A howling gale weaved through tight city streets to unfurl a limp banner. The bottom half of the banner was navy blue, while the top was pure white, dominated by a bloody circle in the center. The real thing wasn’t as glorious, not in this gloom-cursed city.
Rosol glowed a burnished orange against the cloudy backdrop and was perched low on the horizon, far too low to feel normal. Back home, it was higher, hotter, and brighter. But the star was a ghost of its western self in this city's wet, cold, near-perpetual cloud cover.
Occasionally, desperate rays of light spilled through a crack or two in the gray to refract off the sprinkling mists, casting a cascade of colorful, short-lived rainbows above the red-tile rooftops. But, mostly, it was just shades of gray. Olenar frowned.
He shifted on the wooden bench beneath an uncovered tram station. His loose, wet pants stuck uncomfortably to his skin, so he pinched, pulled, and scratched before shifting some more. The carter had promised it would keep dry. “They’re treated with Zeerashee wax and woven with the finest majaht fibers!” — the lying Lesh bastard. Everyone wanted to make their blacks in Novo Cicaado, honesty be damned.
Olenar reached into his overcoat for that flyer, reading over it for the fifth time.
“Magic! Of the Andhera! Come See Moment’s Power!
Portable power creates heat and steam. Moment brings heat.
Heat brings power. Power brings opportunity and Strength!
See the way of the future and get the chance of a
Lifetime! Invest now! Address below:”
It was a good pitch. Olenar wouldn’t be waiting to head out to the edge of relevance if it weren't. But damn, was he tired of everything, of this city most of all. Nearing a year in Cabor’s capital, he had lost a full black with nothing to show in return. He should return home, beg for forgiveness, anything but stay here.
“At least there isn’t the usual smell,” Olenar whispered before pulling his overcoat tighter against a sudden chilling gust.
A piercing screech perked him up on the bench, and he twisted to look towards the sound from Outward. A tram screamed to a halt on its rails, shuttering its broad roof sails while the conductor yanked the rear brake. Olenar pushed off the rickety bench to stand, jolting the frame with a violent, creaking rattle.
“Watch it, man!” said a deep voice.
Startled, Olenar looked over to an absurdly small Leshar man, even by their standards, sitting at the far end of the wide bench. Like a child's might, his legs dangled off the edge of the seating to hover well above the cobbled street—he even kicked them side-to-side. The man’s thick, bushy goatee, dark black overalls under a thick, tattered raincoat, and flat-styled city cap only added to the absurdity.
“Apologies,” Olenar said, bowing his head. “I honestly hadn’t seen you there.”
The man laughed with genuine humor.
“You’ll have to find better material, something more original. Originality will get you far in this city.”
“Right.” Olenar glanced at the tram and back to the miniature man, who stared at Olenar expectantly with a too-cheerful smile. The Lesh gently gestured his head towards a sacked lump set beside him on the cobbled street expectantly.
“Would you like help with your bag?” Olenar guessed, looking at the large sack. It was around the same size as the Leshar. How had he managed to get it here?
“Yes, I would! Your consideration is appreciated, sir. Politeness is quite original, especially among your kind. No offense.”
“You can’t simply end an offensive statement with ‘no offense’ and invalidate the offensive proceeding statement.”
“What a mouthful! You should be a politician. Now, if you wouldn’t mind,” the Leshar slipped off the bench and checked the drawstring, pulling it tight. “This shouldn’t take too long.”
A bell sounded as morning commuters emptied the tram like an uncorked waterskin to flood the streets, breaking off into all directions.
“Outbound, three stops until Shandi! All aboard!”
They would need to round up a pull back Outward against the wind, which would take a minute. Olenar had the time.
“Fine,” he sighed.
Olenar wasn’t small by any measure. At six feet six inches and over two hundred thirty pounds of sinewed muscle, he was stronger than most other Mestarians. But whatever was in that sack was awkward and heavy, the worst possible combination. It rattled metallically with each step.
“Be careful! Those are custom parts in there,” the Leshar said from beside him.
“Do not tell me how to carry,” Olenar grunted out.
The tram conductor directed Olenar to load it in the under storage, so he hobbled to it. The Lesh swung up the latched door compartment, and Olenar swung the bag into the space with a thunk, as gently as he could manage. The entire tram shook violently from side to side before stabilizing, accompanied by a colorful stream of curses from the conductor at the aft. Latched and closed, Olenar leaned against the tram and breathed heavily.
