The cage’s doors opened, and the monster slithered out.
Sharp gasps reverberated through the square: some excited, others – horrified.
Cillian squinted, trying to see the almost black creature a little better. I should’ve taken my spy goggles. From so high up, it resembled a dark blanket draped over the cobblestones. Thankfully, the stones were light grey, allowing the shape to stand out.
And what a disgusting shape it was. A darkmantle, he belatedly realized.
Cillian was familiar with it from a book he’d once read. There were no pictures, but the creature was described as a lump of tentacles with a single menacing eye adorning each and appearing as if sitting on top of an old, wide-brimmed hat with holes in it. In reality, the circular “brim” was the thick skin membranes stretching between the tentacles.
He saw the said membranes flex as the darkmantle cautiously moved forward a few strides and back again, then wriggled left – toward the massive crowd. All without turning once. And why would it? It lacked any sides, as far as Cillian could tell, or even a distinctive head. Its top was just a conjunction of tentacles, and the myriad of eyes went all around.
A few people shouted insults at the beast, and someone even cried out in alarm, despite the large distance and a row of Foerstner security forces standing in between. Cillian rolled his eyes. He couldn’t remember everything, but he did recall that darkmantles were cave-dwellers normally hanging from ceilings and pretending to be stalactites. They couldn’t move fast and were practically helpless when not awaiting in ambush. Menacing looking, sure, but Foerstner would never put a precious graduate in real danger. It was all a spectacle.
Speaking of the graduate: the class’ valedictorian – a dark-haired girl wearing a long skirt and a slim-fit jacket with shoulder pads, both black – stood calmly on the opposite side of the square with a cage of her own close by, this one significantly bigger and covered with a veil. At a signal, she threw the white garment aside and unlocked the heavy doors herself. The people began applauding even though nothing had happened yet, thus making Cillian miss the girl’s words. She’d said something to the cage’s occupant, who immediately began clambering out.
Another monster emerged on the scene on all fours then slowly straightened out until it stood on two legs, towering over its master.
A rougarou. Cillian grimaced. Boring choice.
Another word, and the armor-clad beast took a step. First right leg, then left, and repeat. Moving ever so slowly, hunched forward, its massive limbs dragging along the ground and stepping down surprisingly softly. Or maybe not that surprisingly, given the lower parts of its body – those not obstructed by the metal – were covered in dirt and murky moss, dense as fur. The companion’s movement seemed unhurried, deceptively lazy. Yet inevitable.
This ain’t going to be a fight. What’s the darkmantle supposed to do? It can lengthen its tentacles and wrap them around the rougarou all day long; nothing will come of it.
The closer the companion got to its helpless opponent, the louder the whopping throng cheered. Encouragements and furious calls to “Kill the beast!” flew from all over, including a balcony positioned above the pipe atop which Cillian was perched. As if there weren’t two beasts on the square. One was just tamed.
Halfway there already.
The darkmantle began scurrying from side to side before dashing to the right, but it was met with a trio of guards jabbing down with their rifle-mounted bayonets. The panicking creature hastened back to the cage and swiftly slithered its way to the roof. And not a moment too soon.
The rougarou rammed the cage. One second it was still shuffling upright, the next – once more dropped on all fours and leaped, displaying the previously unseen swiftness. The companion smashed into the criss-crossing bars like a boulder, which, Cillian supposed, wasn’t that far from the truth. Submerged in a bog, one could easily mistake its massive head and shoulders for a trio of rocky mounds.
The cage, only three-quarters the tamed beast’s size and designed to hold a very different type of monster, barrelled backward with a screech, tumbling twice and lifting a thin cloud of dust.
Everyone held their breaths, waiting to see if the darkmantle had been crushed.
The rippling tentacles were their answer. The monster was on the wall of the cage now, and it quickly wriggled its way inside by way of one of the freshly created gaps.
The girl came to stand next to her companion. Damn the noise! Cillian missed her command again as the crowd cursed the darkmantle and demanded its head. The head, which the monster didn’t even have.
