Cyre was a city of marble leviathans, beached on the dry hills, resting down in the broad, flat gullies.

Ancient palaces, monuments to the gods, temples and courthouses, all surrounded by a sprawling metropolis of white plaster, red bricks and clay roofs, run through with aqueducts and bridges made of limestone.

Where the Cauldron was nestled in the shield of an ancient, empty volcano, Cyre was surrounded only by the lush hills, filled with ripe fruits and grains, and, to the south, the sea.

Annoch spoke proudly of this city as she limped, her cane clacking heavily against the concrete and paver stones. She pointed out the most famous and long-standing buildings, the landmarks, the strange fruits of the local people.

But Poire wasn’t listening to any of this. He was just trying to stay on his feet. His nose was still dripping blood, and his brain was still slamming against his skull. It didn’t help that the redenite mask was pressed tight against his scalp, but at least the tinted eyepieces blocked out the brilliant sunlight.

Only as the crowds faded behind them, did the roaring of the wind inside his head begin to subside.

Nothing in Cyre felt new. It felt like it had always been here. Hulking temples and multi-tiered houses with columns of white marble. Between the marble monoliths, there were sheer, red-brick buildings, crawling with dry vines. Droids wandered the streets, hauling goods or running messages. Cyrans with pale and glittering scales lounged on expensive-looking couches or marble seats, or strolled in the shade of the umbrella pines.

Olive trees, lemon trees, and pines, and oaks lined the walkways. Thorny, flowering bushes were crammed into every empty space, making the already full city feel even more crowded. His home in the conclave had been so clean and empty compared to this.

As he turned to look back down the hill, he could see the sprawl of the city winding down through the valleys between Cyre’s green and gold hills.

When his nose finally stopped bleeding, and he could think again, Poire was surprised to see the detail in every building. Carvings, on every surface. From a simple limestone wall to the most over-architected column, everything was covered in stone-carved reliefs or clay and concrete castings, depicting ancient battles and heroes and even mundane stories of daily life.

Here, in a back alley, was a cyran in a crown, cutting down another. Utter betrayal in the victim’s eyes. It was a masterpiece. Poire couldn’t fathom how something so detailed could be carved from stone, and then tucked away in some empty alley, half covered in a mat of vines. He wished he could take off his mask, and stare at it, but Eolh wouldn’t let them slow down.

Even the red-brick buildings were capped with marble balconies and roofs, and Poire suspected those high places - far outside the sight of the naked eye - were filled with hidden mastercrafts.

In the high arches of the largest buildings, dozens of life-sized bronze statues stood, watchful and waiting. Sometimes, Poire could pick out teams of droids and cyrans cleaning the statues, or setting up their carving tools under some unfinished stretch of marble.

One massive red-brick building caught Annoch’s attention as they made their way away from the Gate and the bazaar in the basin.

A single steepled roof, many stories high. Below the arch, three grand windows made of colored glass were mosiacked together to form a scene. Two cyrans on either side, bowing towards a towering, central figure whose face was half hidden by golden leaf. The building itself went on and on, so that its size shrank with the distance. More stained windows ran down its near-endless length.

“What do they worship in there?” Eolh asked.

“Commerce,” Annoch laughed. “This is the Everlord’s Grand Station. The beating heart of the Cyran empire.”

As she spoke, a train, trailing a stack of smoke that reached up to the clouds, plunged out of the enormous station. Its cargo seemed to go on forever, until it disappeared into a tunnel in one of those cyran hills.

“That is the future,” she proclaimed, as if the train and the whole station were her personal creation, “Come in from far eastern Kyproch. From Hestio and Hestero. Pulling all of Cyre together, like a bodice tightened by its strings. Shaping this grand world into perfection. This is where the Empire begins anew.”

She held her hands out, as if awaiting their awe.

““Good for them,” Eolh said, clearly unimpressed.

“What powers the train?” Laykis asked, for she had not been in Cyre proper for many years. “What heats the steam?”

“Ah,” Annoch winked, “But you are a curious an-droid. The cores of the train are enormous. Reclaimed from one of the Empire’s latest conquests on Gaspar.”

