Lucian didn't sleep.
He lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling beams while the sounds of the Stacks filtered through the thin walls. Someone was coughing in the next room—a wet, rattling sound that spoke of illness left untreated. Below, a man and woman argued in muffled voices, their words indistinct but their anger clear. Further away, a baby cried.
His mind kept returning to Eliza's face. The way her eyes had glowed. The way they'd stopped glowing.
'Contaminated,' Sister Marisol had said. As if the girl were spoiled meat rather than a child. As if mercy meant death.
The logical part of Lucian's mind—the part that seemed clearer now than it had any right to be—understood the calculus. If the girl was truly corrupted, if she posed a danger to others, then perhaps swift action was necessary. But the rest of him, the part that still felt human despite the strangeness of this new existence, recoiled at the efficiency of it.
A girl had died. No trial. No attempt at treatment. Just a glowing pendant and then silence.
'This world operates on different principles,' he thought. 'Rules I don't understand yet. Dangers I can't evaluate.'
Across the room, Kaal's breathing had finally evened out into something resembling sleep around an hour ago. Lucian envied him that ability to shut down, to process trauma through unconsciousness. His own mind wouldn't stop cataloging, analyzing, trying to build a framework for understanding this place.
The six o'clock bell rang, deep and resonant. Dawn light began creeping through the cracks in the walls.
Time to figure out how to survive.
Mrs. Marsh appeared at their door shortly after seven, carrying a pot of something that might have been porridge. She set it on the small table without ceremony, along with two wooden bowls and spoons.
"Eat," she said. "You'll need your strength if you're going to find work today."
The porridge was gray and lumpy, with no discernible flavor beyond a faint suggestion of oats and perhaps salt. Lucian ate mechanically, noting the way Mrs. Marsh watched them both with an expression that mixed concern and calculation.
"The docks are your best chance," she said, pouring herself a cup of weak tea from a chipped pot. "They're always looking for laborers—loading cargo, unloading ships. The work's hard, but they pay daily. Copper coins, mostly. A few bronze pieces if you're lucky."
"What's the exchange rate?" Kaal asked. His eyes were slightly red, but his voice was steady. "Between copper and bronze?"
Mrs. Marsh gave him an odd look. "Ten copper to one bronze. Twenty bronze to one silver. You really don't remember anything, do you?"
"The basics are... foggy," Lucian said carefully. "We appreciate your patience."
"Hmm." Mrs. Marsh sipped her tea, her weathered hands wrapped around the cup as if seeking warmth. "Well. Room and board here is fifteen copper a week. Per person. I'll give you until Sunday to come up with this week's payment. After that..." She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
Thirty copper coins. Lucian had no context for whether that was expensive or cheap, but the weight of it settled in his stomach like lead.
"The foreman at Pier Seven is called Galvin," Mrs. Marsh continued. "Tell him Agnes Marsh sent you. He owes me a favor—his daughter was sick last winter, and I brought her medicine from my own wages. He might give you a chance." She paused, her expression darkening. "But understand something. The docks are dangerous, especially for men who don't know the unwritten rules. Keep your head down. Don't ask questions. Don't stare at things that seem strange. And for the Goddess's sake, don't touch anything that glows, hums, or makes you feel uneasy."
"Like the stone Eliza found," Lucian said quietly.
Mrs. Marsh's teacup rattled slightly against its saucer. "You saw that, did you? And the Sister?" At their nods, she closed her eyes briefly. "Then you understand. This city isn't just dangerous in the normal ways—crime, disease, accidents. There are... other things. Older things. Items washed up from the sea, or brought back from expeditions to the interior. Most are harmless. Some aren't." She stood, smoothing her apron. "The churches do their best to monitor such things, but they can't be everywhere. So rule one: if something seems wrong, walk away."
She left them with that advice and an empty porridge pot.