The rougarou began lumbering forward again, trailing some greenish liquid in its wake. The cat-and-mouse game didn’t last long after that.
One beast approached the cage and tore it apart with its colossal arms while another desperately struggled, trying to squeeze the tentacles around the attacker with no effect.
The “fight” ended with a furious roar followed by a disgusting squelch. And a loud celebration, of course, which made Cillian remember why he’d stopped coming here in the first place. Because he didn’t want to see any prickwaving staged fights and the adorning public, that’s why. Bleedin’ mockery.
The crowd loved it though. People filled the entire long plaza, applauding and cheering as one. How could those at the back even know what was happening, he had no idea. More people cramped balconies and elevated walkways, the support legs of which made the square look like an arena – the buildings as its grandstands and the series of widely spaced stone columns at each corner as the ways in and out. And, of course, Foerstner headquarters offered the greatest view of all – Cillian could faintly see what were probably the company’s bigwigs looking down from the majestic watch tower in the middle of the structure, a hundred or so meters from the ground. Even the four turrets surrounding it – likely converted from the actual light pillars, unlike at the interview site – hosted some spectators.
Cillian watched the long shadow cast by the building across from his own slowly creep forward over the gathered crowd, like a tide. It, too, appeared slow but inevitable.
“Twatwaffles,” he grumbled, suddenly feeling disgusted with the whole thing.
Footsteps sounded above. A girl, no more than ten, stretched over the railing and looked down at him. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
Oh null.
Cillian craned his neck up and replied right away, hoping his smile was coming out reassuring, “Pipe repair, madam, nothing to concern yourself with.”
She blinked and, without taking her eyes away from him, slowly sucked in a lungful of air and called out, “MUUUM!” then ducked inside.
Niss-shit! Time to leave.
He peered down to check if the balcony below was still empty – it was, but the door leading to it gaped open.
Double niss-shit!
He swung himself down but didn’t drop, instead reached with his right leg for the arching lintel above the window, jammed the foot sideways into the corner, twisted around, and pressed into the wall back first, hands pushing off the pipe. He looked up and could see nothing but copper. Good.
“What are you talking about, sweetie?” came a woman’s voice, growing more distinct with every word. “What man?”
“He said he was repairing the pipe, but I think he was a spy!”
Niss take that girl. What is she even doing here? Isn’t this some sort of administrative building?
“He is right– hey! Where is he?!”
Cillian had to screw his face hard to avoid chuckling.
Below, the valedictorian girl marched toward her fellow graduates, proudly standing at the top of the wide stairs leading up to the Foerstner headquarters, her companion back in its cage.
“There’s no one here, Sile. Are you inventing things again?”
“He was right here, I swear!” The girl sounded appalled at the accusation. He smiled wider.
“I can barely work with this ruckus going on as it is. Please, don’t distract me unless it’s actually important, alright?”
Cillian stopped smiling, even as the girl protested her innocence, once he realized his predicament. He’d been planning to climb to the roof of the building, noticing too late that the top levels had been modified since the last time he’d been here with his mother. Made unclimbable. So it was either descend all the way down and try to find another route or settle for a consolation prize in the form of a pipe, two floors below his target. He could settle, no problem.
Only they always used the fire escape on the other side as their way back – its lowest platform wasn’t reachable from the ground because of the sliding design of the ladder – and without getting to the roof he wouldn’t be able to get to the fire escape either. And the balconies would be crowded until the end of the ceremony and then some.
Niss take me, he mentally berated himself. What a tool.
He listened intently to the girl and her mother but couldn’t hear anything. Was it because they weren’t there anymore or because of the noise, which was starting up again as the graduates’ assignments were being announced one by one, Cillian didn’t know. He risked twisting around the pipe, hanging on his arms alone, and stole a glance. No one. He pulled up and quickly crawled to the corner of the building only a dozen meters away. A cautious peek to the other side revealed more spectators occupying the balconies. He darted back.