“Reclaimed? Or plundered?” Eolh said bitterly. “Come on, let’s keep moving.”

Poire agreed with Eolh.

He wanted to see this city, yes. He wanted to watch the merchants, and their carts piled with ripe lemons and pale oranges. To run his fingers over the cold, twisting, perfect forms of statues cut from pure marble. He wanted to know these people - there were so many of them - in their thin-waisted suits and dresses, talking and drinking and laughing so easily. So close to human, were it not for those scales glittering in the sunlight as they sauntered through the streets.

And yet, the longer they stood here, the more he could see it. The shadows seemed to lag behind the people, dragging strange, liquid shapes behind them. As the people turned to look up at the clock towers, or as they dipped their fingers into the fountains, he thought he could see - not what they were - but what they might become.

Scales turned to ash. Crumbling up into the air. They were smiling, even as a grainy, black wind tore at their flesh. Could none of them see it?

If he blinked, he could make it go away, but only for a moment.

Carriages floated past their group, their gravity rails hovering them over the uneven cobblestones. They were pulled by droids, often with four legs and tall, narrow heads. Annoch called them drudges.

She tried to hail one of these carriages, but the driver saw their group, and, as if he could smell the off-world stench from across the street, he turned his nose up and pushed his drudges onward. Metal-shod hooves clopped past.

Annoch seemed used to this treatment. She kept trying until finally, one did stop - a stout, six-legged machine with a flat head that was almost buried in its body. Its thin limbs looked far too weak to haul the open-top wagon, and yet it trotted with surprising speed. The wagon hovered over the stone blocks of the road, suspended in mid-air by twin gravity rails.

A driver sat on the front seat of the carriage, holding an apparatus dripping with a bundle of wires which he used to control the drudge’s exact movements.

Annoch made a quick show of inspecting the undercarriage. “How does it ride? Well enough?”

“You got a choice, avian?” the driver answered.

The driver was a cyran, wearing a suit threaded in a servant’s black to better disguise the day’s dust. He eyed their group, suspiciously.

“Imperial coin only. I’m not taking any bird money.”

Several of the driver’s scales were painted with touches of silver, but the silver was wearing off. The rest of his scales were dull, duller than the cyrans Poire had seen on Gaiam. His coat, Poire could now see, was starting to split at the elbows from heavy use.

Annoch clicked her beak, apparently disappointed with the floating carriage. “Looks to be riding a little low.”

“It’ll clear any road in the city. Your coin will get you where you need to go.”

“Discreetly?”

“Aye,” the Driver nodded. “If that’s what you’ll be wanting. But she doesn’t go near the Undersides.”

“No, of course not. We’re headed to an inn, near the Estates. Or as near as you can get us.”

At the word ‘Estates,’ the driver lifted an eyebrow skeptically. But when Annoch flashed him a coin, his skepticism melted away. He leaned forward, inspecting Laykis as she stood at the street corner, staring blankly ahead.

“The an-droid,” the driver said, “What does she weigh? She’ll have to walk if she’s heavy.”

It was Eolh who answered.

“She’s lighter than she looks.”

“Well. If the cart starts to scrape, the an-droid must walk.”

Annoch the Merchant climbed on first, lifting her lame leg with both hands, and hauling herself up with her cane. She muttered a few directions to the driver, who nodded as she dropped a coin into his coat pocket.

As Poire stepped aboard, he felt the whole carriage rock slightly under his weight, and by the time the whole group was on, the wagon was starting to sag.

Maybe it was because she hadn’t talked to another avian in so long. Or maybe, she truly loved this city. Either way, Annoch Polcatus squawked the whole time, pointing and explaining every notable building, road, and statue.

There was the Hydroseum, where they held the Populae games. Rising behind those courthouses, there was the Veneratian itself, its fin-shaped flags fluttering high overhead. Sometimes, they could catch glimpses of the harbor down below, filled with ships and sails, and once Poire thought he saw a massive statue, sitting high on a hill, a figure on a throne.

The drudge moved expertly through the streets, weaving around other carriages and droids, its motors whirring warmly as they trudge up the hills.

