The first thing Lucian noticed was the smell.
It wasn't unpleasant, exactly, but it was wrong. Salt and fish and something else—coal smoke, maybe, mixed with spices he couldn't name. The scent filled his nostrils as consciousness slowly returned, dragging him up from depths darker than any sleep he'd ever known.
His eyes opened to a ceiling of wooden beams, gray light filtering through cracks in the planks above. Dust motes drifted lazily through the shafts of illumination, and somewhere distant, he could hear voices shouting in a language that sounded almost like English but... twisted. Archaic.
Lucian tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His head pounded with a dull ache that seemed to originate somewhere behind his eyes, and his body felt both heavy and strangely light at the same time, as if he'd been sleeping for years and had just remembered how to inhabit his own skin.
"Finally awake, are you?"
The voice came from his left. Lucian turned his head—slowly, carefully—and saw a figure sitting on another narrow bed perhaps six feet away. The man was roughly his age, with dark hair that fell past his ears and skin a shade of brown that seemed familiar in a way that made Lucian's chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't name.
"Kiran?" The name fell from Lucian's lips before he could stop it, but even as he said it, he knew it was wrong. Not wrong, exactly, but... incomplete.
The other man's eyes widened slightly. "You remember?"
"I—" Lucian paused, pressing a hand to his temple. "I remember... something. Your name. My name. But also... other names?" He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. They were his hands, weren't they? Callused in places he didn't remember earning calluses, with small scars across the knuckles. "Where are we?"
"Port Vedas, according to the woman who found us." The man who might be Kiran stood up, moving to a small window set into the far wall. "Though I couldn't tell you where that is, exactly. She spoke in... English? But old English. Like something from a Dickens novel."
Lucian swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet touching cold wooden floorboards. He was wearing clothes he didn't recognize—rough cotton trousers, a linen shirt that had seen better days, suspenders. "How long have we been here?"
"Three days, for me. You've been unconscious the whole time." The other man turned from the window, and Lucian could see concern etched in the lines around his eyes. "The woman—Mrs. Marsh, she calls herself—she's been checking on us. Bringing food. Water. She seems... kind. But also frightened."
"Frightened of what?"
"Us, I think. Or maybe just of what we represent." He moved back to his bed, sitting down heavily. "Lucian, I don't... I don't fully remember our lives before, but I remember enough to know this isn't right. This isn't our world. The architecture, the clothing, the way people speak—it's all wrong."
Lucian found that his hands were shaking slightly. He clasped them together, trying to focus. "What do you remember?"
"Fragments." The word came out quiet, almost painful. "I remember Nepal. Mountains. I remember your face—your real face, though I can't quite picture it clearly now. I remember we were friends. I remember... dying? No, not dying. Something else. Being somewhere dark and gray, for a very long time. And then..." He gestured vaguely at the room around them. "This."
The door to their room opened before Lucian could respond. A woman entered, perhaps in her late forties, wearing a simple dress of dark gray fabric with a white apron tied at the waist. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her face bore the kind of weariness that spoke of hard years and little rest.
"Oh, you're awake," she said, and Lucian could hear what his friend meant about the language. It was English, but the accent was thick, the vowels shaped differently than he expected. Victorian, his mind supplied, though he wasn't sure where that knowledge came from. "I was beginning to worry you wouldn't come around at all."
"Thank you," Lucian said, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "For taking care of us."
Mrs. Marsh's expression softened slightly, though worry still creased the corners of her eyes. "Couldn't very well leave you lying in the street, could I? Not with the way you looked when Mr. Harrow found you." She moved to a small table near the window, where a pitcher of water sat beside two chipped cups. "Though I'll be honest with you, sirs—I can't keep housing you for free. This is the Stacks. We all work here, or we don't eat."
"We understand," the other man said. "And we're grateful. Can you tell us... where exactly Port Vedas is?"
Mrs. Marsh poured water into both cups, carrying them over. "Southern continent, of course. Eastern coast. We're under Loen administration, though you wouldn't always know it by looking around." She handed each of them a cup, studying their faces with an intensity that made Lucian uncomfortable. "You really don't remember anything, do you? Not even how you got here?"
