Al’Corvo woke up, looking up he saw the clock read 10:30 in the morning. Despite over twelve hours of sleep, he still felt weary and fatigued, his mind plagued by nightmares and whispers that quickly faded away upon waking. Groaning, Al’Corvo crawled out of his hammock and immediately flopped onto the floor, causing a burst of curses and wakefulness in equal measure. One of the few things Al’Corvo missed from his youth spent in Babylon was his bed, which was so low to the ground (due to a lack of wood) that he could simply roll out and stand up.

Walking over to his door, Al’Corvo saw the daily newspaper had been slipped through along with a small stack of papers, tightly bound by string with a cover sheet that simply had a bright red ‘CLASSIFIED’ stamp.

“These must be the Ward forms then,” Al’Corvo muttered to himself. Opening the door to look for any proper packaged, he was also pleasantly surprised to find his weekly government-funded MRE package. Being a government worker had its perks. Even better, it appeared that the meals had been made recently rather than being scavenged, potentially radioactive goods.

Al’Corvo moved back to the kitchen, newspaper clutched in his left hind-hand and the Ward forms in the right. The box of MREs only contained around nine or so pouches, equivalent to three days worth of meals, but Al’Corvo always made sure to make them last by only eating one or two per day. Somewhere along the way Al’Corvo had managed to worm his way into the good graces of the guys who shipped the boxes by fixing their stuff free of charge. This meant that while he still couldn’t choose what he got, he had access to the military menu. The ethics of essentially stealing military supplies from the Immunes wasn’t something Al’Corvo concerned himself with.

There were many benefits of having access to the military menu. For starters, the army had a wider array of ‘menus’ to choose from. While the average joe was stuck with around five different meals, the Immunes had access to eleven. Another benefit was the composition of the food itself. While the civilian MREs were freeze-dried for a longer shelf life, the Immunes were often only out for a few months at a time, meaning their rations could be made of less preserved foodstuffs. In the end this produced food that, while still mildly gross, tasted better than cardboard, which in turn was infinitely more appetising than the nutrient bars.

Al’Corvo slowly prepared his favourite MRE menu, number seven, still half-asleep. While he waited for the flameless heater to warm up the pulverized brisket and potato, Al’Corvo sat down at his tiny dinner table and read the newspaper. The important bits were on the first few pages, and mostly covered basic stuff. Underground Sector 13 had a mass power outage, the Wards publicly announced their plans to intercept the Labyrinth, standard affairs in the grand scheme of things. Al’Corvo checked the MRE, noting that it was ready.

Al’Corvo had spent at least two hours travelling to Sector 1. As it turned out, the Wards required the completed enlistment forms to be delivered personally, which meant a solid ten kilometre trek from Sector 8, through Sector 2 before finally arriving at Sector 1. Al’Corvo was also coated in sweat from the midday sun, and a thin layer of snowmelt made each step a slog. Aside from the occasional soldier, the sector seemed empty and abandoned.

Running along the entirety of Sector 1 was the Promenade of the Fallen, a large road paved with intricately cut stone that was flanked with various Ward and Immunes heroes. Interestingly, the Wards depicted all sported a long feather on their helmets, a tradition Al’Corvo assumed was no longer adhered to. He had never seen a bird that could produce a feather that big (assuming the statues were to scale). From one of the only history lessons Al’Corvo payed attention to, he knew that the Wards had been around in story snatcher culture in one form or another since the species had crawled from the jungle. Hell the profession even survived the thousand-year dark age. Why the Wards existed prior to the ghostly menace Al’Corvo wasn’t too sure.

In the centre of the promenade was a large, circular plaza. Dominating the centre of the plaza was a massive bronze statue of what Al’Corvo presumed to be an ancient praetorian, a hero whose deeds were lost to time and were all but unknown except to those who witnessed them. Instead of the traditional mancatcher, the statue wielded a gladius-like sword and had a crescent-shaped blade at their belt.