Even the glimpses into back alleys were cleaner than the richest streets back on Gaiam.

Mansions that could have doubled as fortresses, with their thick, stone walls and marbled entrances, lined the hills so densely that they almost seemed to grow over their neighboring estates.

But each hill, at the very highest peak, was capped with at least one cylindrical tower. Often, a massive geometric sphere or a rounded dome was perched atop their crenelations.

Poire nudged Laykis, and pointed at one of the towers. Not wanting to speak, lest he give away his disguise.

“Observatories,” Laykis said.

Annoch added, “They mark the passing of the Library. And map the stars. And the scar, too, I suppose. May it never falter.”

The Library. Poire felt needles of nervous excitement prickling in his stomach. If any place had answers, it would be the Black Library. He searched the sky, but could find no sign of it. Perhaps its orbit had carried it over the horizon.

The driver slowed about halfway up this hill, where the road was lined with manicured olive trees and walls made of concrete breeze blocks, filled with open, braided patterns. Poire could see a villa through the wall, with all its shining white plaster and multiple tiers of sun-baked tile roofs. On the southward slope, there was a three-storied inn made of red bricks stuck together with clean, white mortar.

The road curved toward the inn, and circled around a fountain where the water played its sweet, laughing music. Inviting them in. Wind danced over the bushes, each one blossoming with dark, pink flowers. Two other carriages were idling in front of the inn, pulled by drudges that were so polished, their chassis gleamed in the sun.

“Welcome,” Annoch thumped her cane on the floor of the wagon, “To the House of the Red Rose.”

“This?” Eolh said. “This one is far too open.”

“But, my corvani, you’ll find no richer house on the Sculpine.”

“Not looking for rich. Looking for quiet.”

The driver cast another one of those suspicious glances over his shoulder, squinting at Eolh. As if he had little patience for the desires of an avian.

Annoch put a hand to her breast, where the little black lizard was sticking its head out of her pocket. She scratched the underside of its chin with one blue-feathered finger.

“My dear driver,” she said in honeyed tones, “Would you mind taking us somewhere a little more out of the way? I believe the House of Salluch isn’t too far…”

“No Undersides,” the driver said, “I told you that.”

“Technically, Salluch is on the edge of the Undersides- well, nevermind. Get us as close as you can, and we’ll walk the rest.”

To spur the driver into action, Annoch held another coin over the edge of the driver’s seat.

Then, the driver something with the tangled wires of the drudge’s reigns, spurring it to life. Motors whirred, and it’s hooves clopping in an increasing rhythm as it carried them down the hill, away from the inn and all its roses.

***

Of the Priesthood’s many Eyes, Natus the Smaller was lost.

All the others seemed to have a plan.

The avian diplomats were their target. The other Eyes followed the diplomats all the way to the Veneratian, or else they ran ahead to the Embassy, sending bribes and gathering intelligence.

The truth was, none of them knew exactly what they were looking for. The Heirarcha had only said, “It would be something strange. Something out of place. The Emperor, forever may he reign, wants you to find it. Another god has come to Cyre. Hidden amongst the avians.”

And that was all she told them.

The Heirarcha, normally so imperious, so severe and in control, had come to the temple in a frenzied, disheveled mess. The Heirarcha was always angry, but today it was as if her feet were dangling over a great fire.

The Everlord had been awake for only a week, and already the ripples of his displeasure were shaking the foundations of the priesthood.

What did a god look like, anyway? And how could it possibly consort with these feathered savages, let alone hide with them?

When the Heirarcha was finished, she snapped at them, “Go! Now!” And to the Eyes, her word was more than law.

But Natus the Smaller lived up to his name. As the Eyes scrambled out of the Heirarcha’s temple, Natus caught an elbow to the face. Certainly, it was an accident. And then, a boot to the gut. Certainly. He had fallen to the ground, clutching his bruised eye.

Now, he could only feel his best chances slipping through his fingers. The Heirarcha had promised citizenship. Full citizenship. To feel that note, made of thick cloth, in his hands, to see his own family name written down in the old tomes, for all time… An impossible dream.