Lucian exchanged a glance with his friend. "We remember some things. But not... not how we arrived."
"Hmm." Mrs. Marsh crossed her arms, her expression troubled. "Well, you're not the first ones, if that's any comfort. There have been others over the past few years—people turning up with no memory, no papers, no family. The churches take an interest in such cases, mind you. Too much interest, some would say."
"Churches?" Lucian asked.
"The Evernight Goddess, the Lord of Storms, the Steam and Machinery God—take your pick. They all have temples here, all watching for signs of..." She trailed off, seeming to catch herself. "Well. Things best not spoken of in polite company."
A bell rang somewhere outside, deep and resonant. Mrs. Marsh glanced toward the window, her shoulders tensing. "That's the six o'clock bell. I need to get to the factory—I work the evening shift in the textile mill." She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. "There's bread and cheese in the cupboard. Not much, but enough for tonight. Tomorrow, you'll need to start figuring out how you're going to support yourselves. This city doesn't forgive those who can't pull their weight."
She left, her footsteps echoing down what sounded like a narrow stairwell.
Lucian and his friend sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of their situation settling over them like a heavy blanket.
"Kaal," the other man said finally. "That's the name that feels right now. Not Kiran. Kaal."
Lucian tested the name in his mind, feeling it settle into place with an odd sense of correctness. "Kaal," he repeated. "And I'm Lucian."
"Lucian," Kaal agreed. He stood, moving to the cupboard Mrs. Marsh had indicated. Inside was indeed a small loaf of dark bread and a wedge of pale cheese wrapped in cloth. "So. We're in a city called Port Vedas, in a place called the Southern Continent, under the rule of somewhere called Loen. We have no money, no identification, and apparently we're not the first people to mysteriously appear here."
"And there are churches that take an interest in such cases," Lucian added. He forced himself to stand, his legs shaky but functional. "Churches plural. Of gods that I'm assuming aren't... metaphorical?"
Kaal cut the bread with a knife he found in the cupboard, his movements careful and precise. "Mrs. Marsh seemed frightened when she mentioned them. Not reverent—frightened."
"That can't be good."
"No," Kaal agreed, handing Lucian half the bread and a portion of cheese. "No, it probably can't."
They ate in silence, the bread dry and the cheese tangy. Outside their window, the sounds of the city continued—voices calling in that strange, archaic English, the clatter of carts on cobblestones, the distant blast of what might have been a ship's horn.
Lucian moved to the window when he finished eating, looking out over a vista that confirmed his worst fears. The architecture was indeed Victorian—or something close to it—with narrow buildings crowded together, their walls stained with soot and their windows reflecting the last golden light of the setting sun. In the distance, he could see the masts of ships rising above the rooflines, and beyond that, the glittering expanse of an ocean he didn't recognize.
"We need to learn about this place," he said quietly. "Quickly. Before someone—churches or otherwise—decides we're a problem that needs solving."
Kaal came to stand beside him, his expression grim. "Agreed. But where do we start?"
Before Lucian could answer, a sound echoed up from the street below—a crash, followed by shouting. Both men leaned forward, trying to see the source of the commotion.
Three floors down, in the narrow alley that ran between their building and the next, two figures were struggling. One was a man in what looked like a naval uniform, his jacket torn at the shoulder. The other was harder to make out—dressed in rags, moving with an odd, jerky quality that made Lucian's skin crawl.
The uniformed man shouted something Lucian couldn't quite hear, and then—
Light.
Brilliant, golden light that seemed to pour from the uniformed man's hands, wrapping around the ragged figure like chains. The ragged figure screamed, a sound of pure agony that cut through the evening air, and then it... dissolved. Simply came apart into wisps of black smoke that dissipated on the wind.
Lucian stumbled back from the window, his heart hammering in his chest. Beside him, Kaal had gone pale.
"Did you—" Kaal started.
"Yes," Lucian said. "I saw it."
They stared at each other, the implications settling over them like ice water.
This wasn't just a different place. This was a different kind of place. A place where men could summon light from their hands and dissolve other beings into smoke.
A place where, it seemed, magic was real.