Pier Seven jutted into the harbor like a crooked finger, its wooden planks weathered gray by salt and time. Ships of various sizes were moored along its length—merchant vessels with canvas sails, a steam-powered cargo hauler belching black smoke, smaller fishing boats clustered at the far end. The air smelled of brine and tar and fish, with underlying notes of sewage and industrial chemicals.
Men swarmed over the pier like ants, hauling crates and barrels, shouting instructions in that archaic English that still sounded foreign to Lucian's ears. Most wore simple work clothes similar to what he and Kaal had been given—canvas trousers, rough shirts, cloth caps. A few had leather gloves. None seemed to have proper safety equipment, and Lucian noticed more than one worker sporting bandaged hands or limping.
'Workplace safety regulations don't exist here,' he noted mentally. 'Or if they do, they're not enforced.'
The foreman's office was a small wooden structure at the pier's base, its door propped open despite the morning chill. Inside, a man sat at a desk covered in papers, ledgers, and what looked like shipping manifests. He was perhaps fifty, with graying hair, a thick mustache, and the solid build of someone who'd worked physical labor most of his life.
"Galvin?" Kaal asked from the doorway.
The man looked up, his expression automatically suspicious. "Who's asking?"
"Agnes Marsh sent us. Said you might have work available."
Something shifted in Galvin's face—not quite a smile, but a softening around the eyes. "Agnes did, did she?" He leaned back in his chair, studying them both with the assessing gaze of someone who'd hired and fired countless men. "You two look fit enough. Got experience with cargo handling?"
"We're fast learners," Lucian said, which was true enough and avoided the lie.
Galvin snorted. "Everyone says that. Usually means they'll be useless for the first week and maybe competent by the second." He pulled out a ledger, making a note with a pencil. "Standard rate is five copper a day for general labor. Work starts at seven, ends at six, with an hour break at noon. You get Sunday off. Miss a day without good reason, and you're done. Cause trouble, and you're done. Steal anything—anything at all—and I'll have you brought before the Harbor Authority. Clear?"
"Clear," Kaal said.
"Good. You can start tomorrow. Today you can watch and learn." Galvin stood, moving to the door. "Hendricks!" he bellowed, his voice carrying across the pier. "Get over here!"
A man detached himself from a group hauling barrels and jogged over. He was younger than Galvin, perhaps thirty, with the lean, wiry build of someone who burned calories as fast as he consumed them. His face was sun-weathered, with permanent squint lines around pale blue eyes.
"Yeah, boss?"
"These two are starting tomorrow. Show them the ropes today. Make sure they don't do anything stupid."
Hendricks looked Lucian and Kaal up and down, his expression neutral. "They know how to lift?"
"They're about to learn," Galvin said. He pointed at Lucian and Kaal. "Watch. Listen. Don't get in the way. And if you see anything strange—and I mean anything—you come find me immediately. Understood?"
"Understood," Lucian said, though he wasn't entirely sure what qualified as 'strange' in a world where men could shoot light from their hands.
The next four hours were an education in physical labor and social hierarchy.
Hendricks led them along the pier, explaining the layout with the efficient brevity of someone who'd given this tour many times. The pier was divided into sections based on cargo type. The northern end handled foodstuffs and general goods. The southern end dealt with raw materials—timber, ore, coal. The middle sections were for manufactured items and, Hendricks explained in a lower voice, "special shipments."
"What makes them special?" Kaal asked.
Hendricks gave him a sharp look. "The kind you don't ask about. The kind that come with church seals and armed guards."
They watched as teams of workers unloaded a merchant vessel that had arrived from somewhere called Midseashire. The cargo was a mixture of textiles, pottery, and sealed wooden crates marked with stamps Lucian didn't recognize. The work was brutally physical—men hauling heavy loads up gangplanks, across the pier, and into waiting warehouses. Those who faltered or dropped cargo received immediate verbal abuse from the overseers.
"See that guy?" Hendricks pointed to a worker with a pronounced limp. "Dropped a crate of rum last month. Bottles broke. Cost came out of his wages—fifteen bronze. He'll be working it off until spring."