A lumbering tram-sized halora snorted in protest as the grooms tried vainly maneuvering the beast to the tram’s front. Halora had faces and mouths about as small as humans but with bug-like features. Those beady, pure black eyes locked onto Olenar as they passed.
He smiled before slipping a half-ripe peach from his side pouch and slicing off a wedge with his belt knife. He’d been saving this for later, but it could be helped. A halora wouldn’t go anywhere after smelling their favorite treat.
“There, girl. You wanted this, right?”
She took the peach gently with her articulating mouth appendages and trilled happily. The grooms nodded their thanks before moving the beast in place, opposite from the closed roof sails.
The halora’s iridescent, overlapping plate-like armor created a rainbow of colors from the lamp light, much like the light of Rosol against the mists. Their family halora, Chanti, had lost her iridescence and died three years past.
Olenar boarded and slumped onto a cushioned seat, sweat beading from his forehead. The Lesh stepped on shortly after before walking over and offering a hand.
“My name’s Jayf. Thanks for your help. I would have been late without you twice over now.”
Late? He would have never arrived. Olenar took Jayf’s hand and shook it.
“Olenar Sultiva.”
Sitting down as he was, they were nearly eye to eye.
“So, Jayf, how in the hells did you get whatever that was anywhere? There isn’t a reality you could lift that for longer than half a second. No offense, of course.”
Jayf chuckled.
“You’re right. That doesn’t work when you’re on the receiving end.”
Jayf paced side to side while fiddling with his facial hair.
“My patron—a Mestarian crier—refused to hire a carrier for our presentation today. Our contract will be void if I don’t arrive before nine.”
“Why wouldn’t they simply quit? Cut their losses and move on? It seems convoluted.”
“It's in the contract. If they pull out before a set date, I get back my marketing down payment. It’s guild-enforced.”
“Huh,” Olenar said while slicing off wedges of peaches, offering Jayf a couple. He looked at the fruit with wonder, gingerly taking it as if it were a fifty-black. He stuffed his face with one slice, groaning before smiling broadly.
“So, the last name. Sultiva, yes?” Jayf said with a mouthful of peaches. He stepped a foot onto the seat beside Olenar and leaned close. “You’re worth a few blacks, to be sure. May I?”
Jayf gestured with the bitten peach slice at the empty seat beside Olenar. He looked left and right at empty rows of seats before leaning back against the frosted glass and closing his eyes.
“This is Cabor. You’re free to do as you wish.”
He felt Jayf jump into the seat before an awkward silence fell between them. Soon after, the tram jerked to life, and they headed Outward. With one stop coming and going with no additional passengers, Jayf spoke up past the whistling winds squeezing into the tram cabin through gaps in the frosted windows.
“Are we? Free to do as we wish, that is.”
Olenar roused, opening his eyes and turning to Jayf. The Lesh eyed the floor like it had stabbed his parents. Past the mustache and the size, Olenar considered Jayf was probably around Olenar’s own age of twenty-three. They were perhaps both here in the capital for similar reasons—looking for a place in this world.
“It’s not perfect, but it’s no Zeera. You’re not locked in cages or given jobs you can never leave. In Cabor, you are the agent of your success, with nobody to blame but yourself.”
The tram picked up speed as they headed downhill, a few bumps jostling them. Jayf hesitated while replying as if testing Olenar’s reactions to each word before growing confident.
“The Leshar need Mestarian investors—otherwise, there’s no chance of funding. Without funding, there is no success. Things don’t have to be the absolute worst to be wrong. It’s slavery without the shackles.”
Olenar let that steep. It made sense. He was only in the capital himself in search of the next big thing he could invest his family's hard-earned stones in. He hadn’t thought about how a Leshar would feel about the exchange.
“I see your point. But that’s just the world we live in, no?”
“It is,” Jayf said, huffing a laugh. “Where are you from anyway? Not the capital, definitely not. Sunward, I’m guessing? Towards the blasted lands?”
It was Olenar’s turn to laugh.
“My accent gives it away?”
“No.” Jayf leaned close conspiratorially, letting the tension build. “It’s your smell.”
Olenar pushed Jayf away as they laughed together.