“Twatwaffles,” he repeated, quieter this time. “They can’t even see anything from there.”
The boy eyed the curving walkway connecting his building to the headquarters; it was only a level or two below, but it was also teeming with beas– ahem, people, among which there would be guards too, in all likelihood. Behind the structure and still some ways off, he glimpsed vivid green – a rare color to encounter in the city. Rare everywhere but at the very core of Lua, that was, where the elites lived and had their lavish gardens and greenhouses.
Cillian shook his head to clear it. There was nothing to it; he had to wait.
As the finely dressed young chevaliers congratulated each other, their masks shining in the light of the skywalkers, another young man and a would-be chevalier far above their heads let out a sigh, settled down, and prepared for a long stretch of boredom.
----------------------------------------
On the way back home Cillian was in a strange mood. All in all, things had gone well today. He hadn’t received a straight answer as to his chances to be accepted to the academy, but Mr. Byrne’s questions and comments toward the end of the interview had almost sounded like words meant for someone who would, in fact, be admitted. Like the prodding about the contents of the contract he’d have to sign, making sure he understood the implications. Or the man’s surprising willingness to describe the curriculum and facilities in more depth than in the pamphlet. The previous interviewers had all refused to share meaningful details.
Cillian felt optimistic but would have to wait for a letter with the official answer until the 13th of the blue. One whole week.
He had backup options, of course, but nothing he really fancied. He didn’t have a passion for engineering, like his father, or anything else for that matter. Apart from climbing, which wasn’t a paying profession, unfortunately. He didn’t feel like doing any one of the rake-load of jobs he’d gotten glimpses of from above over the years. Nothing appealed to him.
Huh. Perhaps, there was some merit to the stupid psychological tests, after all. Dissatisfaction with life? You don’t say.
I’m addressing it, aren’t I? One week.
A cyclist sped past.
But maybe I should add a little more joy right this moment?
Cillian looked around with intent – a very specific intent. Why not?
The roads were much busier now, filled exclusively with motorwagens. Big and small, open cabins and closed, with elegant arches above their wheels, most sporting black roofs and red doors, of Foerstner make and others. His father had likely had a hand in manufacturing some of them.
That’s not it. What am I looking for?
At an intersection ahead stood a lone patrolman, appearing quite a busy bee, and a tram, his tram, was rumbling by. Perfect.
Cillian put his fedora on and pulled it as low as it would go, took off the skeletal hand – too distinct – and began jogging toward the uniformed man, himself being mindful of the traffic. The patrolman was constantly turning this way and that, so he noticed the boy coming but could only stare first in annoyance then in incredulity as Cillian knocked his blue flat cap clear off his head on the run. The boy muttered, “Terribly sorry,” then proceeded to accelerate until he caught up with the departing tram. He jumped on the steel bumper, reached for the lip above the rear window, pulled up, and sat himself on the edge of the roof.
“Don’t you have traffic to manage, sir?” he shouted, pointing at the motorwagens rushing past the stunned man on all sides.
The copper cursed, picked up his cap, and, with one final baleful glare, spun around. A loud whistle conveyed his irritation. Some unfortunate fella was about to get his day spoiled by an overly pedantic traffic controller.
Cillian cracked up and grinned, feeling stupidly proud of the antic, like he was back to being 13. It’d been a while since he last engaged in any mischief, and he didn’t even know why he was suddenly feeling so impish. Had to be the delayed realization that he was finally done with the interviews; they’d been quite stressful.
A driver following the tram was staring at him. Cillian shrugged and waved, then looked to the side, his eyes inadvertently landing on a group of excitable youths.
Half a dozen boys and girls in school uniforms were sauntering down the sidewalk and lively discussing something – likely the ceremony. They laughed and playfully shoved each other; the fella at the front was even walking backwards while gesticulating wildly. So carefree. How old were they? No more than 15, surely. Cillian kept watching.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
When was the last time I experienced something resembling this? This… camaraderie? Or even just a simple friendly banter?
