As Leiger stepped out of the alleyway, the city greeted her with its usual bleakness. Thick clouds choked the sky, filtering the afternoon light into a dull, gray haze. The air was damp, carrying the scent of oil, rust, and the faint stench of unwashed bodies lingering from the deeper slums.

  The street was narrow, flanked by aging brick buildings with soot-streaked facades. Arcane lamps flickered feebly despite the hour, their light struggling against the murk. A tram rumbled in the distance, but here, the only sounds were muttered conversations, distant shouting, and the occasional echo of hurried footsteps against cobblestones.

  Her eyes landed on the two thugs she had left behind. They were still there—slumped against the iron fence of Sir Bardock’s house, wrists bound to the bars with Arcane cuffs. The stubby one had dozed off, head lolling forward, while the other weakly tugged at his restraints, giving up after a few useless attempts.

  Leiger scoffed. " Typical."

  The half-assed APF ( Arcane Police Force ) hadn’t even bothered to collect them yet. Probably took a statement, scribbled some notes, and left it at that. They’d show up hours later, if at all. Hell, if some gutter rats came by with a saw, these idiots might be gone before the law even noticed.

  Not her problem.

  She turned away, pulling her coat tighter against the cold, but something felt… off. A shift in the air. Like the city was watching.

  No. Not the city.

  Something else.

  A weight pressed against her chest—not physical, but present all the same. Like a thread stretching from her ribs to some unseen point in the distance. She swallowed, fingers drifting to the spot just over her heart. Beneath the fabric, the skin was warm.

  Her pulse quickened.

  It’s nothing. Just your nerves.

  Still, the sensation didn’t fade. It clung to her like the city’s ever-present fog, whispering that no matter where she went, no matter how far she ran.

  —she was no longer alone.

  As Leiger left Iron Street, she stepped into the heart of Greychapel, the city’s smog-choked center. Towering above the cracked stone roads, a bronze statue of Lewis Dynamo, one of the founding fathers of Arcane energy conversion, loomed over the plaza. The statue depicted him gripping the first prototype of the Arcane Dynamo, an intricate, gear-laden device pulsating with faint traces of long-dormant energy.

  His expression was one of triumph—an inventor who had ushered in a new age of industrial power, though at the cost of countless lives spent refining its dangerous potential.

  Above, the afternoon sun was barely visible, swallowed by thick industrial clouds. Threads of Arcane blue energy laced through the smoke, remnants of unregulated Arcane exhaust leaking from the city's many factories and workshops.

  Aetherclads, the hulking airships of Voldrath’s industrial fleet, moved through the sky like silent predators, their metal hulls glinting faintly against the gray.

  One such Aetherclad, The Black Talon, cruised above, its Arcane-Gravity Cores humming with barely contained energy, allowing it to remain suspended effortlessly in the dense smog. Large Arcane Pulse Generators on its underside released occasional pulses of force to maintain balance against shifting air currents.

  Smaller Grav-Runners, personal hovercrafts used by couriers and high-ranking officials, weaved below it, their sleek, rusted frames marked by glowing blue conduits that pulsed in rhythm with the Arcane flow inside.

  Leiger lowered her gaze. The streets of Greychapel mirrored the bleakness of the sky. Most civilians wore dark, tattered clothing, their garments stained with soot from the ever-churning machinery of the city. Only the wealthy stood apart, their attire betraying their status—long coats in deep reds or emerald greens, some even embroidered with gold thread, though still designed with the practicality of the harsh industrial environment in mind.

  The low hiss and clatter of transport rails caught her attention. A Rail-Strider, a long, segmented transport vehicle powered by Arcane Coil Engines, slid into its stop. Unlike the city's Steamstriders, which dominated long-distance routes, the Rail-Strider was a floating transit vehicle, its Arcane Pulse Generators releasing rhythmic pulses that allowed it to hover just above the metal tracks embedded in the street. The sound of pressurized air releasing signaled the doors opening, and civilians stepped on and off in hurried, silent motions.

  Leiger walked towards the bus stop, her boots clicking against the damp cobblestone. The weight of her Sentinel long coat, its gray fabric lined with deep blue accents, set her apart immediately. Conversations faltered. Heads turned.

  "What’s a Sentinel doing here?"

  "Must be investigating something… or someone."

  The whispering was subtle but ever-present, murmurs of curiosity and unease rippling through the crowd. Leiger ignored them, stepping onto the Rail-Strider without hesitation. The interior was dimly lit, the glow of Arcane Coil conduits running along the ceiling casting an eerie blue light. She remained standing, gripping one of the hanging leather loops, despite the open seats available.