To his left Al’Corvo saw a truly massive marble building, expertly carved so that the entire structure looked to be made of one block of marble rather than several. Large marble pillars surrounded the circular structure, with the top and bottom of each blending perfectly into the floor and roof. Finally, each column was decorated with elaborate blue tapestries that were covered in angular, geometric patterns. The entrance of the building were two large gnarled wooden doors made of some dark, rich wood. Al’Corvo hadn’t seen wood used for construction since it was rare around Raqmu, and pretty much everywhere else nearby. Unless you wanted date wood or almond wood, but either options were a waste of good food. With a struggle, Al’Corvo managed to open the thick doors. A loud creak echoed throughout the empty hall.

The inside of the Ward HQ was almost sombre in its beauty. Much like the outside, the hall was regularly lined with massive marble pillars that extended at least twenty metres into the roof. The carved stone floor of the promenade quickly faded into blue pearl granite which sparkled dimly in the soft glow of fluorescent lights that were attached to each pillar. In between every few columns was a named statue of a hero, all of which were long gone. Only one caught Al’Corvo’s eye, an exquisitely carved wooden statue of a spear-wielding story snatcher fashioned in an angular style. The inscription simply read,

“Soleer, the Garden’s Bane

May he find his way back from Eden’s Grasp”

The hall, despite its vastness and beauty, was almost completely devoid of life. The only sign of life outside of Al’Corvo’s feet clicking on the stone was a staccato clacking of an old keyboard. Occasionally, a muffled curse would also disturb the otherwise tranquil atmosphere.

After a minute or so of slowly walking through the grand entrance hall, Al’Corvo found himself in the reception area. It was as grand as everything else, at least fifty metres in diameter and with walls covered in elaborate tapestries dedicated to the history of the Wards. A massive hexagonal basalt pillar dominated the centre of the room. Beneath the pillar was where Al’Corvo found the source of the tapping noise.

Compared to the rest of the room, the simple, ringed steel and plastic desk was almost pitiful. On the long desk were several stacks of papers along with three computers that were drilled onto the desktop. Unlike the bulky, off-white machines Al’Corvo was used to, these computers were thinner, black models. Al’Corvo felt his left hand twitch, as if wanting to rip open the more advanced machines to see what lay within.

Of the three computers, only one was manned, casting a blue glow against the black pillar behind the desk. A single, hunched over story snatcher sat behind the computer, and if their kind was capable of it, they would’ve had dark bags beneath their many eyes. The clerk looked up, saw Al’Corvo and rapidly blinked a few times before straightening up.

“And you would be?” The clerk spoke slowly, with a hint of trepidation.

“Al’Corvo Silksmith, I’m here to drop off some enlistment forms.” Al’Corvo winced ever-so-slightly at saying his full name, mainly because of the connotations behind the Silksmith family name. Luckily he was only from what could be considered a cadet branch of the illustrious family. Most people realised that when Al’Corvo showed a complete lack of knowledge when it came to the matters of merchantry and commerce.

The clerk suppressed a slight groan, before saying, “okay, just drop the forms here,” he gestured to an empty part of the desk, “and I’ll get back to you this afternoon. Come here at about six or so to receive your gear. Training begins tomorrow.”

Al’Corvo carefully placed the forms on the empty space, before leaving the empty building. As he left, Al’Corvo wondered if the Ward HQ was always as empty as it was when he visited it.

Al’Corvo returned to the HQ at six as instructed. At night that promenade had become much more active, with Wards filtering in and out of the great building. Al’Corvo saw lamplighters ignite braziers that lay scattered along the promenade, bathing the whole sector in a warm glow. Looking at the far end of the promenade, which almost directly connected to the eastern gate (if you went through the relatively straight path that ran along Sector 14), Al’Corvo saw the silhouettes of what appeared to be Immunes. As they entered the roaring fire’s light, Al’Corvo could almost see the relief that painted their faces.

Al’Corvo fell in line with the rest of the Wards, following the gentle flow of bodies through the massive entrance hall before walking up to the now fully manned reception desk. Most of the paperwork from earlier was gone, instead replaced various ID cards arranged in neat piles that the clerks were scanning. Even the Wards weren’t immune to the grinding gears of bureaucracy. It seemed that they followed the same procedures Al’Corvo faced in the Electrician’s Union, meaning that every worker needed to clock in and out as to accurately record their work hours. This was to ensure that a government worker couldn’t slack off and reap the rewards of working for the city. Al’Corvo joined the somewhat lengthy line for the clerk.