Yonks ago was the obvious answer.
His joy dimmed somewhat, and he turned away.
Aye, yonks ago… And there was no one to blame for it but himself.
Aidan, his best friend, might be dead, but it had been Cillian’s fault for pushing every other friend away. All that fighting and anger. And bitterness. By the time he’d gotten a grip on himself – with a lot of help – it was already too late. Everyone had hated him, and rightfully so. Then, over the following years, he’d grown accustomed to loneliness. There were even times when he believed he preferred it that way.
What were Mr. Byrne’s parting words again?
That everyone in the academy needed a circle of support. Everyone had to learn to work with others and, at times, rely on others.
“Can you do that, Cillian Shea?”
Well, he still remembered himself at 13. He’d made friends easily then; he could do so again now. Engage with others more, make some jokes, help with problems – how hard could it be? He’d make friends, and they would become chevaliers together, progress through the ranks together. He would rediscover the joy of human interaction. That was the plan.
Speaking of the ranks…
He might not have been able to see the graduates’ masks in detail, but Cillian knew all of them had received their first etchings today – a single leaf of a shamrock, heart-shaped, on a short curving stalk, denoting Rank 1, the Honored. Every chevalier was supposed to have a mark of their standing decorating the mask in a clearly visible spot. Every chevalier…
His savior flashed through Cillian’s mind as the tram kept clamoring along.
The man’s mask hadn’t had any etchings, that was for certain – he dreamt of the stupid yoke often enough; could recall every crease. Plenty of meaningless golden swirls but no leaflets anywhere, unless something was hiding inside a cavity of one of the “filters”. But even if there hadn’t been a shamrock on display, fully leafed or not, Cillian felt confident the chevalier was of Rank 3 – the August. Given his companion, the man could be nothing else.
Aye, compared to that monstrosity, a darkmantle was positively cute. And a rougarou? Cillian understood why beasts capable of both withstanding a lot of physical punishment and negating a wide range of aetheric effects were popular companion choices, but how many more rougarous or orgeshi could Foerstner possibly want? Personally, he hoped for a more exciting partner since it would accompany him for the rest of his life.
Besides, a rougarou didn’t emanate enough menace. One could grow to be truly enormous and was pure deadly, no doubt, but it simply lacked that spine-chilling aura, which the man’s companion had in spades.
Even though Cillian didn’t dream of that part too often – not in the last couple of years – he could still close his eyes and vividly envision himself being carried away by the blue-eyed chevalier, with soldiers spewing fire from their flamethrowers on all sides. He’d been half dead at that point but still coherent enough to make out that creature. The creature he’d mistaken for an entire horde at first because it sported dozens and dozens of separate bodies, each half his height and with their own heads, arms, and legs. All – the color of a drowned man’s skin.
He could also easily recall those mocking yellow eyes and mouths, lined with sharp teeth and stretching from one pointy ear to the other, which had been laughing at him, jeering. He remembered the long tongues flickering out in amusement.
The bodies grew from something in the center, obstructed from view. Some legs were scurrying along the ground while others merrily dangled up in the air. And every so often, a few bodies would tear off the main mass. Literally. They would lean forward and stretch the skin until it ripped. Then they’d go wreak havoc on the monsters – other monsters – somewhere out of sight, before returning and merging back into place.
Try as he might, Cillian hadn’t been able to find any mention of the species in any book. So he dubbed it a “drowned orchestra”. And even if there was not an iota of gallantry in that entire abomination, he would still much prefer having something like that; expectations behind the word “chevalier” be damned.
Something practical but intimidating… Aye, that would work. He looked up.
Wobbling on top of the tram and watching a majestic airship momentarily obscure the light from the skywalkers, which were now drifting directly overhead, he concluded that obtaining a formidable companion and a couple of friends would make for a good goal for the academy. If he got accepted.