  A few minutes later, the Greychapel Terminal came into view—an imposing train station, its stone archways blackened by years of soot and Arcane discharge.

  Engraved above the entrance, barely legible beneath layers of grime, were the words:

  "Progress Demands Sacrifice."

  Leiger stepped off the transport and made her way inside. The ticket counter was manned by a middle-aged clerk, his uniform stiff but worn from years of use. His gaze flickered to the insignia on Leiger’s coat, and though he said nothing, the same quiet wariness lingered in his expression. She was an outsider here—a Sentinel amid those who had little reason to trust the law.

  After taking her ticket, she moved toward the waiting area. The benches were occupied by the city’s forgotten souls—homeless men and women wrapped in tattered blankets, their eyes hollow from exhaustion and hunger. Some curled up on the wooden seats, desperate for rest, while others simply sat in silence, staring into nothingness.

  But it wasn’t just the homeless. The entire station had an air of quiet misery. People walked with the sluggishness of those weighed down by an existence they had long stopped resisting. Workers in grease-stained overalls, mothers clutching their children close, ex-soldiers missing limbs replaced by rusted Augments—all shared the same dull, resigned expression.

  Leiger exhaled slowly. She understood that feeling.

  The train’s arrival was heralded by a deep metallic groan, followed by the hiss of steam and the unmistakable hum of an Arcane Dynamo Engine. The massive Steamstrider rolled into the station, its front plated with thick iron and reinforced gears, its Arcane Compression Reactors faintly pulsing as the pressure inside stabilized. The engine car, marked with Voldrath’s emblem, released a final burst of exhaust before the doors creaked open.

  Leiger stepped on, choosing once again to remain standing. As she grabbed onto the hanging support loop, the train lurched forward, beginning its journey into the depths of the industrial empire.

  After an hour or less, the train hissed as it pulled into Gloamhearth Station, its brakes groaning like an old beast finally allowed to rest. As Leiger stepped onto the platform, the first thing she noticed was the air—drier than Greychapel’s smog-laden atmosphere, carrying the faint scent of rust and old wood rather than burning coal. She took a breath. It didn’t feel suffocating. That was already an improvement.

  Despite Gloamhearth’s half-abandoned state, it still held life in unexpected places. Vendors lined the edges of the station, their makeshift stalls filled with everything from grease-stained mechanical parts to skewers of questionable-looking meat. A group of children weaved through the crowd, their laughter sharp and fleeting as they darted past workers unloading crates from a rusted cargo train.

  No one paid Leiger any particular attention. A good sign. Greychapel had eyes everywhere—too many whispers, too many records. Here, she was just another body passing through.

  She walked through the streets, noting the contrast to her old station. Gloamhearth didn’t have the constant rumble of industry hammering into the bones of its people. Some factories stood lifeless, their windows shattered, their doors barely hanging onto their rusted hinges. Others still clung to operation, their smokestacks spitting out thin wisps of black that struggled against the dull sky. But unlike Greychapel, there was space here.

  A merchant woman sat on a crate, rolling a cigarette between her fingers, her sleeves stained with engine grease. She glanced at Leiger, taking in her uniform, then exhaled slowly before returning to her work. Not fear. Not hostility. Just indifference. That was rarer than gold in the cities closer to the heart of the Empire.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “A sentinel, Ey?” an old man called out from the steps of a repair shop, where he sat carving a small figure from a block of wood. His voice was worn but not unkind.

  Leiger stopped, giving him a short nod.

  He smirked.

  “West Station?”

  Another nod.

  “Hope you’re good with ghosts.” The man chuckled to himself before focusing back on his carving.

  Leiger didn’t ask what he meant. She already knew.

  As she moved further into the city, the streets grew quieter, the signs of life thinning out as abandoned buildings became more frequent. Here, the wind carried a different kind of silence—the kind that lived in forgotten places, in structures left to decay. Weeds pushed through cracks in the pavement, fighting against time itself. A pair of stray dogs lounged near the remains of an old factory, their ears flicking as she passed. Not a city waiting for rebirth. Just one refusing to die completely.

  Then, in the distance, the West Sentinel Station loomed.

  It stood in the middle of an open field, vast and utilitarian, its structure spreading across nearly the size of two football fields. No fresh paint, no banners, no sign of grandeur—just gray metal, worn stone, and the distant glow of arcane-powered lights struggling to keep their charge. It wasn’t built to inspire. It was built to withstand.