After about five or so minutes, Al’Corvo stepped towards the reception desk, and came face to face with an exhausted-looking Ward. The work schedules must’ve been brutal for the chair-bound Wards to have constantly looked fatigued and stressed.

“Hello, my name is Al’Corvo Silksmith, I’m here to receive equipment.” Al’Corvo spoke carefully, not entirely sure if that was specifically what he was after.

The clerk quickly typed away at her computer while simultaneously scanning Ward ID cards, making sure everyone had put in their proper hours. The screen illuminated the clerk’s shell in a pallid blue light, directly contrasting with the black granite pillar behind her.

“Just quickly checked our files, and yes you are due for some new kit. I also have your training schedule up. Due to time constraints you will only get one week, but you will be trained by the best we have to offer along with your fellow supports. Training begins tomorrow at five am, got that?”

Al’Corvo nodded, before quickly adding, “um, where exactly do I go to get my gear?”

The clerk swiftly pointed to her left, “just go down the corridor, take the third right. Al’Thim should meet you in the armoury.” As soon as Al’Corvo moved towards the armoury, another fully armoured Ward rushed forward to take his place at the desk, eager to get home.

The corridor, much like the grand reception area and entrance hall, was lit up by several buzzing fluorescent lights. Unlike the shoddily placed lamps in the halls however, these lights were properly placed fixtures placed at even intervals, bathing the whole corridor in a uniform white glow. After opening up a bulky, steel pressure door (Al’Corvo took a good minute or so trying to turn the plug-like wheel), the marble walls and granite floor abruptly turned into fortified stone and concrete.

Unlike the entrance hall, the corridor was completely empty, only the constant buzzing of the lights and the clicking of Al’Corvo’s clawed feet on the concrete floor gave any indication of life. The first right turn was simply labelled ‘Offices’ while the second was left unlabelled. The third right-hand turn was labelled ‘Armoury’, and was protected by yet another bulky pressure door. Why the Wards used pressure doors to begin with Al’Corvo wasn’t sure, but if he had to guess it was probably because they were durable and Raqmu’s old navy certainly wasn’t using them.

The armoury, as it turned out, was merely a small hall that ended in a stairway that led downwards. The stairs themselves seemed to be part of a much older structure as they were made from roughly carved and smoothly eroded limestone steps. The walls of the cramped stairway were also made of limestone. Indeed the armoury (or at least the area it was built in) must’ve been around long before the Ward headquarters was built, and even longer before the concrete corridor that led to it. Since the limestone steps had become slippery with age, they were covered in corroded iron plates that were drilled into them with rusty screws and nails. The walls of the stairway, it seemed, were unable to support inbuilt wiring so instead a wire-filled pipe ran along the top of the stairway, only opening to feed wires into regularly-placed lights.

Another thing Al’Corvo noticed was the light fixtures themselves. As there was, presumably, only one pipe bringing electricity into the armoury, the lights had to become more efficient. To that end, the fluorescent lights had been changed into the more efficient high-pressure sodium lights, although instead of a bright glow they bathed the stairs in a mouldy yellow light that made Al’Corvo slightly uneasy.

The eventual bottom of the stairs opened up slightly into a smooth, limestone tunnel. If Al’Corvo had to once more guess, he would say that the whole armoury must have been built into an old, dried-up aquifer, which would not only explain the small amounts of moisture that pooled at his feet.

The final barrier to entry was a circular, heavy steel vault door. A telltale grid of wires told Al’Corvo that the whole thing could be electrified if required. The door was slightly ajar, indicating that it was unlocked. After a few failed attempts at pushing the door further open, Al’Corvo elected to just carefully slip through the gap. The slim tunnel that led to the armoury proper widened out into a large, oblate chamber. The stone was the same as the staircase, smoothly eroded limestone, although any moisture had been drained from the armoury, making the whole place hot and dry. Al’Corvo could feel specks of dust sitting on the outer layers of his eyes. With a simple shake of his head, Al’Corvo felt multiple dried and dust-ridden layers of aqueous humor flake off in clear sheets, and new layers of the fluid rose up to take their place.