An honored chevalier. And hopefully more.
Was it really possible?
There was nothing left to do but wait.
----------------------------------------
“What are you waiting for?” father asked, looking at him expectantly across the table.
Cillian eyed the letter in his hands nervously – Foerstner’s shamrock was stamped into the burgundy wax seal, begging him to be undone.
This is it.
It had required all of his self-control to restrain himself from ripping the envelope open right next to their postbox downstairs. He’d delayed so that they could read it together. His oul fella had even taken a day off for the occasion.
Without any more hesitation, the boy took a deep breath, carefully slid the knife under the seal, retrieved the lone parchment, and began reading it, hurriedly skipping past the unimportant jabber and seeing…
“Cillian Faolán Shea…”
“Application number…”
Blah blah blah.
“Foerstner Chevalier…”
“We are delighted to announce…”
He paused, blinked owlishly, and reread the line.
“We are delighted to announce the positive decision regarding your…”
Cillian’s mind ground to a halt. There was a sound of a chair scraping the floor.
I’m in?
He sat and stared dumbly at the line.
“…positive decision…”
And the one below: “You are accepted into the program…”
I’m in!
“Well?” Father’s voice was a wee strained.
I will be a chevalier! I will go outside! I will finally– wait.
Father…
He swallowed, eyes still down, unsure how to feel all of a sudden. That was good– no, more than good, that was immense! With a few short words, all his hopes for the future had become real; the door leading to a very different life had been unbarred and thrown wide open for him to pass through. Aye, that was grand, and he should be feeling happy, should be jumping and whooping for joy right about now.
So why wasn’t he?
Father was still waiting.
Father. How should I break the news to him?
Cillian wasn’t an idiot. Despite his oul fella’s unyielding support from the very first time he’d announced his intention to join the Foerstner Chevalier Preparatory Academy, as it was officially called, he knew the man hated the idea. Probably even secretly hoped that Cillian wouldn’t be accepted. He didn’t begrudge his father this. Moreover, perhaps deep inside he’d even been harboring similar hopes himself.
Father would have to battle mixed emotions, same as me.
“I’m in,” he said and finally looked up.
Brendan Shea sat motionless for a long moment, processing, then stood, swiftly circled the table, and embraced Cillian, who immediately reciprocated.
“I’m proud of you, son,” came out quiet but firm.
Cillian hugged his father tighter.
“Thank you, dad.” His own voice wasn’t nearly as steady; there was a lump in his throat.
Tears threatened to escape, so the boy inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and repeated, “Thank you.”
The pair held one another.
Once, they’d been so unalike, father and son. And, after the tragedy, they’d even briefly grown distant as one was dealing with the grief by constantly lashing out, while another – by throwing himself into work. Father always loved him and provided for him, but the man had never been vocal and, as Cillian later realized, simply hadn’t known how to help his broken son. And, above all, he’d been thoroughly broken himself.
We aren’t anymore. We are good.
It was one very bad beating the boy had received that, ironically, helped them to turn things around and go on the mend. As Cillian had been lying in a hospital bed for the second time in his life, father was inconsolable, having a nervous breakdown – crying and blaming himself, saying he was a worthless parent and that he should have been the one to die that day, not mother. Those words and the sight of his normally stoic dad being so freaked out cut through Cillian’s anger and self-loathing like a knife. The two ended up sitting there, weeping together, just like that awful day a year and a half prior, and promising each other to do better.
And they had been doing better ever since. Cillian couldn’t say they were regularly having lively and heartfelt conversations, but they’d become a real family again. Reduced and damaged but real. So he hadn’t been surprised when father offered his complete support back then, just as he wasn’t surprised now that the man couldn’t find in himself too many words of congratulations. Cillian getting admitted meant a long time apart.
Two years. And then who knows how often I’d be able to visit.
One rainbow cycle on the actual academy grounds and another on a faraway assignment under supervision to complete the education – that was the deal. Then you become an honored chevalier and get sent on tasks all over the plane.