  The Main Hall towered at the center, flanked by the commander’s offices, the Elite Operative wings, and the cramped, shared barracks for lower-ranked Sentinels. Further out, the Sentencia Workshop, the medical bay, and the transport hangars were all clustered together, forming a web of necessity rather than efficiency. Somewhere deeper in its halls, the Data Vault held records that no one outside the station cared to read, and the Training Grounds waited for those still clinging to the idea that preparation made a difference against the Abyss.

  Leiger came to a stop in front of the station’s main gate. The iron frame loomed above her, the metal scarred with old damage, as if it had held firm through a thousand battles but never quite healed.

  She let out a slow breath, rolling her shoulders.

  “Welcome to the Graveyard Shift.”

  And then, she stepped forward.

  The gates creaked as Leiger pushed them open, the rusted steel scraping against each other with a hollow groan. The faint sound echoed in the otherwise quiet air. It was as if the station itself was holding its breath—silent, dormant, waiting. No Sentinels were in sight, not yet.

  Leiger walked towards the main hall, the dust of the outside world still clinging to her boots. She pulled the door just enough to slip through, the heavy wood groaning in protest. Inside, the space was vast, dimly lit, with the faint hum of idle machinery in the background. The air smelled faintly of something between old food and overused machinery—an odd but familiar mix.

  The hall was wide, the floor made of rough-hewn stone that felt as though it had been here long before anyone bothered to care for it. Round tables lined both the left and right sides, their surfaces bare save for the odd coat or hastily dropped bag. The only decorum in the place seemed to be the pristine, almost oddly out-of-place, round tables themselves—an attempt at refinement in a place that didn't care much for it.

  At the far end, three Mission Deployer clerks stood at their stations. They were side by side, positioned like soldiers at attention. Each wore the same soft, welcoming smile, a quiet contrast to the harsh, unrelenting atmosphere surrounding them.

  Leiger's boots echoed softly as she crossed the floor, the faint smell of food and drink creeping into her senses. It was an odd comfort—something she had long grown accustomed to during her time here. The round tables were mostly empty, save for a few Initiates slumped in their chairs, their Sentinel coats hung over their backs, eyes cast downward as though contemplating their ill-chosen fate.

  In the middle of the hall, the quiet buzz of conversation rose. The two Elite Operatives held court among a small group of Initiates. Eliza Kane, the “Overlord,” stood confidently at the center, hands gesturing wildly as she recounted a battle. Though her frame was petite, barely five feet tall, there was nothing small about her presence. She had the sort of forceful confidence that could crush anyone’s doubts about her. The oversized Sentinel Gadget standing behind her back looked as if it might swallow her whole, but she slaps it like a badge of honor, undeterred by her own diminutive size.

  “…and there I was, standing alone, when the Auguries thought THEY COULD SURROUND ME!” Kane boasted, her voice rising like a thunderclap, loud and demanding, as if the entire hall should listen to her every word. “WITH MOST BELOVED weapon from my Sentinel Gadget—my Havoc Cannon—THIS—a weapon so vast it should be mounted on a vehicle, I OBLITERATED every last one of ‘em! One shot, and they were vaporized, VANISHED into the ether, just like THAT! That’s what I call a PROPER BATTLEFIELD WEAPON! They were nothing more than ASH in the WIND! AHAHAHA! "

  Her voice echoed off the walls, far more thunderous than any of the others. The Initiates around her looked on, wide-eyed, their mouths slightly agape in awe. Eliza Kane wasn’t just a legend; she was a force of nature, as loud as she was lethal. She didn’t need to be tall—her reputation and the sheer force of her voice demanded attention.

  Beside her round table, Dorian Vance, or “Sonnet,” stood with one arm dramatically slung across the back of his chair, a half-smile playing across his face. His attire was pristine, every thread of his uniform intentionally placed. His theatrics matched Kane’s energy, but in an entirely different way. His voice rang out in perfect Shakespearean meter, every word dripping with melodrama.

  "Aye, my companions,” he began, his voice rich with the cadence of an actor delivering a soliloquy, “I—Dorian Vance, the humble Sonnet of our noble ranks—didst infiltrate the criminal underbelly of yonder city, naught but a shadow, a whisper upon the wind! With stealth and wit, I didst uncover plots most foul, plans so devious, they wouldst make even the heavens themselves tremble! Their schemes, like smoke before the storm, didst vanish ere my gaze didst fall upon them!"

