The second caravan, connected to the first, had a similar structure, though it appeared more enclosed. Coarse fabric was fastened to several of its sides, offering a bit of privacy or shielding the cargo from dust and weather. Additional items like water jugs and cooking equipment could be seen tucked between the loads. The entire caravan radiated a sense of long travel and resilience.
Arin Veyl was a trader who roamed the remote regions, using powerful creatures like the Tharvok Beast to carry his wares. This opportunity could not be wasted.
Carefully, Zephyr waited until the caravan halted by the roadside beneath the shade of large trees. Arin Veyl dismounted from the Tharvok Beast's back, sighed with relief, and began inspecting the cargo bindings. This was the moment.
Relying on the agility he'd sharpened in the mines and the forest, Zephyr slipped from the trees. He moved low among the underbrush, using every shadow as cover. His target was the rear of the second caravan—where the stacked goods might offer him a hiding place.
Heart pounding, he reached the second caravan. Between the sacks and bundled cloths, there was just enough space to conceal himself. He slipped inside quickly, pulling several rough fabrics over his body. From his hiding spot, he could hear Arin Veyl muttering to himself as he checked his goods.
Not long after, Arin Veyl climbed back onto the Tharvok Beast, gave a signal, and the creature resumed its march. The caravan began to creak and sway, and Zephyr felt himself carried away on a journey toward a distant city. That strange pain in his chest stabbed again—the lingering side effect of the crystal he had swallowed—but this time, it mingled with a spark of hope. He had found a way to reach civilization, even if it was a dangerous one. He could only hope Arin Veyl wouldn't discover him before they reached Akar Vazhryl.
The journey continued—across wide grasslands, past distant villages, and alongside larger rivers. The sun set, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet. Arin Veyl occasionally stopped to rest and feed his Tharvok Beast, but Zephyr remained hidden, terrified his presence might be exposed.
And then, after hours of traveling through moonlit darkness, Zephyr saw it. In the distance, in a vast valley, sprawled the silhouette of a city. Twinkling lights—like fallen stars—shone across its form. Towering walls rose high, and watchtowers pierced the sky. This was Akar Vazhryl. A grand city, unlike the wretched mining villages he had known.
The caravan slowed as it approached the majestic city gates. Armed guards stood tall and alert. Zephyr's heart raced. Would they inspect every caravan? Would he be caught? He held his breath, the stabbing pain in his chest flaring sharper than before. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm, hoping he would go unseen.
Arin Veyl halted the Tharvok Beast before the gates. Zephyr heard his friendly voice greet the guards. "Good evening, Captain! Smooth trip, as always—bringing in the finest goods from the eastern forest."
A guard replied, his voice gruff and heavy, "Veyl? You again. Get inside, but quickly—don't block the road." There was no thorough inspection. The gate opened.
Zephyr exhaled in relief. The caravan moved again, passing through the gate and into the city's chaotic pulse. A wave of new sensations struck him all at once—shouts from merchants, children laughing, footsteps pounding, the ringing of hammers from workshops. Unfamiliar smells filled his nose: fresh bread, exotic spices, perfume, and the stink of beasts of burden.
A city. This city was an entirely new world to him. But the pain in his chest reminded Zephyr he still carried the weight of his past—and the mystery of the power dwelling within him. What would he do here? How would he survive? And what was the true meaning of the strange pain that haunted him?
These questions clouded his thoughts as the caravan creaked deeper into the heart of the city.
Zephyr held his breath, his body tense beneath the canvas and sacks in the second wagon. Every groan of the wheels, every jolt, felt like it might betray him. He could hear the guards at the gate, their heavy footsteps, their brief exchange with Arin Veyl. It felt like centuries before the caravan finally rumbled forward, past the gate, and the city's noise flooded into his ears.
He had arrived at Akar Vazhryl.
