A swarm of hulking shapes ducked in and out of clouds—privatized airships and government zeppelins, casting dark shadows across the water’s surface and turning the sky into an aerial highway.

True to form, the interior of the Zifferberg was a timeless blend of eclectic charm and comforting familiarity, humming with the rhythmic whir of mechanical dials beneath the steady murmur of gossip. Every free inch of wall space had been dedicated to clockwork devices of various shapes and sizes; rows upon rows of crystalline faces, sparkling in the sunlight. Each one appeared to be in working order, though only a few displayed the current hour. Some ticked in sync with long-lost regions, while others spun erratically, their dials whirring backward—whether by mechanical flaw or something stranger, Sille couldn’t say.

Nearly every seat in the Zifferberg had been filled since the shop had opened that morning, and Sille thanked her lucky stars she’d arrived early enough to claim her usual seat. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the barstool nestled in the far corner and the light jacket she’d tossed haphazardly across its back to secure her place. 

“Cream and sugar, Captain Ostergård?”

Sille jerked back around to face the counter. The staff’s newest addition stared at her expectantly.

“No sugar, please.” Her gaze slid to the pastry case beside her. Vanilla custard speckled with chocolate morsels oozed from between warm, buttery layers, and Sille marveled at the color—a warm golden-brown with delicate ridges fanning across the crust. 

The Zifferberg was one of the few places left offering such indulgent delicacies. Few people had the knowledge and skill—let alone the money to spare—to commit to the craft. Certain ingredients, too, were hard to come by, now that the rift had severed nearly all trade routes. But the owner of the cafe was a kind old woman, determined to preserve a sense of normalcy for as long as possible, no matter the cost.

The other woman knowingly followed her line of sight. “Anything else?”

Sille’s fingers hesitated a moment, debating, before pointing to the pinwheeled croissant in the corner.

“One of those,” she said, bewitched by the pepper jam and whipped brie spilling from its seams, then gestured towards two more sweets near the back. “And a plumcot pie and a custard gareaux, to go, as well.”

People had learned long ago to cling to the simple things—familiar habits and routines. It was the simple comforts that kept them anchored. 

Those who didn’t often did not last.

While all three pastries cost triple the amount of what she might have paid ten years ago, for Sille, the fleeting sense of normalcy was worth the steep price. 

The barista wrapped them in paper, her keen eyes clocking the pearlescent lines crisscrossing Sille’s arms and sweat-soaked temples. She braced herself for a deluge of questions, but after a few tense seconds, polite manners appeared to win out, and the woman turned away.

Sille exhaled in relief, pushing up her sleeves, revealing the fractalferns embedded beneath her skin. They shimmered faintly, like living filigree, the color vaguely reminiscent of nacre. After fifteen years, Sille knew hers by heart—every branch and sinuous stem; lightning made flesh. They coiled around her palms and wrists, spiraling up her forearms before tapering off just below her armpits. Another set framed her face, curling along her hairline before cascading down her back.

“Cream, no sugar.” The barista had returned. A steaming mug slid into view, along with three paper-wrapped pastries.

As Sille reached for her coin purse, the markings on her wrist caught the light, casting faint reflections onto the glossy countertop. 

Before she could offer up payment, the barista waved her off. “I read about what happened in the papers. Consider it a thank-you—for your service.”

Sille blinked, unsure how to respond. 

Before she could find the words, the barista shot a knowing look at her hip and added, “You take care of yourself tomorrow, Captain.” Then she rapped her knuckles once against the counter before turning away to assist other customers with a practiced smile. 

Sille’s hand ghosted along the spot, which was still in the process of scarring over in silvery patches, and winced when her fingers drifted a little too close to the sensitive center.

Gallowglass wounds were always slow to heal.

As she turned to head toward her seat, a chair to her left pushed back suddenly, clipping the tender area. Sille hissed through her teeth as she stumbled forward, hot coffee sloshing over the rim of her cup, scalding her fingers.

To make matters worse, the three patrons seated around the table sprang up with an overly-dramatic flair.

Sille groaned internally. Technicians. She’d felt them watching her as she’d waited by the counter. Up until now, she’d successfully managed to avoid eye contact. 

That no longer appeared to be an option.

The closest tech, a stocky girl at least five years her junior, spoke first. “Whoa, didn’t see you there, Ostergård. You good?” 

Sille flinched at the casual use of her last name. ReD technicians had a habit of conveniently ‘forgetting’ honorifics—the only titles they seemed to recall with any consistency were Doctor, Director, and Chief. 

There was a common theory among wisps that this ‘selective memory loss’ was no accident. Regardless, Sille bit her tongue and replied stiffly, “No harm done.”

She tried to sound like she meant it.

It wasn’t that Sille particularly enjoyed formal posturing. In fact, she found it quite cumbersome and—at times—downright ostentatious. However, when it came to technicians, she couldn’t help but bristle. Whether it was justified or just her own bias, she wasn’t sure.

Decades of failed experiments had disillusioned much of the public—including Sille—eroding the Research Division’s credibility and deepening tensions between the two groups.

Their work wasn’t entirely without merit—they’d made some progress in predicting the rift’s advances, which they dubbed isotropic corrosion—but their primary objective, stabilizing it, had yet to yield results.

Bo had spent years trying to convince her they were on the brink of a scientific breakthrough, but nothing ever came. No groundbreaking discoveries. No miracle cures. The rift had already devoured the western peninsula and was hungry for the rest.

Between the two of them, Sille had never expected that she’d become the realist. But Bo hadn’t seen oblivion unleashed, hadn’t watched it tear their family apart firsthand.

Not that their story was wholly unique. Many had faced the same devastating circumstances. Entire populations erased in an instant, scores of families swallowed by the primordial force. 