When Natus recovered to find that the swarm of rabid, aspirant priests had already departed, he felt like giving up. What chance had he?

But this was his calling - or at least, this was his job. And if the Heirarcha caught him slacking he could lose even the tiny corner of the temple he called his home. Not to mention her punishment.

And so Natus went out into the afternoon sun. Went all the way across the city, on foot of course, because how could a lowly Eye afford to live - or even travel - in a city like this? He came to the gate, not knowing what he was looking for.

Just looking.

Just on the off-chance that he would get lucky.

And for once in his life, the goddess Fortunae smiled upon Natus the Smaller.

It almost slipped past his notice. A merchant, an avian who had been exiled from her own planet, and now lived a vagabond’s life in the merchant bazaar. Polcatus, he thought her name was. Annoch Polcatus. He saw her lurking in that half-illegal cluster of tents that always surrounded the gate. This was where she made her living, and even among the crowds of disgustingy-shaped xenos, she was often the loudest and flashiest of the merchants.

But today, that gaudy avian moved furtively through the crowds. He’d never seen her rush like that. Keeping her head down. All those jewels jingling as she limped across through the maze of tents - not with her normal theatrical flourishes, but with genuine haste.

He almost didn’t follow her. But something about the way she was looking around - to make sure she wasn’t being followed - made him think twice.

And when the merchant Polcatus hailed a drudge-drawn carriage, spending money that Natus knew she couldn’t afford - that was the moment. That was when Natus realized he was watching something strange.

Maybe even something the Heirarcha would want to know about.

Even the an-droid that walked bestride the merchant. Didn’t she look strange? Yes, most of her metal was burnished plate, but there were parts of her head… her chest…

Since when could avian tinkers build such exceptional, humanoid machines?

Natus caught the next ride, a drudge with stuttering legs and a carriage that rode so low it looked like it might scrape against the ground. It hurt him, physically hurt him, to part with the coin required to hire the driver, but Natus felt this was a risk worth taking.

***

Where did the gravity rails come from?

Could the cyrans make them or were they scavenged like so much else?

How old were they, and how had they found them?

Every question only yielded more questions.

Back in Poire’s conclave, they had memorized the most important points in the galaxy, hundreds of planets and stations and even the outposts that marked the vague borders of humanity.

The world called Cyre had never been among them. Perhaps, like Kaya, it had been given a different name through the ages.

He hoped the Library would have answers. Or better yet, if it showed him what had happened to the grid… How to fix it.

But as their carriage passed through the waning afternoon, and the crowds of working cyrans began to fill the streets, his pulse began to quicken. Right now, the only thing he wanted was to find a dark, quiet place to close his eyes.

Cyrans leaned out of their windows, talking, laughing, singing. Picking grapes off the vines or sharing glasses of dark red liquid. Carrying baskets in their arms, or laundry on their shoulders as they strolled back home after a long day of work.

Some had darker scales or nearly-smooth skin. Fins in strange places, and faces that looked less and less human as the wagon rolled down the hillside, down where the plaster on the buildings was cracked and faded. Where the roofs might be missing shingles, or the houses grew closer together. Umbrella pines and old, gnarled oaks lined the paths. There were fewer wagons and carriages down here, and the droids that walked here were rusted and in sore need of maintenance.

Despite his word, the driver carried them all the way to the House of Salluch. The timbers of its roof sagged, and the windows were greasy, though someone had made added clay pots to the windowsills, and filled them with flowers. There was a fountain here, though the figure standing in the center was missing its head, and water spurted out of its neck. A cyran with grayish scales stood in the eves of the House, sucking on a pipe. His scales were muddy brown, and starting to wrinkle around his neck, his hard mouth and dull eyes.

As soon as Annoch dropped a few pieces of copper into the driver’s hand, he turned the drudge around and sped out the way they had come. Poire could feel the eyes of more than one on-looker watching them from under the shade of the pines.

“Satisfied?” Annoch asked.

“Good enough,” Eolh said. “Let’s get a room, before we attract any more attention.”

It was, of course, too late for that.