Peering through a small gap in the canvas, Zephyr beheld a vision both awe-inspiring and overwhelming. Akar Vazhryl was not just a city—it was a living industrial giant. Towering buildings scraped the sky, most built from heavy metal and stone, stitched together by immense pipes. White smoke rose from slender chimneys that pierced the grey clouds above, filling the air with the stench of hot metal and steam. In several places, Zephyr could see massive diesel machines—gears spinning slowly, pistons pumping steadily—emitting a deep, rhythmic hum that formed the city's very pulse. Huge pipelines coiled around buildings and crossed over streets, like arteries pulsing with unseen energy. Most striking of all were the tall spires made from giant crystal formations, glowing with a dim inner light that cast a pale gleam over the industrial maze.
Above it all, cigar-shaped dirigibles—airships driven by propellers and steam exhaust—glided gracefully between clock towers, further proving that this city was a masterpiece of engineered splendor.
But beneath the awe, Zephyr quickly felt the other side of this city.
On the streets, the crowd looked weary and ragged. Their faces bore the same despair he once carried. The stink of rotting garbage lingered in alley corners, mixing with oil fumes and soot. Skinny children begged at intersections, and dark figures slipped through the shadows of narrow alleys. The grandeur of Akar Vazhryl was built on poverty and pain—a truth Zephyr knew all too well.
Arin Veyl's caravan slowly rolled down a busy street, past crowded markets and shops glowing with golden light. That sharp pain in Zephyr's chest returned—worse than before—a side effect of the crystal. He clenched his teeth, enduring it. The dark energy in his arm throbbed in response, and the black orbs surrounding him flickered faintly.
Eventually, the caravan stopped in a quieter yard behind a large building that resembled a warehouse. Arin Veyl jumped down from the Tharvok Beast, releasing a long breath. Zephyr heard his footsteps approach the rear of the wagon where he was hidden.
"Alright, we've arrived, my friend," Arin muttered, his voice a bit hoarse. Zephyr held his breath. The man was surely about to find him.
Arin pulled back the canvas—and the oil lamp light from a post in the yard poured in. Zephyr's eyes narrowed, adjusting to the brightness. He saw Arin standing there, surprised—but not angry.
Arin Veyl was a man who looked younger than expected. His thick brown hair was neatly styled, slightly wavy at the top, framing a firm jaw and sharp, intelligent eyes. He wore a stylish steampunk outfit: a white shirt under a dark brown leather vest with copper buttons. A large pocket watch with visible gears hung from his chest, and a leather wristwatch encircled his arm. A deep navy coat with a high collar draped over his shoulders, reinforced with brown leather pads—ready for long travel. In his hands, he held two gold-toned metal mugs.
His appearance was nothing like the scruffy trader Zephyr had imagined. He was a man of status in this city.
Zephyr squinted into the sudden lantern glare — raw flame framed by the rough flap of the caravan tarp. For the first time, he saw the man who owned the beast, the wagons, and — by sheer blind fate — Zephyr's slim hope of reaching this iron city alive.
The caravan master stood framed by steam and lantern smoke, boots planted wide on the cobblestones slick with oil mist. He was young — or young enough that the road hadn't yet stolen the sharp cut of his jaw. Thick brown hair curled slightly where sweat and wind had pressed it against a forehead furrowed in thought rather than age. His eyes were steel and smoke all at once: sharp enough to count coins by torchlight, soft enough to sell poison as honey if he chose.
A leather greatcoat, deep navy trimmed in darker hide, swept from his broad shoulders nearly to his boots. Brass gears and buckles glinted along his vest, each fastened tight against a crisp white shirt barely wrinkled despite days on the road. A heavy pocket watch nested at his sternum, chain looping down to a belt cinched with more brass clasps than a banker's vault. Fingerless gloves, leather-worn and creased, half-hid knuckles scarred by deals gone sideways or thieves taught better manners.
"By the Furnace Lord!" Arin exclaimed, eyes wide. "What in the world? A... stowaway?"
He didn't sound angry—more confused than anything.
His gaze swept over Zephyr, from the worn armor to the exhaustion in his eyes.
"And you're... wearing armor?" he muttered, more to himself.
"An adventurer? In the ancient forest? You must've been robbed blind. Why are you hiding here, kid? What happened to you?"
Zephyr, still stunned that he hadn't been met with anger, could only answer plainly.
"I… I got lost. From the forest. Trying to find a way out."