But I’m in! He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact.
Still not breaking off the embrace, father whispered, “She would have been proud too, Lian. So very proud.”
With one last mutual squeeze, they separated.
“I know.” Cillian gave a raspy chuckle, smiling fondly. “Mum would’ve loved it. It’s a wonder she’d never run off to join herself.”
Father sat down next to him. “Oh, she was all over the place when younger, could never decide what she wanted to do in life. Tried everything and liked nothing, that girl. Or, more accurately, didn’t like anything for too long.”
“Tried everything, huh?”
“Aye, sometimes it felt that way. We weren’t together back then, just had a couple of mutual friends, but every time we met she had a new story to share about one thing or another she’d gotten to experience. I was hopelessly in love with her, obviously, because of her stories and for many other reasons. But your mother didn’t care one whit about me.”
“That so? Seems to me she liked you well enough, or where did I come from?” Cillian joked.
Father gave a rare smile. “That happened much later. When I finally managed to screw up enough courage and go for it. One of my greatest achievements in life – becoming the first thing Roisin Kelly actually committed to.”
Cillian scratched at his neck absentmindedly. “Aye. And a good thing she did.” He looked out the window. “Just have to commit, I suppose.”
Father stood and walked back to his previous seat. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”
“No,” he denied right away. “Still processing, that’s all. Need to sleep on it.”
“You do that. When do we have to come and sign the contract?”
“We? You’re going too?”
“If you want to.”
Cillian read the letter again. “Have until the day after tomorrow to agree, or the spot goes to someone else. Can you take another day off?”
“I believe so; have quite a few accumulated.”
“Then why don’t we go celebrate after? It’s been ages since we went anywhere.”
“Good idea. What do you have in mind?”
----------------------------------------
Cillian stood in the dimness, a chill breeze massaging his back and a bawdy song about a woman’s large chest slowly fading from his mind. He gazed up at the blast furnace.
“Everyone needs an ample bosom for a pillow, and hers is up to 90. Everyone needs an ample bosom for a pillow…”
The boy smiled.
He and his father had signed the contract earlier today and then went to a restaurant and a music hall. Neither of them had expected the said hall to turn out to be a rowdy place, full of naughty songs and reminiscent more of a pub rather than a theater. The patrons laughed uproariously, spilling cheap drinks everywhere, loudly applauding some performers while booing others off the stage. Musical plays kept alternating with comedy sketches and even a few acrobatic acts. Not at all what Cillian had in mind when he’d suggested they try one.
The surprise was welcome though since, despite genuinely intending to celebrate, both of them had been in a somber, contemplative mood, often lapsing into long silences, which, while not unusual for either of them, had bothered Cillian. But no one could stay gloomy for long in that establishment – the many humorous and outright vulgar songs coupled with liberal consumption of beer and cocktails saw to that. He would forever cherish the sight of his father chortling and actually spilling his drink when hearing lyrics about Lua’s governor being “buggered by the Big Four every morning”. Cillian couldn’t believe the singer’s guts, or maybe the man was just mad, since neither the governor nor the corporations would be amused.
Regardless, it had served to pull them both from their murky thoughts and fears, and the two celebrated properly in the end.
Which had brought Cillian to this. Father had gone back home while he had elected to take a stroll. A stroll around the neighborhood turned into a tram ride and into a subsequent journey down memory lane. He hadn’t even been sure the place still existed, but here the furnace stood – it appeared the same as ever to Cillian; even the “arm” was still hanging limply. He hadn’t seen the thing or even visited the octant as a whole ever since that day and wasn’t sure why he’d come today. To wallow in his misery again?
At first, he’d relived the events obsessively every single day, fueling his anger and self-loathing. Later, he’d endeavored to do the opposite – put the tragedy out of his mind completely. To his surprise, over time, he’d mostly succeeded. The trick, Cillian had learned, was to always keep busy. He’d studied and read and climbed and researched beasts and chevaliers as much as he could, given the confines of the city. He’d even tried his hand at drawing and playing instruments, only to discover he had an aptitude for neither.