For a time, some believed the only escape was to take fate into their own hands. They saw it as mercy—entering the Sprey together, ensuring their loved ones would be spared from oblivion, a fate far worse than death. Unfortunately, the Sprey was always the problem. A place where death didn’t come clean or easy. 

Sille remembered reading about a time—before the Great Unraveling—when things had been different; when crossing over had been as natural as drawing breath. But that was all gone. The Sprey appeared without warning, fracturing the natural order by reshaping humanity on a fundamental level.

Within the Sprey’s walls, reality bent and twisted, leaving the dead disoriented and stranded. Without guidance, they drifted aimlessly, unable to move on. And for reasons no one could explain, only the living were able to find their way.  Their tether to the physical world kept them from losing themselves as they passed through—the challenge was making it out alive.

 Each year, more souls became stranded, their numbers growing beyond what any wisp could possibly manage. Without people like her, the dead would drift forever, trapped just shy of the afterlife. She wasn’t sure what compelled others to join the World Initiative—duty, maybe, or some warped sense of purpose. Some just wanted to rage against the inevitable; to redirect their helplessness and fear.

For Sille, it was that and more. Survivor’s guilt was a powerful motivator. She’d joined the World Initiative for Safe Passage right after du’Cirre fell—just as Thom had before her, and their father before them. Saving souls became her quiet defiance—a twisted form of catharsis; a chance to exert control over a fate that was already fixed.

Unlike Bo, she harbored no illusions of salvaging any sort of future.  Frankly speaking, most people had resigned themselves to the inevitable—aside from the zealous fanatics actively worshiping the rift. 

Unfortunately, public opinion was a fickle beast—easily swayed or manipulated. And, while survivor’s guilt was a potent elixir, it paled in comparison to fear. Desperation even more so.

Another tech—a girl, shorter than the first—stepped forward, jolting Sille from her thoughts as she chimed in, “Heard you’ve been on medical leave.” She glanced once at Sille’s hip, then nodded toward her red, stinging fingertips. “Should we be worried?” 

The other two techs didn’t bother to hide their sniggers, and Sille prickled at the girl’s knowing wink. The interaction felt off in a way she couldn’t quite place.  

“Like I said, I’m fine,” was her only response, and after shaking off the last few droplets of coffee, Sille raised her mug in a somewhat mocking salute before disappearing into the crowd of patrons. 

She ducked behind a passing busboy, who jumped as she shuffled past, arms stacked high with teacups and porcelain saucers. When he nearly slipped on a discarded newspaper, Sille nudged it aside with her toe and bent down to grab it. 

The paper was folded in half, leaving the front-page photo visible, along with heading and the first few lines of print:

MISSION RESET: ALL EYES ON OSTERGÅRD

The photographer for the Central Herald certainly had talent. 

Sille gazed down at the black-and-white image of herself—the picture had been taken three days prior, the day the medics had discharged her from the infirmary. Reporters had gathered outside her apartment, crowding the stoop and steps, box-shutter cams flashing. She’d raised her hand in a stiff acknowledgment and forced an uneasy smile as the cameraman pressed in a bit too closely. The shutter had snapped right as she’d limped across the threshold, uncomfortably zoomed in on her face. 

Upon triple-checking no other customers appeared to be enroute to reclaim it, Sille tucked the Herald into the crook of her arm before making her way back to her seat. She set the mug down on one crinkled corner of the paper and smoothed out the other with an elbow. 

The article laid out a short timeline of events, starting from the day she’d learned about the mission right up until the day she’d sabotaged it. Sille was proud—she’d covered her tracks masterfully, considering she’d no time to plan ahead and no other alternatives. 

She’d been careful to make it look like an accident. The official report framed it as an unfortunate malfunction. As far as the public knew, the infallible Helo Squadron Captain had been brought down by faulty gear.

Steam swirled around Sille’s face as she skimmed, her eyes narrowing-in on on the small caption beneath her photo:

Representatives for the World Initiative for Safe Passage have confirmed Captain Ostergård has made a full recovery. In the meantime, both Helo Squadron and technicians have taken advantage of the delay to conduct joint-training operations essential for the technicians’ health and safety.

Two weeks—that was all she’d managed to buy them. Barely enough time to run drills or practice pairing. Still, she considered it a triumph compared to the alternative—Chambers would have sent them in blind, had she not intervened. 

Sille’s first instinct was to refuse outright—the mission was dangerously vague, with no details to justify the risk they were taking. But she knew the truth: saying no wouldn’t stop it. They would send another team, one with less experience and fewer hours in the Sprey.

Still, she wasn’t willing to gamble her squadron’s lives on blind orders. She’d made that mistake before, and it had ended with a line of coffins. 

Instead, Sille chose the only viable option: stall—buy them enough time to prepare.

She was glad she had done it, too. Helo squadron needed every second they could get to train the technicians. Especially when, just days before, every available hand was called in, as the neighboring continent to the south—the Empire of Caliza—had fallen to the rift. 

Hundreds had fled in desperation—on rafts, dinghies, fishing boats, anything that could float and carry them across water. Leonie and Jun had gone as part of the rescue effort, scavenging for resources and searching for anyone left adrift.

Their parting hadn’t exactly been amicable either—if not for the direct order from Chambers that morning, Sille might have delayed their meeting entirely. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to face them—not after everything that had transpired.

A foghorn sounded in the distance and she glanced up in time to see a steamship bound for Faldstadt enter the channel. It slowed to a crawl as it passed beneath the soaring arches of the viaducts, its towering smokestacks belching out plumes of steam and soot.

Two minutes late.

Draining her mug in one gulp, Sille folded up the newspaper neatly before slipping it into her rucksack. She headed for the elevator at the center of the room, concealed within the clocktower’s old ventilation shaft. Though the ride to the ground was quick, Sille pressed her forehead against the bars, cooling her forehead. 

When the doors opened onto the street, she stepped out and sucked in a grateful breath. Her heart rate had just begun to even out when a quick glance at the local artificer’s shop across the street sent it spiking. 