The room’s walls were coated in various sets of armour. They ranged widely in shape in size, from simple mail shirts with coifs, to standard Ward armour, to strange and bulky suits that looked more suitable for tanks than men (not that Al’Corvo knew what a tank was). Under the soft and steady glow of the sodium lights, Al’Corvo was unable to tell what colour the suits were, although he just assumed they were the standard dark blue that was the Wards’ signature colour.

As he moved closer to the tank-like suits, Al’Corvo heard a clicking noise before an awkward cough broke the silence. Turning around, Al’Corvo saw the epitome of the blacksmith stereotype. The story snatcher was wearing a thick leather apron that was coated in scorch-marks and even flecks of slag, along with leather coverings for their feet. Finding good protection for their feet was something most story snatchers who worked precarious positions faced, as their feet were structured more like five long, clawed toes that were splayed out from the ankle.

From the smith’s belt were several tools including a small hammer, tongs and two bottles filled to the brim with herbal treatments for burns. The blacksmith was still wearing a welding helmet, which made their face look positively alien. The way the matte black helmet covered all of their features and how it covered the smith’s eyes in complete darkness made Al’Corvo slightly unnerved. As the smith moved to take their helmet off, Al’Corvo saw that their hands were coated in scale and slag almost as much as chitin.

“Sorry to disturb you there, it’s a pretty neato set right? They were made to withstand centurion blows, but uh…” the smith paused awkwardly, “the funding was cut. It was considered impossible to make something wearable. But hey, if you have the strength of multiple huntsman combined I can hook you up with a suit?” The blacksmith chuckled while moving over to Al’Corvo.

The smith held out their left hind-arm, which was the one that was least likely to cut Al’Corvo’s hand if he shook it. “Al’Thim, you’re Al’Corvo right?”

Al’Corvo shook his hand and nodded.

“Great! Now I have already been informed on your background, but I’d prefer to hear it from the horse’s mouth. We have a lot of gear here, and I want to make sure everyone receives only the best!”

“I was an electrician, although as you can see my hind-arm can no longer carry heavy loads, such as myself.” Al’Corvo spoke in an almost clinical tone.

Al’Thim began talking once more, but as he talked he began leading Al’Corvo through a side tunnel, whose walls were packed with

“I was expecting more to it than that, because what you just said was what the bureaucrats already told me” Al’Thim sounded slightly disappointed. “However, I must ask: how badly is your hind-arm affected? Because, and this is especially true for someone who can’t handle a man-catcher, being manuevarble is key. You should already know how deadly ghosts are, in fact I’m surprised you took even one out-”

Al’Corvo felt bad as he interrupted Al’Thim. “It can do almost anything it could before, I haven’t really had the time to test its limits. When I lose a limb I don’t immediately begin deadlifting with it you know?”

Al’Thim chuckled, “no I suppose you don’t. Anyways, here’s the support chamber!”

Al’Thim threw his arms wide towards the small chamber at the end of the twisting tunnel the two had walked through. Much like the tunnels and armoury entrance, the support chamber was a small cave that had once contained water and had been cleaned out by ancient Wards. A small weapon rack lay to Al’Corvo’s left, while three bone-white suits of half-plate were at the back of the chamber. Opened crates were also stacked against the walls, filled with wires, bandages and strange bottles whose labels had almost completely peeled off.

Al’Thim led Al’Corvo over to the suits of armour. “It’s not much, hell I’m not even sure what most of the crated stuff is for, but you won’t find better stuff anywhere else!”

When the pair got to the armour stands, Al’Corvo saw that the material the plates were made out of was nothing he had ever seen before. The metal was, almost literally, shining white and textured like whorled and gnarled wood. It was almost like thousands of worms had been coated in molten metal and had fused together.

“What is this stuff?” Al’Corvo asked.

“Oh, these sets were my dad’s magnum opus. Wouldn’t you know it, they’re made of centurion bone.” Al’Thim beamed at the chance to explain the specifics of armour.

“I’ve seen a centurion before, it looked like it was evaporating. How could there be any bone left? Do centurions even have bone?” Al’Corvo, in turn, was curious as to how centurion bone was harvested.