He didn't mention his origins as a slave — too afraid that revealing the truth would drag him back into chains. Nor did he speak of the illusions or the power inside him; even he didn't yet understand it.
Arin nodded slowly, eyes scanning Zephyr as if assessing not just a body, but a mystery.
In one hand, he balanced two battered tin mugs. They clinked softly, like a promise that nothing in his world spilled without him allowing it.
Zephyr, half-buried among burlap sacks and cargo ropes, stared up — sweat cutting trails through the grime on his sharp cheekbones. His black hair clung wet to his temples, longer now than any overseer would have allowed, falling in tangled locks almost to his shoulders. Under the lantern's flicker, his eyes — storm-gray and exhausted — locked on the master's without flinching.
What a sight he must have been: a miner's husk stuffed in scavenged ruin-plate. The armor clung to him like a second skin forged from dusk metal, plates layered tight enough to mock any pickaxe. At his right bicep, the black lines of an old ritual tattoo slithered between bruises and fresh raw veins that faintly lit with the same cursed blue glow pulsing under the armor's seams. His bare arm flexed once, as if ready for a fight — but no fight came.
A swirl of dark orbs, tiny and flickering, drifted lazily around his shoulder like startled cinders refusing to die out.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Just the wheeze of the Tharvok Beast behind them, the hush of pipes leaking steam into the moon-washed alley.
Then the master tipped one mug toward him, that half-smile slicing his face into wolfish charm and weary delight all at once.
"Well then… you look more corpse than cargo. Shall we share a drink before I decide whether to sell you, skin you — or keep you?"
His eyes dropped to Zephyr's arm, where the dark energy coiled. There, clear as night, lay black markings — intricate patterns etched into skin like a living, breathing tattoo.
"That scar on your arm…" Arin pointed with one finger, his expression sharpening. "That's no ordinary mark, kid. That's a Rajjah Rune."
Zephyr looked at his hand, confused. He knew nothing about it. He only knew it had appeared after he fell into the ruin.
"Rajjah Rune? What is it?"
Arin exhaled, eyes flickering with curiosity laced with caution.
"Runes are patterns of power. Imprints of energy. But that Rajjah on your hand... it's …. weird. Not many people carry one, and most who do don't even realize it."
He tilted his head slightly. "Have you… felt anything strange? Power?"
Zephyr hesitated. "I… experienced something strange. In the gorge — in the forest. A crystal..in my hand"
He lifted his hand, and the black orbs drifted around it, swirling softly with a faint shimmer. Arin's eyes widened.
"Fantastic! Fairytales come crawling!" Arin laughed, his tone equal parts exhilarated and theatrical. "It's fine if you're keeping things from me, kid. If I were you, I'd want my mentor kept under wraps too."
"I'm not lying," Zephyr said, more from weariness than defiance. A boy who once knew nothing but hammer and chisel, now standing on the precipice of a world entirely alien. Power? Runes? These were myths, not reality.
Arin stepped closer, his voice softening.
"Listen, kid. My name is Arin Veyl. I run Blackstone Outsourcing. We specialize in harvesting crystals from remote mines and wiring them into the city's giant engines — Stabilitors. Dangerous work. But essential."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "You… you've got something rare. Strength. Endurance. And maybe… an untapped force even you don't understand."
He extended his hand — not in dominance, but in offer.
"I can give you a job. A place to stay. Food. And maybe… help you figure out whatever's inside you. What do you say?"
Zephyr stared at the offered hand, then glanced at the towering city around him. Slavery, or a chance. He had nothing to return to.
This was an opportunity — maybe the only one he'd ever have — to understand himself and the power within.
"I… I'll do it," he said, voice hoarse but certain. "I'll join."
Arin Veyl smiled — not the sly smile of a merchant, but one of genuine relief.
"Good. Welcome to Blackstone Outsourcing, kid. I have a feeling things are about to get interesting."
He turned and strode into the building.
Zephyr stumbled slightly as he followed, asking every question that came to his mind. Arin explained the city: Akar Vazhryl. A transit hub fed by metal and sweat.