The tavern two streets over from Mrs. Marsh's building was called The Salty Dog, according to the weathered sign that hung above its door. Kaal had suggested they venture out once the commotion below had died down, arguing that sitting in their room and panicking wouldn't help their situation. Lucian had agreed, though a part of him wanted nothing more than to hide under the thin blanket on his bed and pretend none of this was happening.
The interior of The Salty Dog was exactly what Lucian had expected from a dockside tavern—dim, smoky, filled with rough wooden tables and rougher men. The air smelled of ale and sweat and tobacco, and a haze of pipe smoke hung near the ceiling like a low cloud. A few oil lamps provided illumination, their light flickering and uncertain.
"We're going to stand out," Lucian muttered as they made their way to a table in the corner.
"We already stand out," Kaal replied. "Two men with no history, no accents that match this place, and no idea what we're doing. Best we can do is listen and learn."
They ordered ale from a serving girl who looked barely sixteen, paying with a few small copper coins they'd found in the pockets of their provided clothing. The ale, when it came, was warm and bitter, but Lucian drank it anyway, grateful for something to do with his hands.
At the table next to theirs, three men were deep in conversation. They wore the stained clothing of dock workers, and their hands bore the calluses and scars of hard labor. Lucian tried not to look like he was eavesdropping, focusing on his ale while his ears strained to catch every word.
"—heard about the incident on Copper Street," one of the men was saying. He was older than the others, with gray stubble and a nose that had been broken at least twice. "Church of Storms sent a Beyonder to deal with it."
"Another wraith?" the second man asked. This one was younger, with red hair and freckles.
"Seems like," the first man confirmed. "Third one this month. Makes you wonder what's stirring them up."
The third man, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. He was broader than the others, with thick arms and a scar running down one cheek. "My cousin works at the Harbor Authority. He says there've been other strange cases too. People appearing out of nowhere, with no papers. Some of them turn out to be touched—you know, corrupted. The churches have been busy."
"Touched by what?" the red-haired man asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Who knows? Cult activity, maybe. Or remnants from the Fifth Epoch's end. They say things are still settling." The scarred man took a long drink of his ale. "Point is, if you see someone acting strange, you report it. That's what the notices say."
Lucian felt Kaal's foot press against his under the table—a warning to stay calm, stay quiet.
"What about the ones who aren't corrupted?" the older man asked. "The normal folks who just... appear?"
"Churches take them in, usually. Question them. Try to figure out where they came from." The scarred man shrugged. "Some get released if they seem harmless. Others..." He made a gesture across his throat.
The conversation moved on to other topics—complaints about pay, gossip about a warehouse foreman, speculation about whether Loen would increase taxes again. But Lucian couldn't focus on any of it. His mind was still stuck on that single word: Beyonder.
And on the implications of what happened to people who mysteriously appeared in this city.
They left The Salty Dog an hour later, stepping out into a night that had grown properly dark. Gas lamps lined some of the streets—not all of them, Lucian noticed, with the nicer districts seemingly getting priority. In the Stacks, shadows pooled deep between buildings, and the only light came from windows and the occasional lamp carried by a passerby.
"We need to be careful," Kaal said as they walked back toward Mrs. Marsh's building. "Very careful. If the churches are watching for people like us..."
"Then we need to blend in," Lucian finished. "Learn the customs, the language patterns. Figure out how this world works before someone figures out we don't belong."
"And we need to understand what that man did in the alley. That light." Kaal's voice was low, barely audible over the sound of their footsteps. "The dock workers called him a Beyonder. Called that thing he fought a wraith. Lucian, if magic is real here—"
"Then we need to know the rules," Lucian said. "Before we accidentally break them."
They turned onto the street where Mrs. Marsh's building stood, and Lucian was about to suggest they start making a list of questions they needed answers to when Kaal suddenly stopped walking.
"What—" Lucian began, but Kaal held up a hand.
"Do you hear that?"
Lucian listened. At first, he heard only the usual city sounds—distant voices, the creak of buildings settling, the ever-present murmur of the ocean. But then, faintly, he caught it: a sound like crying. Or no, not crying exactly. More like... whimpering.
It was coming from the alley beside Mrs. Marsh's building.
"We should go inside," Lucian said, even as his feet started moving toward the sound.
"Agreed," Kaal said, following him anyway.