A willowy figure stood in the front window with some kind of brass instrument balanced on the swell of her hip, and appeared to be exchanging information with an austere-looking woman in oversized spectacles.

Sille hadn’t expected to see Sora in this part of town so soon. The last three times Sille had caught a glimpse of her ex had been entirely her own doing—moments of weakness, retracing their old neighborhood haunts like a heartbroken specter, hoping to find scraps of something she couldn’t quite name.

Sille could tell by the way the other girl gestured—overly-animated, a touch erratic—that she was nervous. Over the years, Sille had memorized all of her peculiar mannerisms, and every inch of her ached to reach out and to soothe those jitters away. 

Sora’s back was to her, onyx hair cascading over bare shoulders like spilled ink. Sille’s fingers tingled at the memory of combing through those strands, feeling the weight of them in her palms against crisp linen sheets. She ached to call out, hoping for one fleeting moment when their eyes might meet again. Not that she needed a refresher. Every curve, every hollow, every inch of her was burned into Sille’s brain.

A flush of regret coupled with self-loathing rolled over her, and Sille slunk behind a nearby streetlamp. She ducked her head and shuffled awkwardly across the street—shoulders hunched, eyes glued to her feet, holding her breath and counting to ten as she waited. 

Nothing.

Another successful day of avoidance. 

Sille knew she couldn’t afford to linger, and turned her attention towards the bustling city. A flew of chimneys assembled across the horizon, casting long, angular shadows onto the cobbled streets below. Horse-drawn carts clattered just beyond the curb, immune to the whir of a passing steambuggy, and one block over, a flock of birds took flight, wheeling high above. 

The seaport was nearly as crowded as the rest of the city. Rows of hastily-assembled tents lined the creaking pier, crammed with merchants and fisherfolk. Some perched on storage boxes, passing around skewers of grilled meat and fish, while others trudged past in knee-high rubber boots, the sharp tang of whale blubber and sea mold heavy in the air.

She slipped through the bustling crowd toward the Kopfmann Pier archway, its bright white pillars glowing gray beneath the steamship’s imposing shadow. As tall as the average dirigible and nearly twice as long, the steel frigate was the pride and joy of the Central States SteamCorp.

At the sight of the docked ship, Sille slowed, recalling the last time they’d all been together—Leonie had almost thrown fists. 

She had no idea what to expect. Would things be strained? Maybe, if she—

“Come to unload my ship for me, Captain?”

Shielding her eyes against the sun, Sille looked up and spotted a familiar silhouette leaning over the ship’s rails: Lieutenant Leonie Ndiaye—‘Niada’ to the wisps; Eo Squadron’s pointman and the C.S.S. Regalia’s moonlighting skipper. 

An impish grin spread across her dark, round face; black braids and silver beads sparkled in the sunlight. She had unbuttoned her crimson blouse to reveal a sweat-dampened undershirt, and had loosened the laces at her waist, allowing her to roll down her trousers low for added ventilation. Matching cords bound her upper biceps, crisscrossing all the way to her elbows, but just like Sille, Leonie had rolled her sleeves to show off her fractalferns.

“You still haven’t finished? I thought I’d shown up late enough to avoid manual labor,” Sille called back, equally dead-panned. Her anxiety ticked down a few notches.

“Did you really think you were getting off that easily—?”

Taking the last few steps at a sprint, Sille leapt off the gangway, launching herself at her friend and cutting off the rest of her words with a tight squeeze around her middle. The corner of her jaw banged against the taller woman’s collarbones, but that didn’t stop her from lifting Leonie off the ground and spinning her in a wide circle. 

“It’s good to see you, too, Len.”

“You’re awfully cheery. Did the doc give you a new personality, too?”

“Hil-arious.” 

Sille let go of the other girl and sniffed, startled by the sudden sting of tears. Relief flooded through her, sharper than she’d expected—she hadn’t wanted to admit how worried she’d been.

Knowing she’d never hear the end of it if caught misty-eyed, Sille made a show of swinging her rucksack down off her shoulder and digging through its contents for the treats from the cafe. The first one she pulled out was her pepper jam pinwheel, which she shoved into her mouth before resuming her search.

Leonie eyed her closely, “By-uh… any chance, d’you happen to bring another one of those for-”

“You?” Sille grinned around the pastry, locating the carefully wrapped plumcot pie at the bottom of her pack and tossing it into the lieutenant’s greedy hands. She bit off a piece of her own and said, “How could I forget?”

Leonie took a hefty bite and let out a moan of delight, plumcot jelly oozing down her chin. “Mmmmpf, iths eben beh’er den I imadined,” she said, spewing crumbs before running a hand across her chin; then, swallowed. “I can’t remember the last time I had one of these.”

Sille grinned. “Figured you’d enjoy it.” Then, gestured toward the lower quarters, “So…did you find anyone?”

Leonie opened her mouth to answer, but stopped as a family emerged from the dim light of the lower deck hatch.

All five looked gaunt, travel-worn, and weary; their skin peeling from salt and sun damage. The woman held a sleeping bundle while the man—the father, Sille presumed—carried another child in the crook of his elbow, her dark hair spilling forward, covering portions of her face as she rested her cheek against his shoulder. The eldest child, a young girl, kept a firm grip on the smaller one’s hand, all while casting terrified glances at the horizon, as if to ensure certain dangers hadn’t followed the boat to shore.

“They were the only ones,” Leonie said softly.

Sille hesitated. “That you could find?”

“That we could save.” Her gaze was dark and distant, lost amongst the waves in the southern seas. 

Sille didn’t want to imagine what those waters must have looked like after a deadly mass exodus.

Before she could offer up any words of comfort, Leonie cleared her throat and straightened. “Our quartermaster over there already offered up his son’s old room. Said it might be a bit of a squeeze but he’d love the company.’”