The tram trudged to a gentle stop, and they both headed off the tram.
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“I’ll help with your things,” Olenar said, heading to the side compartment.
“You’ve helped enough. I can manage from here, I think.”
Olenar ignored the protests and pulled the thick sack over his back, grunting in effort.
“What in the Kol is in here?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” Jayf said excitedly, waving him to follow and practically skipping down the unpaved street—it was all mud and rain this far outside Central.
The houses and businesses on the radial outstreet frontage seemed almost straight, with no discernable curve to their travel. Still, many people bustled through the muck on morning business, pulling handcarts, holding baskets, and manning frontage food stands with sizzling foods wafted over the busy.
Olenar's feet sunk into the mud with each step, slipping from side to side as he tailed. Thankfully, it wasn’t long until they approached an outside raised dias at a main cross street where a large group of onlookers of Mestarian and Leshar gathered. The dias sported colorful banners, with the largest stretched across two posts. Olenar read it and shook his head.
“Magic! Of the Andhera! Come See Moment’s Power!”
A Mestarian crier looked surprised to see them, eyeing Jayf and Olenar. His surprise turned into a red, pulsating face, half ready to pop. The crier wore a mustard cloak and teal suit—a horrid parring. It was a common practice among the criers—any attention, good or bad, was a success. They didn’t have a good reputation among serious investors, and for good reason. Most were scammers at best.
Olenar pushed past the crowd, climbed the creaky wooden plank steps to the dais, and swung down the bag.
“I won’t pay a single white to this man,” the crier whisper-yelled at Jayf. “You useless, lazy, imbecilic cur, wasting more of my stones.”
“Uʻilan, it’s not—”
“I’ll make sure you don’t get another contract in the whole city if you try to fuck me. The Kol as my oath—”
Olenar cleared his throat, drawing Uʻilan’s attention.
“You’re misreading the situation. I’m a potential investor,” Olenar said smoothly with a short bow, hiding clenched fists behind him. He did not like this Uʻilan. It hurt to look at him with those horrible colors, and his face wasn’t better. He had a face like pinched dough.
Uʻilan eyed him up and down with a scowl.
“Whatever, let’s get on with this. And get down; you can’t be up here!”
Olenar walked back into the muck with the others to watch.
“Mestarian gentlefolk,” Uʻilan said loudly and clearly, projecting across the crowd. “Have you ever wished to peak into the folds of time, past the curtain of our mortality, into the future beyond?” The crier’s anger was gone completely, replaced by a practiced orator's voice. Olenar had to admit, it was impressive.
“Look no further. Whoever holds this power holds the future in their very hands!”
Jayf had worked free the drawstring, revealing a simple engine. Olenar groaned. It was worse than he had thought. These engines were a failed technology, requiring too much heat and fire to be viable in Cabor. It was another dead end.
A few from the crowd who knew as much slipped off into the street’s throng. Uʻilan continued, unphased.
“With a simple flower from the deep Andhera or a section of vine from the blasted lands,” Uʻilan summoned a white blossom from thin air, “a single Leshar can power this engine for days, heating the boiler, turning the turbine, and producing consistent power! All with the Magic of the East and West! All with Moment!”
Olenar felt his heartbeat quicken. This showing wasn’t about an engine, not really. It was a power source—something other than wind, water, or the halora—that could work whenever and wherever. The applications were limitless. And it was too good to be true. Jayf had said so himself: it wasn’t selling. There had to be a reason for that.
“Here will unveil what might well be the dawn of a new era,” Uʻilan finished with a grandiose, too-wide smile. Nothing happened. “Well, go on, boy!” He kicked Jayf closer to the engine, eliciting a laugh from the gathered Mestarians. Olenar caught cold anger in a few of the Lesh’s eyes, but they still craned their heads to see.
As Jayf slipped on a thick leather glove and placed his hand on a bulbous metal hub, a hesitant murmur rolled through the crowd. The drive shaft stuttered, then began to spin, gathering speed with an eerie smoothness that silenced the spectators. It was a blur within moments, humming with palpable energy and power. The crowd's awe was tangible; a mixture of fear and fascination echoed in their gasps and whispers.
It was real—unless they had some hidden compartment beneath the dais or another clever way to hide the energy source. But no, Olenar had brought the engine there himself. So it was real. He gapped as the shaft started spinning even faster before Jayf removed his hand, and the whirring stilled.