  He paused, his hand reaching theatrically to clutch his chest. “Verily, this Bard’s words are but a humble telling of my victory. My name shall be known for ages, for I—like a noble knight—have thwarted those who wouldst seek to undo our righteous cause!”

  The Initiates around him were equally captivated, though not quite sure if they understood half of what he said. Vance’s ability to command attention with his strange, grandiose language was unmatched, even if it meant the room often had to pause to catch up with his poetic declarations. His voice, though quieter than Kane’s, still rang with the same fervor and passion as though the fate of the world hung on his every word.

  Amidst the clamor of their voices and the gasps of the audience, Leiger quietly padded through the crowd, unfazed. She had heard this kind of talk before—veterans boasting of their exploits, talking of battles and victories that seemed distant from her own reality. She moved toward the deployer station, where the three clerks still stood, their smiles unwavering.

  The queue at the mission deployment desk stretched with a handful of Sentinels, some waiting patiently, others shifting restlessly, eager to get their assignments. Leiger approached, eyes scanning the three clerks stationed behind the counter.

  Her gaze flicked first to Celeste "Cee" Marlowe, the leftmost clerk. Timid, sweet, and utterly hopeless when it came to organization. She had a habit of mixing up mission codes or misfiling reports, and yet, no one had the heart to be too harsh on her. The way she fidgeted with her pen and nervously smiled at each Sentinel made it clear she wasn’t cut out for this line of work. A well-meaning liability.

  In the center stood Rowan Cassel, perpetually leaning on the counter with a casual air, his uniform slightly loose and his ever-present coffee cup in hand. Cool, cooperative, and just competent enough to keep things running smoothly. He was the kind of guy who made sure things got done—when he felt like it. No more, no less. If Leiger had to deal with anyone here, he was the safest bet.

  But then there was Seraphine "Sera" Drexler, the rightmost clerk—and the bane of Leiger’s patience. She was as slick as Voidglass, all smiles and half-truths, always dealing in shadows and favors. And Leiger knew, without a doubt, that she had been the one to sabotage her mission. She could still picture the sloppily written mission details, a deliberate attempt to screw her over. Rage simmered beneath her skin just thinking about it.

  Sera, in the middle of handing a mission dossier to a Sentinel, caught sight of her approaching. Her lips curled in a knowing smirk before she forced a halfhearted smile. "Oh, welcome back, Leiger."

  Her tone was almost displeased, as if Leiger’s very presence was an inconvenience. But Leiger didn’t break eye contact, her fury barely contained. Without a word, she reached into her coat and pulled out the Sentinel Gadget of former Commander Bardock—a compact, metallic cube roughly twice the size of a Rubik’s cube. It gleamed under the dim lighting of the hall as she placed it firmly on the counter.

  Sera’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly before she scoffed. "Huh. Guess you managed to scrape by. Didn’t think you had it in you."

  She retrieved the device with an exaggerated lack of urgency, as if she hadn’t just been proven wrong. But before she could make another snide remark, Leiger pulled something else out—a crumpled, half-assed info note, the same one Sera had given her. With a sharp motion, she slammed it onto the counter, her palm striking the surface with enough force to send a hush rippling through the hall. Several Sentinels turned their heads. Even Rowan paused mid-sip of his coffee.

  Sera flinched, just a little, before her smirk returned, thinner now.

  Leiger’s voice was low, controlled, but brimming with restrained anger. "You always had it out for me, didn’t you, Sera? I’ve tolerated it for a while. I even let it slide when you conveniently assigned me the most dangerous missions back-to-back. But this?"

  She tapped the crumpled note, her voice sharp. "This was an attempt to get me killed. A sloppy, half-assed excuse of a mission detail, meant to trip me up and trigger Bardock’s Sentinel Gadget’s defensive mode. That wasn’t an accident. That was deliberate."Sera leaned in, unfazed. "I don’t do half-assed jobs, sweetheart. Maybe you’re just incompetent and looking for someone to blame. And honestly?"

  She gave a lazy shrug. "You’re complaining about getting risky missions? Newsflash, princess—being a Sentinel is about risking your life. What, did you expect tea parties and hand-holding?"

  Leiger’s glare sharpened, but Sera wasn’t done. Her smirk twisted into something cruel. "Or maybe the real problem is that this life isn’t for you. You still walk around pretending like you're some untouchable force, but at the end of the day? You’re just another fallen noble, clinging to a title that doesn’t mean a damn thing anymore."

  Leiger’s fists clenched, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. But Sera pushed further, her voice laced with mockery.