'Workplace injuries lead to debt,' Lucian noted. 'No workers' compensation. No safety net.'
They watched a team unload barrels of salted fish, the stench almost overwhelming. They observed men using block and tackle to lift cargo too heavy for human muscle alone, the ropes creaking ominously. They saw a worker get his hand caught between two crates, his scream cut short as he bit down on his own fist rather than show weakness.
"Why doesn't anyone help him?" Kaal asked quietly.
"Can't afford to stop working," Hendricks said. He didn't sound callous, just matter-of-fact. "The foreman tracks productivity. Fall behind your quota, and you get bumped to half-pay tomorrow. Do that too many times, and you're out." He spat over the side of the pier into the gray-green water below. "It's not personal. It's just how it works."
Around noon, a bell rang from somewhere near the harbor master's office. The workers stopped immediately, dropping their loads wherever they stood and heading toward a series of long wooden tables set up in the shade of a warehouse. Hendricks led Lucian and Kaal to the tables, where women in simple dresses were serving food from large pots.
"Lunch is provided," Hendricks explained. "It's factored into the wage. Not much, but it fills the stomach."
The meal was a watery stew containing vegetables Lucian didn't recognize and small pieces of what might have been fish or might have been something else. It was served with hard bread and weak beer. The workers ate quickly, efficiently, barely talking.
Lucian found himself sitting across from a man who looked to be in his late twenties, with dark skin, close-cropped hair, and a scar running from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone. The man ate his stew in mechanical spoonfuls, his attention seemingly focused inward.
"First day?" the man asked without looking up.
"That obvious?" Lucian replied.
"You're watching everyone too much. Makes you stand out." The man finished his stew and started on the bread, tearing it into pieces and dipping them in the remaining liquid. "Name's Darius."
"Lucian. This is Kaal."
Darius nodded once, acknowledging them both. "Advice: keep your head down, do your work, don't get involved in politics."
"Politics?" Kaal asked.
"The groups." Darius gestured vaguely at the other tables with his bread. "The Loenese workers, the locals, the Feysacians. Everyone's got their own crew, their own loyalties. You're new, which means you're neutral ground right now. That's valuable. Don't waste it by picking a side too early."
"What about you?" Lucian asked. "What side are you on?"
Darius smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "My own."
The bell rang again, signaling the end of the lunch break. Workers rose, returning to their tasks with the resigned efficiency of draft animals. Darius stood as well, but paused before leaving.
"One more thing," he said, his voice low enough that only Lucian and Kaal could hear. "There are people on the docks who aren't what they seem. Extra eyes watching for contraband, heretics, cultists. If someone asks you odd questions—about your dreams, your beliefs, whether you've seen anything unusual—give simple answers and walk away. Don't elaborate. Don't explain."
"Why are you telling us this?" Lucian asked.
"Because Agnes Marsh is a good woman who's helped a lot of people. If she sent you here, you're probably worth keeping alive." Darius turned and walked away, rejoining a work crew unloading sacks of grain.
Kaal looked at Lucian. "This place is more complicated than it appears."
"Every place is," Lucian said. But he filed away Darius's warning, adding it to his growing mental list of survival rules.
The afternoon brought new revelations.
Hendricks led them to the southern end of the pier, where the "special shipments" were handled. A cargo vessel had arrived from somewhere in the Berserk Sea, according to Hendricks, and its cargo required careful handling.
The crates being unloaded were marked with symbols—not words, but geometric patterns that seemed to shift slightly when Lucian looked at them directly. Each crate was accompanied by a man in a gray uniform with a silver badge pinned to his chest. The badge bore the image of an eye behind a half-closed door.
"Church of the Evernight Goddess," Hendricks murmured. "Monitoring mystical items. Don't stare at the crates. Don't touch them. Don't even think too hard about them."
"What's in them?" Kaal asked.