Zephyr followed Arin Veyl across a yard cluttered with scrap and oil drums. The air smelled thick of grease and scorched iron. Around them, more Tharvok Beasts rested, some being fed by workers — faces tired, shirts stained with soot.
Blackstone Outsourcing struck like a thunderclap of order amid the chaos of the desert — a throbbing pulse of steampunk ingenuity. Crossing its gates meant leaving behind dust and desolation, stepping into a stronghold of brass, vapor, and golden light. From afar, the facility looked like a massive patchwork of machinery stitched into the fabric of a barren world.
The main structure towered ahead, built from a chaotic symphony of dull copper and dark bronze plating. Some surfaces shimmered briefly with the desert sun, others bore the green patina of time and corrosion. It was a citadel of utility, aged but unshaken.
Above it, watchtowers rose like spines — elegant yet unyielding. These were steampunk marvels, adorned with massive gears (some turning, some still), oversized dials marking pressure or time, and thick brass-rimmed porthole windows. Spiral balconies, all iron-wrought and timeworn, curled around each level like lookout perches. From the peaks jutted antennas forged from alien alloys, reaching skyward like tuning forks for storms.
Thick perimeter walls surrounded the complex, fortified with similar metal — seemingly impervious. Along certain segments, immense gear-locked gates stood ready, secured by complex steam-locks and reinforced pressure valves. The very air around Blackstone Outsourcing thrummed faintly with the hiss of steam and a constant low mechanical murmur — vibrations that sank into the bones.
Beyond the main gates, smaller auxiliary buildings lined the periphery — likely warehouses, checkpoints, or storage units. The ground paths were hardened with compacted gravel and plated tracks, guiding incoming merchant caravans or Arcane Delver expeditions clad in shimmering gear and precision goggles.
Despite its isolation in the deep wastes, the complex pulsed with life — a rhythmic bustle of movement, labor, and strange machinery. By night, it shimmered like a citadel of starlight, golden glows pouring from windows and towers — a beacon of civilization amidst the merciless landscape.
Then, they stepped inside. The Centre.
Blackstone's Super Machine
The Stabilitor Hall lay west of the core structure, precisely two hundred meters from the primary generator wing. It stretched long like a spinal corridor, wired with logistics rails for transporting processed crystal from the distillation rooms into the energy convergence slots.
Entering the main hall was like stepping into a beating mechanical heart.
Colossal walls of steel rose around them, the vaulted ceiling webbed with iron beams and ringed with heavy copper pipes. Steam valves hissed in rhythm with rune-coupling turbines. This was the Stabilitor nerve center — the filtration engines that processed energy from the "Residu Broiler," the crystal-burning powerhouse to the east.
Crude crystals were useless on their own. They had to be refined first — melted, filtered, and aligned in Blackstone's processing chambers. Once purified, they were embedded into stabilizer units by expert technicians — people who knew how to align radiant flux with rune regulators.
Everywhere Zephyr looked, there was movement — measured, precise. The air was thick with the scent of hot copper, gear-oil, and a strange, sweetened steam. Overhead, great brass-and-glass chandeliers hung like planets, casting warm light over smoke-veiled shadows. The windows high above filtered sunlight into golden rays that slashed through the mist.
The floors were a checkerboard of polished metal plates and old industrial tiles. Workstations lined the edges — massive wooden benches littered with calipers, schematics, and dissected machines. Uniformed Arcane Delvers moved with purpose, some manning steam engines that screeched and pulsed with controlled rage, others buried in precision work: recalibrating, assembling, decoding.
Along the outer aisles and up on mezzanine walkways — accessible by wrought-iron spiral stairs — were isolated labs and glass-walled forges. This was where Blackstone's finest minds worked. Copper and brass piping threaded like vines across ceilings and walls, carrying pressurized steam to massive alembics and distillers. The air buzzed with invention.
And at the center of it all stood a beast.
A machine as tall as a two-story building loomed ahead, cables and pipes writhing like the veins of a sleeping titan. Black liquid — pungent with the scent of diesel — pulsed through transparent coils. Gears the size of doors turned slowly, their teeth locking with thunderous grace. Giant wrenches spun, bolts tightened with hammer blows. Faint smoke rose from the crevices, lit orange by dim industrial bulbs overhead.