The crowd erupted into applause and shouts of interest.
“I’ll do ten blacks for a ten percent stake!”
“Twenty for thirty!”
Uʻilan looked uncomfortable. But why would he? It was an evident success. The crowd settled as the crier raised his hands calmingly.
“Unfortunately, there is a bit of a catch I must inform you, per guild standards.”
The crowd murmured amongst each other.
“I assure you this is just a minor inconvenience, one with many ways to remedy, I’m sure. But, to date, it seems that, with few exceptions, only the Leshar can channel this new power.”
Silence. Then, another raucous outburst of cheers—not from the Mestarian investors but from the onlooking Leshar who had gathered to watch. A shifting in the crowd quieted them as fast as it had started.
An enormous Mestarian brute, nearly half a head taller than Olenar, who was among the tallest there, stepped out of the crowd and up to the foot of the dais. His deep voice dripped with promised violence.
“Couldn’t this put Mestarian’s out of business?”
“Yes, but such is the cost of progress, good sir,” Uʻilan replied to the crowd with a sad tone. “But with progress comes more blacks than you can spend!”
The crowd was still silent until the deep rumble of the giant man broke it.
“It seems to me,” he said, addressing the crowd, “this gives power to the Lesh and strips it from us. We Mestarians, who have sacrificed our blood for the weak for generations, would be turned on in a second. Such is their nature.” He eyed the Leshar in the crowd one by one.
Shouts of agreement abounded the Mestarian whole. Uʻilan visibly started sweating.
“I understand your apprehension. But think of the potential revenue! The applications! If you don’t invest, someone else will, right?”
In one explosive leap, the slab of muscle turned and launched himself six feet up to the dais.
“You aren’t hearing me,” he said, towering a head over Uʻilan. “This isn’t about the money. It’s about us and them. So, who are you with?” He got into U’ilan’s face. “Us? Or them?”
“Oh, definitely us, yes, of course. Count me all in on us.”
Uʻilan swallowed audibly.
“Good! Now, let's destroy this fucking thing. This the inventor?” The embodiment of a bicep gestured a meaty finger at Jayf, whose face drained to nearly white. “He’ll have to go as well, I’m afraid.”
“Of course, go ahead,” Uʻilan said, the cowardly worm. “Do whatever you want with him.”
This situation was quickly becoming a future crime scene. Olenar looked around, but the other Mestarians only cheered, while the Leshar looked angry but cowed. Could they just let this happen?
The brute tore apart the engine, ripping a metal pipe free with a loud pop as it released pressurized vapor. Cursing as the steam scalded him, he chucked the torn pipe off into the street.
Then the brute eyed Jayf, who held his hands up wardingly.
“Come on, brother, don’t do this. I’ll drop it. No more engines, no more Moment, never again.”
“I’m not your brother. And we can’t trust the word of a cowardly Lesh who just wants to live, can we?” There was a promise of death in those empty eyes.
“Damnit all to the five hells and back,” Olenar said, sprinting up the steps, tackling the brute from the rear off the dais and into the muddy street. The traffic scattered like bugs and flowed around them, not missing a beat.
If only it had been cobbles—but it wasn’t. The slop cushioned their fall, and the brute only had his breath knocked free. Olenar panicked, scooped up a fistful of muck, and smeared the man’s eyes—dishonorable but effective. The muscle reached for Olenar’s throat, but he fought off those sausages and worked himself to his feet.
Most of the gathered had scattered into the street or outskirts to watch as those who remained cascaded into chaos, with Leshar and Mestarian fighting like the Dividing War manifesting from the history books. Knives flashed, fists bashed, and screams of pain and anger mixed with the smell of iron and rain. The Kol as truth, this was a mess.
One Mestarian was smashing a Lesh’s bloodied face into a stair edge until a Leshar woman slipped behind him and opened a deep valley into his throat with her boot knife, spilling red onto red. Seconds later, she took a prompt kick to the head from her flank that laid her out motionless. Whatever was happening, Olenar wanted to be far away when the Guard showed up.
“Jayf!” Olenar screamed, and the small man leaned over the dais from above with tears streaking his face. “Jump!”