"Don't know. Don't want to know. Last year a worker got curious, pried open a crate when no one was looking. Found something inside—never did hear exactly what. Church took him away. Never came back." Hendricks kept his eyes forward, watching the careful procession of crates moving from ship to pier to heavily guarded warehouse. "The official story was he'd been corrupted. Needed 'treatment.' The unofficial story is they executed him as a warning."
Lucian watched a church official—similar to Sister Marisol, but male, with the same black robes and silver symbols—inspect each crate as it was unloaded. The man held some kind of instrument, a brass device with multiple lenses and what might have been a compass built into its face. He'd point it at each crate, observe the readings, then make notes in a leather-bound journal.
'They have technology for detecting supernatural contamination,' Lucian observed. 'Which implies both a common enough problem that tools exist, and a sophisticated enough understanding to create those tools.'
The church official finished his inspection and spoke briefly with the ship's captain—a woman with sun-bleached hair and a coat that marked her as someone of higher status. They seemed to be negotiating something, their voices too low to hear. Finally, the captain pulled out a leather wallet and counted out several silver coins. The church official pocketed them without expression and signed a document the captain produced.
"Is that a bribe?" Kaal whispered.
"Expediting fee," Hendricks corrected. "Everything costs money. Even divine approval."
They continued their observation, watching the complex dance of commerce and mysticism play out along the pier. Around four o'clock, as the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, something happened.
A worker—an older man Lucian had noticed earlier, moving slower than the others—suddenly dropped the crate he was carrying. It hit the pier with a crack, and something inside broke with a sound like shattering glass.
Everyone froze.
The church official spun toward the sound, his brass instrument already in hand. He approached the broken crate, knelt beside it, and his expression went from annoyed to alarmed in the space of a heartbeat.
"Clear the pier!" he shouted. "Everyone back! Now!"
Workers scattered, Hendricks grabbing both Lucian and Kaal and pulling them toward the warehouse. "Move! Don't look back!"
But Lucian did look back.
The broken crate was leaking something—not liquid, but a kind of vapor that shimmered in the air like heat waves. The older worker who'd dropped it was still standing nearby, frozen, his mouth open in a silent scream. As Lucian watched, the man's skin began to turn gray, the color spreading from his hands up his arms like frost on glass.
The church official was chanting something in a language Lucian didn't recognize, his pendant—similar to Sister Marisol's—now glowing with that same soft silver light. The light extended outward, forming a barrier around the broken crate and the affected worker.
But it wasn't fast enough. The gray had reached the man's chest now, his eyes, his face. He collapsed, his body rigid, and hit the pier with a dull thud.
The silver light intensified, and the shimmering vapor began to contract, pulling back toward the broken crate. The church official maintained his chant, sweat beading on his forehead, until finally the vapor dissipated entirely.
Silence settled over the pier.
The church official stood slowly, his face pale. He looked at the petrified worker—because that's what he was now, Lucian realized, turned to stone or something like it—and shook his head. Then he turned to the gathered crowd.
"The contamination is contained," he announced, his voice carrying across the water. "Resume your work. The body will be removed by church personnel."
Just like that, workers began moving again. Teams returned to their cargo. The machinery of commerce resumed its rhythm.
Hendricks released Lucian and Kaal, his grip having left marks on their shoulders. "And that," he said quietly, "is why we don't drop the special crates."
They walked back to Mrs. Marsh's building in silence as evening settled over Port Vedas. The gas lamps were being lit by lamplighters—young boys with long poles, moving from lamp to lamp with practiced efficiency. The Stacks came alive with the sounds of people returning from work, of meals being prepared, of the city transitioning from day to night.
Lucian's mind was churning.
'Two deaths in as many days,' he thought. 'Eliza contaminated by a stone. That worker petrified by vapor from a broken crate. This world has hazards beyond my comprehension. Natural dangers mixed with supernatural ones.'
