Unsleeping Patron - Return to Stone and Steam

Clicking in a slow, agonizing revolution, the brass gear inside the streetlamp caught, turning a slow, agonizing revolution before the filament caught. A soft, clear white light spilled over the cobblestones, driving the late afternoon shadows back against the brick walls of the alchemist’s row.Hester pulled her heavy wool cloak tighter across her shoulders. The air was getting colder earlier this month. She carried a leather satchel slung low on her hip, the glass vials clinking softly with every step she took down the paved avenue.New Sanctum didn’t smell like a refugee camp anymore. The stench of wet mud and sickness was gone, replaced by the sharp, industrial tang of coal smoke, hot brass, and the faint, underlying scent of fresh baked barley bread coming from the communal ovens three streets over.She stopped at the corner of Pioneer Square.The plaza was paved with flat basalt blocks, swept clean by the morning crews. In the center, where the dirt had once been tracked into deep, muddy trenches by panicked refugees, stood the Monument. It was fifty feet of dark grey shale and hammered copper, depicting a tall, canvas-clad figure holding a lantern out over the city.There were no pink petals floating in the air. The parasitic flowers of the Earth-gods were gone. Instead, dozens of citizens men in iron-buckled canvas jackets and women in thick wool skirts walked past the monument, occasionally pressing a hand against the copper plaque at its base, their faces calm, anchored, and free of the glassy-eyed terror of the early years.”Minister Brierly,” a voice called out over the clatter of a passing mule cart.Hester turned, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.Walking toward her was a man in his late thirties, wearing a heavy leather coat reinforced with iron mesh over the ribs. He didn’t carry a slate spade. A long, straight sword with a bronze hilt was strapped to his thigh. His right eye was completely milk-white, scarred by Miasma burn, but his left eye held a sharp, disciplined focus.Leon Chen.”Captain Chen,” Hester said, offering a short nod. “Did the western patrol return?””Ten minutes ago,” Chen replied, stopping beside her. He unhooked a brass-bound canister from his belt and handed it over. “The fog boundary is holding at fifty kilometers. No sign of the Obsidian Synod’s siege lines near the river. We harvested three pounds of raw sulfur and found another vein of Quicksilver Grass near the lower crags.”Hester took the canister, feeling its cold weight. Leon Chen hadn’t been an officer back on Earth; he had been a mechanic. Five years ago, Silas had dropped a handful of raw spiritual herbs onto a table and told him to survive. Now, Chen was a Sequence 9 Mind-Light adept, leading the Miasma Exploration Force beyond the golden aegis.”Send the sulfur to Gold’s foundry,” Hester said, tucking the canister into her satchel. “The Potion Department needs the Quicksilver by nightfall.”Chen nodded, but his good eye drifted past her shoulder toward the northern gate. The heavy iron-wood doors were rolling open on their brass tracks, pulled back by two teams of draft oxen.A lone figure was walking through the gate.Hester turned, her breath catching in the back of her throat.It wasn’t a trader from the Fel-Coven.Silas walked into New Sanctum, his boots hitting the clean cobblestones with a slow, deliberate rhythm. He looked terrible. The left sleeve of his canvas tunic was torn completely off, revealing an arm mottled with deep, purplish corpse-spots. He moved with a slight, rigid stiffness, as if his joints were locked in ice, and the smell of necrotic decay followed him through the gate, cutting through the scent of barley bread.But his eyes were open. The amber-and-crimson light beneath his irises burned with a cold, terrifying intensity that made the brass gears in the nearest streetlamp shudder and halt.Hester dropped her satchel onto the cobblestones. The glass vials shattered, but she didn’t stop to look. She ran across the plaza, her wool cloak flapping against her knees.”Silas!”He stopped near the base of the copper monument, turning his head slowly toward her. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look relieved.”The gate is iron now,” Silas rasped. His voice sounded like it was coming through a thick wall of damp dirt.”Gold found a vein in the eastern crags,” Hester breathed, stopping two paces away, her eyes locked on his rotting arm. “Silas, your arm… the rot is back. I have an extraction poultice, I can “”It doesn’t matter,” Silas cut her off softly.He didn’t look at his arm. He looked past her, sweeping his gaze over the brick houses, the glowing gaslamps, and the 210,000 citizens walking the clean, paved streets under the golden aegis. He looked at Leon Chen, standing tall in his leather armor, a real weapon at his side.”You built it,” Silas said, the amber light in his eyes steadying for a fraction of a second.Hester followed his gaze, looking at the city she had spent four years pouring her blood into. “We anchored them. Just like Duan said. The Miasma isn’t eating their minds anymore.”Silas closed his eyes, taking a slow, shallow breath that rattled in his chest. “Good. Because the sky is about to fall.”