  "Why don’t you just quit? Stop pretending to be strong. Stop acting like this is your way back to honor. If you really want to restore the Rosewood name, why not do it the noble way? Find some highborn idiot to marry you back into status instead of running around like a street rat in armor."

  She feigned an apologetic look. "My mistake—oh wait, you’re not even a noble anymore, are you? Just a relic of a ruined house."

  The air between them turned thick with tension, the kind that could crack with the slightest push. Leiger’s hand hovered just above the Sentinel Gadget beneath her coat, her fingers twitching. Sera’s smug gaze didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something behind it—an awareness that she had crossed a line.

  The hall remained silent, all eyes locked onto them.

  And neither of them backed down.

  Then—

  A firm, commanding voice cut through the tension like a blade.

  "What is going on here?"

  From the left exit door, near Cee’s counter, stood Sentinel Commander Elias 'Iron Palm' Vex. His uniform was immaculate—his grey Sentinel coat buttoned up to perfection, his Commander insignia gleaming against the fabric. The sheer weight of his presence alone was enough to make every Sentinel in the hall sit straighter. Some quickly adjusted their uniforms. Others subtly cleaned up their tables before looking back at him.

  With precise steps, Vex strode towards the counter, his disciplined posture unwavering. His gaze flicked between Leiger and Sera before he spoke again, his tone sharp as steel. "Explain."

  Both women, now somewhat composed, relayed their sides of the argument. Vex listened silently, his expression unreadable, before picking up the crumpled info note. He unfolded it, scanning the contents.

  Then, he nodded. "I see."

  Without warning, he gestured for Sera to lean closer. When she hesitated, he gave her a pointed look, and she leaned in reluctantly.

  Smack.

  His palm struck the back of her head, not harshly enough to injure, but enough to make a statement.

  "This is half-assed work," he stated flatly. "The code is barely legible, and the most important sequence is unreadable." He sighed, disappointment heavy in his tone.

  "You’ve always been consistent, Sera. Reliable. So tell me—what exactly were you doing?"

  Sera, still rubbing the back of her head, muttered, "I—It won’t happen again, sir."

  "Damn right it won’t," Vex replied. "If I ever hear of something like this again, I’ll have you off duty for months. Do I make myself clear?"

  Sera stiffened. "Yes, Commander Vex."

  Vex then turned his sharp gaze onto Leiger.

  "You."

  BAM.

  Another firm smack to the back of the head.

  Leiger blinked, caught completely off guard. "What the hell—"

  "I saw you reaching for your Sentinel Gadget under your coat," Vex cut her off, voice unimpressed. "Were you really about to escalate this? Over an argument?" His glare hardened. "You think you’re ready to go that far? You think you can justify attacking a fellow Sentinel over suspicion alone?"

  Leiger clenched her jaw but said nothing.

  "Next time I catch you pulling something reckless like that, I’ll handle it myself. Understood?"

  Leiger exhaled through her nose.

  "…Understood."

  "Good. You’ll be working with Cee from now on."

  Cee, still peeking out from behind the counter, leaned forward slightly and offered a timid, "H-Hi."

  Leiger, rubbing the back of her neck, simply nodded.

  "Good," Vex repeated. Then, he turned his gaze to the rest of the hall. "Listen up!"

  The room fell into dead silence.

  "This station runs on trust. Even with chaos and lack of funding, it’s trust in your fellow Sentinels that keeps it operational. If I find anyone being untrustworthy—or refusing to trust—I will personally fix that issue myself." His voice dropped into something almost menacing. "And if you don’t keep this place tidy, expect a slap to the back of your head."

  As if on cue, Sentinels quickly turned back to their meals, their conversations, their work—anything to avoid attracting his attention.

  Satisfied, Vex turned back to Leiger. "Your Sentinel Gadget."

  Leiger pulled out her baton-shaped gadget and handed it over. Vex examined it closely, shook it lightly, then nodded.

  "Thought so. Some scratches. Feels loose on the inside. You’ve put it through hell, haven’t you?" He handed it to Sera. "Send it to Sentencia Workshop for repairs. And no funny business."

  "Yes, Commander Vex," Sera answered with no further argument.

  Vex exhaled and turned back to Leiger. "While your Sentinel Gadget is under repair, you’re permitted to rest, dismiss, or visit your family—assuming they’re nearby. But don’t slack off. Be back by tomorrow."

  Leiger simply nodded. "Understood."

  With that, Vex gave one last glance at the hall before turning and walking away. The moment he was out of sight, Leiger exhaled deeply. Without another word, she decided—for once—to return home.