A crew member had emerged from steerage and was heading straight for the father. The Calizan man stepped forward to greet him, and despite the clear language barrier, the two clasped each other on the back like old friends.

“Lightning reflexes, that one,” a different voice chimed in from behind with a rueful chuckle. “Cleaned me out in a game of blitz his second night on board.”

Two hands locked onto Sille’s shoulders, spinning her around. 

Jun Baek stood before her, his dark eyes warm against his sun-kissed skin, looking a few pounds leaner than when she’d last seen him. Warmth enveloped Sille as she wrapped her arms around his chest, grateful he’d put aside his anger from their last encounter to return her tight embrace. 

“Good thing I remembered to pick one up for you, too, then,” she said, pulling back and pressing the custard pastry into his palm. 

“Sweet starfall…” he breathed, eyes wide, before digging in like a man starved. “Not that I’m not grateful,” he said, wiping at a smear above his lips. “But what did we do to deserve the honor of a Captain’s escort? Thought you weren’t back on duty until tomorrow?” 

“Chambers figured they could get some use out of me,” Sille said with a shrug. “Told me to escort you to the Hall of Commons.”

Jun raised an eyebrow. “Seems a little excessive.”

Sille rolled her eyes. “You know how they can be.”

“Ah, yes. The Great Eight and Nate,” Leonie said with an exaggerated drawl, and Sille was glad to see the haunted look in her eyes begin to recede.

Laughing in response, Sille glanced away. There was something undeniably charming about Lieutenant’s knack for teasing the Commander—a habit that once got her court-martialed for mocking him to his face.

“How’s he handling your leave, anyway?” Jun kept his tone casual, but Sille knew him well enough to know when he was searching for something. 

Truth be told, though, Sille hadn’t seen the Commander. A few days after Chambers postponed the mission, they’d sent him off to check on the southern resettlement camp. She hadn’t been too worried—he’d promise to be back in time for her return to active duty. 

“Rav’s got it covered while he’s gone. Helo’s running conditioning drills with the techs, and she got other squadrons to pick up extra laps,” she said, shrugging off the question.

Leonie looked relieved. “Well, good—Helo needed the time to train. I was honestly shocked the Commander agreed in the first place.” 

Sille itched to tell her the truth, but she’d been sworn to secrecy, so she turned to Jun for a distraction.

“You know,” she cast a glance at him sideways. “If we make the next train, we’ll be able to catch them as they’re resurfacing—Bo will be with them.” 

Jun’s cheeks flushed beet-red. Even after three years, he had yet to muster the courage to confess his feelings, but his obvious affection for her brother never failed to make Sille smile.

“Right, well,” he stuttered. “I’ll j-just get my things, and we’ll—we’ll be on our way.”

Both women watched on in amusement as he tried to rein in his excitement, walking stiffly towards the cabins before breaking into a sprint the second he thought he was out of sight. 

Silence settled between them. Leonie decided to break it first.

“I’m still mad at you, you know.”

Sille’s shoulders drooped. “I know.”

“You’re a right piece of shit for what you did to her.”

Sille knew that, too. 

Still…she’d do it all over again, given the chance.

“So,” Leonie dragged out the word. “This whole mission-thing with Bo. You really think you two will pull it off tomorrow?”

Sille appreciated the shift in topic.

“Honestly? I don’t know. But it’s not like my opinion matters.” She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Chambers said ‘run,’ so we’re gonna run it. Doesn’t matter what I think. And Bo—” she tsked, picking at her nail. “Seems he hasn’t forgiven me—something about ruining his ‘one shot at fame and glory.’”

A direct quote.

“Oi! Next cable car, eight minutes!” Jun called up from the docks. “Let’s go!”

He must have disembarked while they’d been deep in conversation, and had his rucksack clasped in hand, impatiently shifting his weight back and forth.

Sille sat back, raising a hand in his direction as if to say ‘on my way’, and he nodded in understanding. 

When she turned back to Leonie, she saw her friend’s expression was somber, shadows pooling beneath her eyes like bruises. 

“They should have sent us sooner. If I’d gotten there faster—” Leonie’s voice cracked as her hands balled into fists. “I might have been able to—” 

“Stop that.” Sille shook her head, placing a hand on Leonie’s forearm. “Look at them.” She nodded toward the family, who were making their way down the gangplank. “You saved them. You brought them here. You did everything within your power.” 

But Leonie’s eyes were wide as saucers, staring out at the bay. “That’s the thing, though, Sil. I bought them time, yes, but it’s still coming.” 

Sille squeezed her arm. “It’s all we can do.”

Leonie didn’t look away. “It's never enough.”

 Chapter 2

They made it to the funicular station by the skin of their teeth, slipping into the crowded car just as the doors hissed shut—standing-room only. Jun herded them both into the corner, shielding Sille as passengers jostled about. She reached for a handrail instinctively as the floor beneath her vibrated in anticipation. The cable car gave a sudden lurch forward before settling into a steady climb.

The CentraLine Viaduct Rail's tracks were flanked by mirrored stone buttresses, placed intermittently to stabilize the framework and haul passengers to and from the platforms. The railway itself functioned as a vital artery, connecting one area of the Central States to the next, transporting commuters and travelers alike throughout the region.

Faldstadt, small as it was, supplied only a modest two stops—Portsmith and Wessyn—with the former only a few minutes’ walk from the harbor.

Despite the steep incline, the ride was smooth. Below, the Regalia steamship loomed like a leviathan among smaller vessels. Higher and higher they climbed, the city shrinking beneath them. Two white-plumed colmdoves soared beside the window, cawing and screeching at one another in sharp, playful bursts. 

Jun kept his chin tucked to his chest to avoid bumping his head against the handrails, and peered out the window as they drew closer to the platform. A thin band of gold adorned his middle finger, which he twisted back and forth, keeping time with the rhythmic thrum of the pulley system—a nervous habit.