The analytical part of his mind was trying to construct a framework. There were rules here—he'd seen evidence of them. The churches monitored mystical items. They had tools for detection. They acted swiftly to contain threats. But the system wasn't perfect. People still died. Corruption still happened.
'And we're loose variables,' he realized. 'Individuals who appeared without explanation, without history. The churches are watching for people like us. Darius warned about extra eyes on the docks.'
"We need to be careful," Kaal said, echoing Lucian's thoughts. "More careful than we've been."
"Agreed."
They climbed the narrow stairs to their room. Mrs. Marsh wasn't home yet—her shift at the textile mill wouldn't end until eight. The room felt smaller than it had that morning, more confining. Lucian moved to the window, looking out over the Stacks, watching smoke rise from a hundred chimneys.
"Five copper a day," Kaal said from behind him. "Each. That's ten copper together. Thirty copper a week for room and board, plus we need to eat beyond what's provided at the docks. We'll barely break even."
"And that's assuming we don't get injured. Or fired. Or disappear like the man who got curious about a crate." Lucian turned from the window. "This city grinds people up, Kaal. The normal dangers and the supernatural ones. We're at the bottom of a system designed to extract labor and discard those who can't keep up."
"So what do we do?"
Good question. They needed money, which meant work. They needed information, which meant social connections and observation. They needed to avoid church attention, which meant appearing normal, unremarkable, safe.
"We survive," Lucian said finally. "Day by day. We work the docks. We learn the rules. We watch and listen and stay invisible." He paused. "And we figure out what we are. Why we remember fragments of another life. Why we ended up here."
Kaal nodded slowly. "The man with the golden light. The Sister with her pendant. They have power—real, tangible power. If magic exists in this world..."
"Then maybe we can learn it too," Lucian finished. "But carefully. Very carefully."
They heard footsteps on the stairs—Mrs. Marsh returning home. A moment later she appeared in their doorway, looking exhausted. Lint clung to her dress, and her fingers were red and raw.
"Did Galvin give you work?" she asked.
"We start tomorrow," Kaal said. "Thank you. For the introduction."
Mrs. Marsh nodded, leaning against the doorframe. "Good. That's good." She was silent for a moment, then: "You saw something today, didn't you? On the docks. Something that frightened you."
"A worker dropped a crate," Lucian said. "He didn't survive."
"Ah." Mrs. Marsh closed her eyes. "Jenkins, probably. Old fool was half-blind but wouldn't admit it. The harbor is cruel to the weak." She straightened, pushing away from the doorframe. "Listen to me, both of you. This city will take everything you have if you let it. Your strength, your health, your hope. Don't let it. Find something to hold onto—a goal, a dream, whatever keeps you human. Because without that, you're just another body waiting to be ground down."
She left them then, heading to her own room down the hall.
Lucian returned to the window. In the distance, he could see the spires of what must be churches—tall buildings with architecture that seemed designed to inspire awe and fear in equal measure. One had a symbol at its peak that looked like a moon. Another showed a lightning bolt. A third displayed gears and cogs.
The Evernight Goddess. The Lord of Storms. The God of Steam and Machinery.
Gods who were apparently real. Who had churches that monitored mystical threats. Who employed Beyonders with supernatural abilities.
'We're not in Nepal anymore,' Lucian thought, and the absurdity of the understatement almost made him laugh.
They were somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dangerous and strange and governed by rules they didn't understand. But they were alive, which meant they had a chance.
He just had to figure out what that chance was for.
Sleep came more easily that night, exhaustion overriding anxiety. But Lucian's dreams were fractured things—images of mountains he couldn't quite place, faces he couldn't quite remember, and a vast gray space that stretched in all directions like a prison made of fog.
He woke once in the darkest part of night, his heart racing, convinced he'd heard someone calling his name. But when he listened, there was only the usual symphony of the Stacks—coughing, arguing, crying, living.
Beside him, Kaal muttered something in his sleep. Words in a language Lucian almost recognized but couldn't quite place.
He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, and waited for dawn.