Well, here’s to hope he would be better suited for killing beasts and other responsibilities of a chevalier. Cillian knew monster extermination was just one of their numerous duties.
No, the young man decided, he wasn’t here to be depressed. He’d come to say goodbye.
Cillian began climbing.
I’m going to be a chevalier, mum. It’s done now; the contract’s signed.
Of course, he had to get through the academy before he would truly become one. There were plenty of rumors of students dying during the program, particularly in the second year. He didn’t give the talk much credit though as everyone knew that the elites always took up most of the available slots, and he couldn’t imagine them doing so if there was a high chance of death. Many of those entitled brats likely only wanted to graduate and gain the prestige and privileges associated with the position and then use their family connections to avoid being sent on any truly dangerous missions. Or any missions at all.
Cillian scaled the “slingshot” too – to the very top – finally finishing what he’d started years ago.
And who could say for certain how many people got in and how many of them later got out, anyway? The lists of students weren’t publicly available even if, he mused while pulling up the final ladder, a determined individual only had to observe the interview sites and the train station on the departure day to correctly infer most identities. Not that the majority of the chevaliers attempted to hide their true names in the first place. Some were even celebrities, and the masks were largely for show – a symbol of status, nothing more. Select few took the secrecy seriously, but, when they did, it was nigh impossible for anyone on the outside to find out any details about them. Hence Cillian’s inability to dig up a scrap of information on his mystery savior.
He perched upright on the narrow platform, which quietly complained at his intrusion, taking care to carefully work out how he would jump back to the “slingshot” if the rusted thing started to give in under his weight.
A pointless exercise as the furnace would likely stand unchanged even upon his own graduation ceremony two years later. And long after that, too. He remembered someone telling him that when its operation had first been halted, there were riots. Not because of the furnace alone – there were other factories in the octant being put out of use at roughly the same time. For years, the locals harbored hope the regular work would resume any day, guarding the place from vandals and scavengers alike. It proved to be a futile activity; Heavenly Steel had no plans to reopen it. Gradually, the hope was ground to dust, and only the rusted skeletons remained. A symbol of the better times for the octant.
Cillian found it sad but also a little unfair. Why should some null-damned smelting facility have a symbol, a reminder of its prior glory, while his mother hadn’t received anything? The elites buried their dead in a graveyard accessible only to them – all the while scoffing at aether-worshipping savages living outside and practicing the same rites – but everyone else’s bodies got cremated, and the ashes scattered. No exceptions.
He shook his head forcefully. I’m not here to be all dejected and glum, remember?
The boy looked around – not much had seemed to change in five years. Oh sure, there had to have been plenty of damage – a lot of burned down buildings and destroyed lives – but the “scar” was still there, and the forest of concrete, brick, and metal blocks had grown back, leaving no trace of the carnage. Different yet the same.
Just like Cillian himself. He’d been a very different boy back then, standing at the top of the tower and peering down at the surroundings. Some parts of him had disappeared, never to be seen again, with new ones emerging to take their place. Although, he wasn’t completely unlike his younger self, either. He still possessed the same curiosity and daring, if tampered, that had gotten him in so much trouble as a kid. He still loved climbing and heights. In his heart, he still wanted to go on an adventure.
He still wanted freedom.
Sounds of laughter and someone’s poor but enthusiastic singing reached him, filling the place with life and making the boy smile.
Well, he would get his chance soon enough.
On the 49th of the blue, just three days before the start of the next surge, indigo, the train for the academy would depart, taking Cillian away from Lua for the very first time. Taking him away to start his adventure.
Bye, mother.
Bye, mucker.
Cillian took one last deep breath, eyed the Everstorm, which was spinning lazily in the sky, slowly let the cold air out, turned around, and began the descent.
There might not be a symbol, but I will always remember you both.