“All I know is that when a centurion is killed, and the Immunes who did the deed could afford to hang around for a bit, they can see the thing evaporate into steam. However, they leave behind one or two spheres of this stuff,” Al’Thim tapped the chestplate of one of the suits, “no one knows what it is so they just call it bone.”

“Curious. Is this what I’m going to be wearing?”

“Yup, one of these sets should fit you. My dad didn’t have much bone so he made three sets of support gear. One for each general build one could expect from a healer or engee. Now let me take a look…” Al’Thim looked back and forth between Al’Corvo and the armour, holding breastplates up to see if they could fit Al’Corvo.

After a few minutes of umming and ahhing, Al’Thim carefully took off the centre breastplate and handed it to Al’Corvo.

“Do you know how to put one of these on? You probably don’t but, y’know, assuming isn’t always the best thing to do.” Al’Thim half-muttered as if not expecting an answer.

“You’re right, I know absolutely nothing about armour.” Al’Corvo opted for a brutally honest response.

“It’s simple really. I’ll let you figure out the minutiae, but I’m going to put it on you to see if fits alright? Should only take a second. All you need to do is tighten these straps here…” Al’Thim launched into an explanation of donning armour while putting it on Al’Corvo.

In a few minutes, the centurion bone armour was snugly wrapped around Al’Corvo. Unlike classic Ward plate, the plate neglected to cover Al’Corvo’s arms, feet and head. What the armour did protect, Al’Corvo was assured, it protected extremely well. It was nice and lightweight as well, feeling not too dissimilar to Al’Corvo’s heavy insulation gear.

While Al’Corvo stretched and got used to the added weight, Al’Thim rummaged throughout the innumerable crates scattered throughout the room. With a shout of triumph, Al’Thim returned brandishing a strange weapon unlike anything Al’Corvo had seen. Not that that said much to the insular electrician.

The blade was a dull coppery colour, with a thick, slightly curved edge that came to a small hook that faced the wielder. The sword was extremely dusty, so much so that Al’Corvo almost didn’t notice the serrated outer edge of the sword.

“This, Al’Corvo my friend, is a mundic blade. They’re pretty uncommon because they’re shit at anything other than self-defense. But you probably can’t use anything else so it is what it is.”

Al’Thim passed the blade over to Al’Corvo, who grunted at the unexpected weight.

“I’m going to be completely honest, I don’t think I could swing a sword like this. A stun baton is much easier.” Al’Corvo dampened Al’Thim’s vibrant mood slightly, though only for a moment.

“Bah, don’t worry about it. You see the curve? That’s like the sword equivalent of training wheels. You can’t slice things as well but it naturally aligns itself, which is pretty good for someone like yourself. The other properties of the sword you’ll find out in training.” Al’Thim paused for a moment before adding, “I think that’s everything… yeah, that’s all. Nice meeting you Al’Corvo.” Al’Thim extended a hand which Al’Corvo shook.

“You too Al’Thim.” Whether or not Al’Corvo meant that was dubious at best.

Al’Thim began leading Al’Corvo back through the maze of tunnels that were the armoury.

“Say Al’Thim, why are you giving me such fine quality gear? I understand that Wards must be well-equipped, but centurion bone armour? Isn’t that a bit excessive for a rookie?”

Al’Thim stopped for a moment.

“Not really no. As you may know, the number of Wards has dropped off immensely in the past few years. There’s so much gear that no one will ever use, which is a crying shame considering the craftsmanship involved here. So long story short, I’m giving you the best because I can, and no-one else will use it.”

“Is it still not a waste, what if a higher-ranked supporter comes in with a need for the best equipment?” Al’Corvo asked.

“Weeeell, as I always say, it’s better for equipment to be broken in the hands of a rookie than rusting away.”

Al’Corvo nodded, still slightly confused with Al’Thim’s logic. For the rest of the trip to the entrance of the armoury, silence reigned but for the dull clicking of claws on stone. In the end the only sound to break the monotony of clicking and Al’Thim’s whistling was the great clunking noise the vault door at the entrance made as it closed.