This was the Stabilitor — the one Arin had mentioned.
Not the only one, but the largest.
Other smaller stabilizers hummed in distant corners, but this one dominated the chamber. Nearby workers manned levers, monitored pressure dials, adjusted crystal alignment charts.
Arin's voice rose through the mechanical roar.
"See this, Zephyr?" he called, pointing at a large copper panel embedded in the side of the Stabilitor. It was thick, armored — but in the center lay a socket framed by a snarl of copper coils and filigree wiring.
"That's where the crystal goes."
"Our job is to keep these machines alive," Arin said. "Without them, this city dies."
He gestured toward a narrow view slit in the far wall, through which the crystal towers of Akar Vazhryl shimmered brighter than before in the night.
"The Stabilitors keep the power flowing to that generator across the bridge — and from there, to all of Akar Vazhryl."
Zephyr nodded, awe-struck. He had always thought crystals were mined solely for money—he had never imagined they could be used for something this complex.
Arin led him toward a nearby workbench cluttered with tools, coils of wire, and a dozen glowing fragments. Scattered across the surface were rough raw crystals Zephyr instantly recognized from the mines—jagged, cloudy, and coarse. But others had been cut, honed into precise geometries that shimmered with inner fire, their light refracted in thin, spectral lines across the bench.
"Your job, first and foremost," Arin said, picking up one of the polished shards with two fingers, "will be to retrieve crystals from our remote extraction sites. Then bring them here—to this factory. We don't just mine, Zephyr. We integrate."
He held the glowing shard to the side, letting its light pass over a nearby metal plate engraved with intricate runes—shapes startlingly similar to those carved into Zephyr's own skin.
"Once refined, each crystal must be fitted into a Stabilitor slot. But not blindly. Each one must be aligned to the machine's rune network. Without that alignment, the whole system misfires. Best case, the crystal fails. Worst case—it explodes."
Zephyr's eyes shifted from his forearm to the plate. The same glow, the same language.
"How do you align it?" he asked, voice hoarse with fatigue and curiosity.
Arin's eyes gleamed. "That's what we'll teach you. There are techniques. Some people—rare ones—have an affinity. A sensitivity to crystal harmonics. You might be one of them, judging by what's on your arm."
He gave Zephyr a glance—not quite admiring, not yet trusting, but certainly intrigued.
"We'll start you simple. Familiarizing you with Stabilitor basics. Later, if you show skill... we'll train you for integration."
Zephyr's stomach twisted. Whether from hunger, from confusion, or from the sheer overload of new information, he couldn't tell. The mining world he knew had been brutal—but simple. Smash, carry, survive. But here? Here everything was layered. Mechanical. Magical. Measured.
"Alright, Zephyr," Arin said, clapping him lightly on the back. "You'll sleep in the worker barracks tonight. Food and a fresh set of clothes will be sent your way. Tomorrow—your training begins."
The gesture felt solid. Like an anchor thrown into a chaotic sea.
Though still aching, still reeling, Zephyr nodded. His gaze flicked toward the towering Stabilitor, its massive frame throbbing like a living beast. Beneath the roar and rumble of machinery, he felt the pulse of the rune etched into his arm—faint, but insistent. Like it had been waiting all this time to wake up. Maybe... maybe this is where I'm meant to be. Among these gears. Among this fire.
Zephyr was no longer a slave.
He was now a worker of Blackstone Outsourcing. A new chapter had begun.
His task? To harvest the same crystals that once imprisoned him—only now, to wield them. To integrate them into the very heart of Akar Vazhryl's lifeblood: the mighty machines called Stabilitors.
It was bitterly ironic. But this time, he did it free. With power. With mystery inside him.
Zephyr's first morning began before sunrise.
He woke in the worker barracks—a long, humid hall that smelled of sweat, damp cloth, and metal oil. After dressing in the provided uniform—a coarse, dark ensemble reinforced with leather bands—he joined the stream of other workers, their boots heavy against the metal floors, all heading toward the same destination.