“Alright, spill.”

The fidgeting stopped.

“Leonie didn’t tell you?”

“Just snippets, no details.”

Leonie and Jun had been close enough to the rift to observe it firsthand.

They kept their voices hushed, leaning in close enough to feel the other’s breath puff against their cheek. No one seemed to be paying them much attention, and the gentle hum of the cable car drowned out any chance of being overheard. Nevertheless, Jun cast a wary glance about the confines before leaning in close.

“The oscillation patterns are intensifying daily, and the frost has nearly reached the Immaltry Isles.” Jun took a steadying breath, and Sille bit her lip.“I’d say—best case scenario—we’ve got a few months before it moves again.”

Instinctively, Sille jerked back, bumping her head against the steel frame. No one nearby seemed to notice. 

Her hands began to shake.

A few months. When had the monster at their door grown so ravenous?

He continued, “Leonie’s been tasked with relocating refugees away from the southern resettlement camp, but—to be honest—” Jun hesitated, his tone darkening, “there’s no telling how far it will press inward next time.”

The southern resettlement camp was the only one left in the outer regions, erected in the uninhabited lands near the borders. 

Sille had been to the south only a few times before—as a Lieutenant, she’d been assigned to the western camp. Of course, that had been abandoned, nearly ten years after du’Cirre had fallen. The northern camp closed not long after, followed by the eastern post. 

She kept her voice low, hoping she sounded level-headed. “Did the techs have anything to say on the matter?”

The government had sent a team of analysts from the Research Division along with them, to conduct observational analyses of the rift’s condition.

Jun shook his head. “Nothing they were willing to share. All their documents had been marked as classified—for the Director’s eyes only. They were off the ship before we’d fully anchored, heading straight back to the laboratories.” He grumbled under his breath, “Didn’t even bother to help unload.”

Neither of them mentioned the one person who would likely have access to those findings—a person they both knew but rarely discussed when it was just the two of them. Sille would never ask Jun to mediate between her and her brother; she had always made a conscious effort to avoid putting him in an awkward position.

“A month,” she repeated. “And no guarantee of how far it’ll work its way inland.” Sille let out a long whistle. “Are they going to take things public?”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “What good will it do? It’s not like there’s any place else to run. Chambers is probably keeping it under wraps so as not to cause a panic.”

Both held positions high enough to know the truth behind closed doors: the economy was in freefall—but speaking out was expressly forbidden.

 Few could afford a clear conscience these days.

At that moment, a lilting folk tune began to play over the amperic speakers, announcing the cable car’s arrival at the station and cheerfully reminding all those disembarking to watch their step. The other passengers rose from their seats, shuffling around one another until the space grew tighter. Jun shot her a look, followed by an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and Sille snapped her jaw shut a little harder than intended. 

The funicular clanged to a halt and the doors at their back slid open, allowing them both a fraction of a second to slip out ahead. 

The Portsmith platform was abuzz with activity as passengers scrambled to prepare for boarding. Some rushed about, heaving their luggage behind them like a reluctant pet, while others piled them atop pushcarts to more swiftly maneuver. To her right, a stout woman clutched the long stem of a metal birdhouse tightly in her fist; the cage swung wildly above her, its colorful occupant squawking in displeasure.

It was all so mundane—so perfectly ordinary; a fragile calm held together by a collective ignorance. But Sille saw through the ruse; it wouldn’t take much more than a nudge for the whole thing to go up in flames.

Jun’s warm hand latched around her wrist, yanking her from her thoughts and out of the bustling swarm towards the quiet safety near the parapets. His grip tightened, and Sille felt a reassuring squeeze as he tugged her towards the station pavilion. A few birds seated along the balustrade took flight as they passed, soaring into the wrought-iron rafters to escape the late afternoon sun.

Steam billowed from the exhaust stack of the approaching locomotive; its wheels hissed and screeched in protest as it slowed to a crawl, then stopped. A cloud of mist enveloped the platform, shrouding the gathering crowd in a swirl of vapor. Condensation trickled down the cabin windows in rivulets, distorting the features of the faces peering out.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, and the crowd surged forward, pressing toward the boarding platform. Officers clanged their bells for order, their voices barely audible over the eager, impatient throng. Jun tugged Sille toward the cars near the front, away from the crush of bodies gathering at the central turnstiles.

She numbly handed her frequent rider booklet to the ticket officer at the carriage entrance. He flipped it open, punched a blank space, scribbled the date, and handed it back with a curt nod.

They ducked inside the double-decker car, and Jun steered her toward the lower-level. Sille tried not to let her disappointment show, as she knew the lounge was specially reserved for high-ranking officials. However, the upper level—while oftentimes far more crowded with commuters—was her favorite; she loved watching the sky pass by through the glass-paneled ceiling. She was mollified a few moments later when Jun pointed toward two leather armchairs seated beside a large window of the cabin and the small tray of refreshments placed in between. 

Relieved, she slid into her seat. As the remaining chairs filled and the train chimed its departure, they resumed their conversation in hushed voices, careful not to draw attention.

Sille leaned in. “How many will we have to move from the encampment? ” 

Jun chewed the inside of his cheek, throat bobbing as his hand fiddled with the ring absently.

“Just say it,” she whispered. “Get it out now, before the debriefing.” She knew how hard it was to deliver grim news. “It’ll make things easier—trust me.” 

He gripped the ring tightly, squeezing. “A few thousand? Perhaps more?”

Sille’s stomach lurched.

“Sweet starfall,” she murmured under her breath.

Even if they flew zeppelins day and night to evacuate refugees, Sille had no idea where the DDC would put them. The family Leonie had rescued were fortunate to have been provided immediate shelter, as the commonwealth had long-since run out of proper housing.