Jayf did so immediately, and Olenar caught him. As he turned, the brute stood between them and their escape, clearing the mud from his eyes to reveal steely blues that radiated anger.
“A Lesh-lover, eh? I’ll end the both of you, then.”
“Go, run!” Olenar said, putting down Jayf and facing the man. Jayf did just that, sprinting around and away from them.
The brute huffed.
“The coward abandoned you the first chance he got. You’re willing to die for that? Pathetic.” He stalked closer. “You don’t deserve the Mestarian name, you mutt. We put down mutts in Cabor.”
Olenar was not a fighter. He was a merchant’s son. And a year of trudging through rain, looking over contracts, and haggling wouldn’t help him here either. That left him precious few options for remaining unscathed.
As the brute swung, Olenar backstepped out of range.
“Come on, fight like a Mestarian! FIGHT ME!” he screamed.
Each time the giant closed in, Olenar would jump back out of reach. If he could stay away long enough, the City Guard could intervene, then maybe—
The brute threw a wide feint, causing Olenar to overreact with a long backstep that had him stumbling. The brute sensed his moment, and those steel blues locked onto Olenar. Then, he dug in and launched forward, wrapping corded arms around Olenar’s body like a vise.
All that weight crushed and squeezed him like a ripe fruit, and it was his turn to gasp like a fish out of water. A second later, the brute mounted and wrapped his thick fingers across Olenar’s throat. Vision narrowed to a darkened alley.
A distant clunk sounded, and he gasped breaths. The brute fell beside him face-first in the mud. Olenar turned, coughing and holding his throat. And there was Jayf, wielding a muddy pipe like a club.
“Let’s go,” Jayf said with a hand.
Olenar took it mainly as a gesture. After Olenar worked to his feet, primarily by himself, they fled from the violence and squealing whistles of the City Guard, late as always.
----------------------------------------
“What a rush.”
Olenar walked back to Jayf, who had curled up into a ball on the sidewalk, back rested against a frontage smithy. Olenar handed Jayf one of the two cold brews while holding the other to his bruised neck.
“Are you okay?” Olenar asked, sliding down the wall to sit beside the small man.
“Not really, no. It’s not every day you almost die.”
“I suppose so,” Olenar said simply.
After removing the brew from his neck, he popped the cap on the edge of the paved curb and took in a deep draft. Sighing contentedly, he placed the brew to the side.
“How does it work? This ‘Moment’.”
Jayf stared into the street, offhandedly fingering his unopened bottle. Olenar took it, popped it open, and returned it so Jayf could take a swig. The foot traffic slowed as the morning wore into the evening, and the bustle depressed.
“After you figure it out, it’s a little like breathing. You can ‘move’ it, control it, focus it wherever you want, and it will listen.”
Jayf took a long draw of his brew before holding the bottle with his gloved right hand. Soon, steam started pouring out the top, and the stout began to boil. Olenar looked on in wonder.
“Outside the vessel, the Moment heats the air, water, and most other things it flows into. We all have it inside us. Some more, others less.”
“And it's true? A whole day of power from a single bit of plant?”
“More, actually,” Jayf chuckled and drank again, cursing as the scalding brew burnt his lips. He blew on it and sipped more gingerly. “More than enough to change this shite hole into something else, something new—maybe even something better, if we were lucky. But no, this is just how things are, eh?” Jayf tenderly drew in a swig of the bear as it cooled.
Olenar pondered it. It was ridiculous. But when the winds of fate blow in your front door, it's best not to fight it—open the back door and let it on through.
“Thirty-seventy, you to me,” Olenar said. “I’m all in on this. Every stone to the white.”
Jayf sprayed out piping hot beer that misted a few pedestrians who glared down at them as they passed.
“You can’t be serious. Didn’t you just see what happened?”
“I saw everything,” Olenar said. “So what do you think?”
Jayf laughed, full-bellied and rumbling, not just a little bit mad. Olenar felt that laugh building himself, taking his sanity for a ride. It was thoughtless, sure to get them killed, beaten, or broke. Or, possibly, all three. Jayf rubbed a tear from his eye and settled with several deep breaths.
“Fifty-fifty, take it or leave it.”
They laughed even more and sealed the new partnership with clinked cheers and a final drag of the bitter stout. For a moment, Rosol pierced through thick clouds, shining down and refracting a city of rainbows through their bottles.