The alley was dark, lit only by the pale light of a crescent moon. Lucian's eyes struggled to adjust, to pick out shapes in the shadows. The whimpering grew louder, and then he saw it—a small figure huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around its knees.
A child. A girl, maybe eight or nine years old, with tangled dark hair and a dress that was more holes than fabric.
"Hey," Lucian said softly, crouching down several feet away from her. "Are you alright?"
The girl's head snapped up, and in the moonlight, Lucian could see her eyes—wide and frightened and far too bright. There was something wrong with them, he realized. They seemed to glow slightly, like a cat's eyes catching light.
"Stay back," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, as if she'd been screaming. "Please. I don't want to hurt you."
Kaal came to stand beside Lucian, and the girl flinched. "We're not going to hurt you," Kaal said, his voice gentle. "We just want to help."
"You can't help me," the girl said. "No one can. I'm... I'm changing. I can feel it. The voices in my head, they won't stop. They tell me to do things. Bad things."
Lucian felt ice settle in his stomach. The dock workers' conversation came back to him—people who were "touched," corrupted by something. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Eliza," the girl whispered. "I didn't mean to. I found a pretty stone by the docks, and I picked it up, and then..." She pressed her hands to her temples, tears streaming down her cheeks. "It got inside me. And now I can't make it leave."
Behind them, Lucian heard footsteps. He turned to see a figure emerge from the street—a woman in a long black robe, her face hidden by a hood. Silver symbols glinted on her clothing, catching the moonlight.
"Step away from the girl," the woman said, her voice cold and commanding. "She's contaminated. Exposure could corrupt you as well."
"She's just a child," Kaal said, but he moved back nonetheless, pulling Lucian with him.
The woman ignored them, moving forward with deliberate steps. She raised one hand, and Lucian saw she was holding something—a silver pendant in the shape of a moon. "Child," the woman said, her voice gentler now. "I am Sister Marisol of the Church of the Evernight Goddess. I can end your suffering. Will you allow it?"
"Will it hurt?" Eliza asked, her voice small.
"Only for a moment. And then you'll sleep. Forever, in the Goddess's embrace."
"Wait," Lucian said before he could stop himself. "There has to be another way. Can't you—"
Sister Marisol's head turned toward him, and even through the hood's shadow, Lucian could feel the weight of her gaze. "And who are you to question the church's methods? Are you a trained Beyonder? Do you understand the dangers of corruption? No." She turned back to Eliza. "This is a mercy, child. Trust me."
Eliza closed her eyes. "I'm tired of the voices," she whispered. "Make them stop."
The pendant began to glow, soft silver light spreading outward. Eliza's body went rigid, and then slack. She slumped against the wall, her too-bright eyes slowly fading to normal as the light left them.
Sister Marisol stood for a moment, head bowed, then she tucked the pendant back into her robes and turned to face Lucian and Kaal fully. "You're new to the Stacks," she said. It wasn't a question. "I haven't seen your faces before."
"We arrived recently," Kaal said carefully. "We're staying with Mrs. Marsh."
"Hmm." Sister Marisol tilted her head, studying them. "A word of advice, then. Don't interfere with church business. Don't pick up strange objects. Don't investigate things you don't understand. Port Vedas is dangerous for those who don't know its rules." She paused. "And if you're not what you seem—if you're hiding something—know that the churches will find out eventually. The Goddess sees all in darkness."
She walked past them, back toward the street, leaving them alone with Eliza's body.
Lucian stared at the small, still form, feeling sick. "She killed her," he said quietly. "Just... killed her."
"She said it was a mercy," Kaal said, but he sounded unconvinced. "That the girl was corrupted."
"By a stone. A stone she picked up."
They stood in silence for a moment longer, then Kaal touched Lucian's arm. "Come on. We should go inside. There's nothing we can do here."
Lucian allowed himself to be led away, but he looked back once at Eliza's body, at the place where Sister Marisol had stood with her glowing pendant. And he thought about power—about light pouring from hands, about pendants that could end lives, about stones that could corrupt an innocent child.
About a world where magic was real and churches acted as judge, jury, and executioner.
What kind of place have we been released into? he wondered.
And more importantly: Why?
End of Chapter 1