Eventually, Jun blew out a breath, his shoulders slumping. “Sil, I—” His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard. “How am I supposed to go stand in meetings while people are out there drowning?" His voice cracked, rougher now, and he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at fistfuls in frustration. "There’s no need in this world for Ambassadors, but I—I don’t know what else I can do."

Sille opened her mouth to respond, but Jun held up a hand, cutting her off. She studied his face instead, noting the tightness around his mouth and the flicker of fear in his eyes. 

“I’m not smart enough to be a technician, and I’m not cut out to be a wisp either.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I hated the one time I slipped into the undercurrents. Felt…wrong. Like I was sewing my skin back together—made me sick.”

At this, she froze. Jun had told her he’d been to the Sprey one time, but he’d never opened up about the experience. 

“Is that so?” She kept her voice casual.

“Yeah, bloody terrified me.” Jun seemed to be completely unaware he was sharing more than usual. “For a while, I just floated. ‘Kept on thinking I was never gonna piece myself back together again.” The ring on his finger began to twist. “‘Course, when I finally did, I thought I’d trapped myself there forever—”

“First time’s always rough.” 

 “-and then the flashes, stars above—” he shook his head, “Even if I wanted to—even if I tried—I’d never make it to the drop-off point.”

Temporal flashes—another by-product of the Sprey: nebulous pockets of fabricated reality; ghostly, desaturated, yet disturbingly solid. They rose out of nowhere, forming foggy shapes and fragmented scenes, only to dissolve like smoke moments later. But Sille had learned the hard way—these apparitions were far from harmless. A spectral mudslide could crush her as easily as the jagged spines of a fractalite.

It was only then, Sille realized she had allowed the conversation to lapse into silence. Jun was staring at her, waiting. 

“You–ehm—” Sille’s throat had gone dry. She leaned forward and stretched, arching her back until her shoulders released, and a crick in her neck popped. “You get used to it after a while.”

He was quiet for a moment, clearly debating something. 

“Are you ever tempted?” 

She knew what he was asking. 

Did she ever want to leap into the unknown? Follow the dead over the ledge, down past the drop-off?

Sille hesitated, torn between giving him the safe answer or the honest one; how the odds of her making it to her thirtieth birthday had gone from slim to almost nonexistent. How she’d be lying if she claimed she hadn’t thought about ending things on her own terms.

But even if she tried to follow through with it, Sille knew she’d never make it. 

The Gatekeeper did not accept the living. 

“Not really,” she lied, choosing the safer answer. “We’re short on wisps as it is.” Then nudged his leg with the tip of her boot, wiggling her brows good-humoredly. “Wouldn’t exactly be fair to the rest of the team.”

Despite the need and demand, the World Initiative for Safe Passage struggled to recruit members. Even the high-paying salary wasn’t enough to tempt most people. Wisps were understaffed, overworked, and underprovided. 

Jun made a noise in his throat and leaned back in his seat. “That’s a dangerous way to live, Sil. Obligation shouldn’t define your existence.”

“You’re one to talk.” Then, added as a serious note. “No more trips to the outerlands, yeah? Promise me?”

The grin he shot her in return didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Deal.”

It was a lie, meant to soothe her nerves—both Sille and Jun knew he could make no such promise.

They smiled at one another, then turned to gaze out the window, letting their false promises fade with the changing scenery below. 

A dark shape loomed overhead, briefly eclipsing the sun and casting the train car into shadow. Sille squinted at the markings along the keel: a Gathos-bound cargo vessel—privately-owned by the look of it.

Both the Gathos and Terre-Gareaux regions were vital to the commonwealth’s survival, with the former serving as the primary hub for food storage and distribution, and the latter supplying essential resources, like timber and stone. Fertile lands, a stable climate, and underground springs providing an abundance of freshwater made the Central States an ideal center for agriculture and livestock. 

By sheer luck, it was also positioned near the ‘epicenter’—the projected last point of existence on earth. 

In the early days, many nations believed they could counter the rift with innovation or sheer determination. They thought they had time to formulate a plan. 

The devastation that had followed quickly proved them wrong.

As the last traces of Portsmith Station disappeared around the bend, the landscape transformed into an urban jungle: the great nation-state of Tahl, hemmed in by the mountain range of the same name. The buildings multiplied quickly as the train slowed near Rorshayk Station, the first of five platforms serving the region, which had quadrupled in size since the last wave of refugees.

Unlike the vaulted lofts of Faldstadt, the homes in Tahl resembled little more than stacks of matchboxes. Above each dwelling, a tangled web of amperic wires and clotheslines crisscrossed, forming a makeshift canopy. Shabby, patched rooftops of weather-worn stucco bore the marks of years of disrepair.

Tahl did little to conceal the scars of displacement. Thousands of families had been sent here, cramming into overcrowded tenements. The Disasters Displacement Committee had officially stopped redirecting families to the region almost a decade earlier, but, by the look of things, Tahl had been tossed to the wayside and left to decay.

Here, there were no little luxuries; no pastry cafes or gold-plated spires.

Here, there was no pretending life could go on as normal—all pretense had been stripped away.

The Central States had been lucky—for a time, many had been able to live in denial or ignorance. Civilizations had thrived in the region long before the Great Unraveling. In fact, Pah Tam’s origins stretched back beyond the written word. 

It wasn’t until the rift began spreading that newer cities were established, built by rulers from distant lands who had the foresight to secure a longer-lasting refuge. Over time, the population swelled as people from all corners of the world sought safety, bringing with them their collective knowledge and traditions. Agricultural advancements maximized efficiency in limited spaces, transforming the region into a habitable self-sustaining ecosystem. 

But over the past fifty years, the rift’s pace had quickened. Vast stretches of land that once took months to disappear were now consumed in weeks, days, or even hours. As the world grew smaller, great nations vanished, sparking widespread shortages and a humanitarian population crisis.

A strange odor crept into the cabin the deeper they wound through the dilapidated buildings, wrinkling noses and drawing uneasy looks from the passengers: rotting garbage; mold and mildew; festering refuse and human waste.

The platform was teeming with people, crammed shoulder to shoulder beneath one central awning. The amperic lights overhead flickered from faulty wiring, causing commuters to squint and grumble with displeasure. 

Amidst the commotion, one voice rose above the rest. “Rejoice, children of Esse, in the coming of Nihl’s glorious rapture! Rejoice for the ending foretold! The Gatekeeper calls us home! ”

Sille knew the names. Like most children, she had grown up with tales of the Gatekeeper and the Fountainlord. Most knew Nihl and Esse as two halves of a whole—eternal partners shaping the infinite expanse. From a single spark, existence spilled forth, pouring into every nook and hollow cranny Nihl provided. According to myth, Esse was free to create as long as, in the end, Nihl was allowed to collect.

Their stories spoke of fin’ware—Nihl’s grand finale and homecoming—filled with warmth and reassurance; an end where Esse’s creations would be gently gathered into his counterpart’s  embrace.

“Brothers and sisters, do not be afraid!” The voice rang out again, hidden behind the thick clouds of steam rolling from the train’s undercarriage. “Fin’ware is but a gift—a herald of the Gatekeeper’s design! Do not let them take that away!”

As the mist parted and the crowd dispersed, a lone figure emerged—a middle-aged man standing atop a crate, arms raised in fervent declaration. His clothes, though worn thin, were meticulously pressed, the deep wine-red fabric unmistakable—a color of an acolyte of the Terminal Faith’.

“We should be sharing our abundance. Caring for thy neighbor—indulging in life’s goodness!” His gaze swept over the crowd.  “The end is near, yes—but that is no curse. It is a gift—we are being led to the Divine stage!”

Sille scoffed under her breath. She refused to believe such ruinous misery was the Gatekeeper’s doing. No, something had gone awry—something they lacked the time, the knowledge, and the ability to fix.

The Terminal Faith believed the rift was a divine marker, sent ahead to guide humanity. But Sille knew better—she had stood at the threshold of oblivion, felt its icy breath on her cheek as the world around her disintegrated. The rift was violent and uncontrolled, a tear in the natural order rather than its culmination—nothing like the end they were promised, nothing like the salvation she saw souls find in the Sprey.

She sank lower in her seat, hoping to avoid any unwanted attention, but her face had been plastered across the morning newspaper, and his eyes narrowed with recognition, jabbing a trembling finger in her direction.

“Purveyor of false salvation! Fin’ware saboteur!”

“Ignore him,” Jun muttered, leaning forward to shoo the acolyte away. 

The train shuddered as the brakes released and a whistle pierced the air, signalling their departure, but the man was undeterred and chose to jog alongside, slapping an open palm against the window, demanding her attention. 

Sille shifted uncomfortably, heat rising to her cheeks. She still wasn’t used to being the focus of the congregation’s ire. 

Until now, wisps had managed to avoid the Terminal Faith, whose anger was almost always reserved for the Research Division. But just as the Commander had warned, the Faith’s followers had not taken kindly to news of the joint operation. Their leader had accused the Central States government of human rights violations for attempting to halt the rift—an act the Faith considered an affront to their prophesied doomsday.

As if to emphasize his contempt, the man spit a glob of saliva that hit the window with a loud smack, sliding down in a wet streak before smearing sideways, dragged by the wind as the train pulled away.

Passengers shuffled in and out of the cabin—a few cast glances in her direction, but darted away quickly when they saw she’d noticed. Neither she nor Jun commented on it. He simply patted her hand before pulling out a stack of paperwork to review ahead of the briefing.

Sille closed her eyes, listening to him rifle through the pages, letting the rhythmic motion lull her. Time slipped by unnoticed. Eventually, she drifted into an uneasy sleep. It wasn’t until Jun gently nudged her knee that she finally stirred, the train slowing as a vast metropolis came into view.

The sunlight had shifted, casting long shadows as it dipped lower along the horizon. Sille rubbed her eyes and blinked through heavy lashes, momentarily sparking fireworks behind her lids. 

Terre-Gareaux glowed orange against the dusky sky like a jewel, its signature gray stone edifices absorbing the last rays of the setting sun. Every building had been crafted from giant slabs of gray bricks, shimmering with traces of silvery dust, resplendent in its understated elegance. It was hard not to be swept away by the quiet grandeur, as the whole city exuded an air of serene sophistication; its restraint a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of Faldstadt that Sille had grown to love. 

Through the window, she glimpsed tiny figures hurrying along the streets below, too small to make out their faces. Beyond the city limits, rolling fields stretched out toward a great forest along the horizon, a patchwork of greens and golds bordered by a thick treeline.

“Happy to be home?” Sille asked, rising from her seat.

“I’ll be happy once I’m out of these wretched clothes,” Jun replied with a weary smile. “They reek of saltwater and sea kelp.”

“You sure that’s not just you?”

Jun gave Sille a playful shove onto the platform, the embossed sign swinging above their heads heralding their arrival at Avenue Gris. 

As they made their way down to the city, it was clear to Sille why her brother, Bo, had also been drawn here. The similarities to du’Cirre were uncanny. Multifamily apartment complexes rose up on all sides of the platform, close enough for her to catch a fleeting glimpse of the courtyards within. Wrought-iron guardrails were decorated with woven baskets, bursting with gardenias and peonies. Great sheets of beveled glass adorned nearly every façade, carved and stained to depict significant events and cultural achievements over the years.

Though the spires here glittered silver and the shutters were board-and-batten, Terre-Gareaux emitted the same sense of liveliness and community that had shaped Sille’s formative years.

By comparison, the Central States Assembly building looked unremarkable next to the neighboring architecture; apart from the broad stone steps leading up to its entrance, it was devoid of Terre-Gareaux’s usual opulent glass ornamentation. 

On the inside, however, all of that changed.

Sille and Jun pushed through the walnut doors at the top of the stairs, their footsteps echoing across the tiled floor, blending with the low murmur of voices. They passed granite columns, each etched with the solemn visages of past state leaders, and entered the central atrium.

Suspended beneath a circular skylight by rows of fishing wire, a flock of intricately carved porcelain colmdoves hung in midair—some with wings outstretched, others poised to dive. A cluster of armchairs sat in the shade beyond the sun’s reach, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and worn leather.

Near the back wall, where the reception desk stood, a young woman with curling red hair and an upturned nose sat absorbed in the morning paper. Sensing their approach, she glanced up—her eyes widening in surprise as they landed on Sille.

“Captain Ostergård–” She stuttered, rising from her stool. “Good to see you are well, sir. I was not informed you’d be reporting today—I was not aware—what I mean to say is, your name is not on today’s list, sir—”

“Relax, Officer Steevys,” Sille said, offering a reassuring nod. “The request came down this morning from Central Chambers directly. I doubt anyone but Commander Reid was informed of the change.”

Steevys hesitated—Sille caught a flicker of confusion. “I can’t say whether or not he was. The Commander only arrived a few minutes ago.”

Sille frowned. The Commander had been clear—he’d promised to return from the resettlement camp before she was cleared for duty. By all accounts, he should have been there since morning. 

“Were you on first shift today?” she asked. 

When Officer Steevys shook her head, Sille nodded slightly, certain that explained the discrepancy. The Commander must have stepped out briefly, leaving Rav in charge. Steevys had likely spotted him returning.

 Taking a half step sideways, she gestured Jun  forward. “I’m here to escort Ambassador Baek to the Hall of Commons. I believe Chambers is scheduled to meet in an hour?”

Officer Steevys’ hands fluttered nervously over her desk, rifling through her documents until she located a scrap of paper tucked between two folders. “Yes sir, but–you’re a bit early. The councillors and their undersecretaries haven’t arrived yet–”

“Not a problem,” Sille plowed ahead, steering Jun in the direction of the lifts while motioning the receptionist back down with a wave. “We’ll head on down to the Bunker to wait. I have a few things I’d like to discuss in private with the Commander, anyway.”

“Of course, sir.” Steevys looked as if she had half a mind to protest, but seemed to think better of it and ducked her head in salute.

Sille led Jun through another set of double doors, guiding them out of the atrium—it was a gesture meant more so for Officer Steevys. Still, he followed her without question, occasionally casting sympathetic glances her way when he thought she wasn’t looking. Sille pretended not to notice.

They skirted a grand staircase that led to the trainees’ quarters—dormitories branching off to one side, classrooms to the other. 

Instead of ascending to the upper levels, they turned down a narrow, candle-lit corridor: the Hall of Remembering. Portraits of fallen figures lined the walls, each framed in polished brass that gleamed faintly undering the guttering light. 

Lionel Sabir, the First Shepherd, was depicted as leading a procession of souls through the Sprey as they emerged from a temporal flash. Mariel Blomme, inventor of fractacycline, was shown in her lab, her wispy gray hair mirroring the drug’s metallic sheen. 

At the second-to-last canvas, Sille and Jun paused. A small part of her marveled that her feet hadn’t already worn grooves into the tiles.

Thom Ostergård. Callsign—‘Gårdian’. Savior of Salonakis Reef.

The artist had taken great care to get his eyes just right—round and shining, like a silver dollar; so similar to Sille’s own. Behind him rose a great tidal wave, as tall as the clocktower housing the Zifferberg café. At his side, petrified figures clung to his sleeves, casting fearful glances over their shoulders as the wave began to crest.

He’d saved thirty-six lives that day, before oblivion caught up with him. While the rest of the evacuation team withdrew, Thom had refused to leave—his honor would not allow it. 

Sille both admired and hated him for that.

Jun waited a few paces away, giving her space in case it was needed. But when Sille turned back, her eyes were dry, and without a word, he led the rest of the way.

At the end of the hall, a gleaming metal lift stood ready. Jun punched the button with his thumb and the gates slid open, chiming softly. The deeper they went, the colder it became. The familiar chill seeped into Sille’s skin, grounding her. For the first time in days, she felt like herself again.

Across from her, Jun wrapped his arms around his torso, trying to keep himself from shivering. 

Seconds ticked by as they sank beneath the earth. 

Then came a faint whine, reverberating underfoot, growing louder by the second. A flutter of nerves set in and Sille’s fingers tightened on the handrail as a wail of alarms enveloped them, boxing their ears from all sides. 

When the doors opened, the full-force of it hit her—a wall of a sound assaulting her senses. She looked around through the haze of noise and lights, trying to re-orient herself.

On one side of the room stood the head of communications, along with support staff and Major Raveet ‘Rav’ Aurelia. On the other side was Dr. Saku Vee, the Director of the Research Division, and her newly promoted experimental technologies specialist—Sille didn’t know her name.

And at the center, hunched over a set of charts and calculations, was Nathaniel Reid, Commander of the World Initiative for Safe Passage. His traveling coat was still on, his hands splayed over the table beside a pile of splintered pencils.

Standing near him—spines bowed and trembling to their core—were three analysts from the Research Division and four members of her squadron. Each wispy was glaring daggers across the room as they struggled to catch their breath. 

“Will someone turn that blasted thing off?”

Sille recognized her brother’s voice immediately, though she saw no sign of him.

Then, as if summoned, there he stood, leaning casually against a metal column. Bo’s eyes met hers—a darker shade of grey, and Sille noted that his lashes were flecked with ice. 

In the crook of his arm, he cradled a transport bag. The leather flap had slipped loose from its buckle, flopping forward to expose its contents. Fractaline gems as thick as her forearm peeked out, clouded with faint, microscopic striations.

Sille sucked in a breath.

They’d run the mission.

Without her. 

Successfully.