The sun hurt.
It poured across the snowfields like molten glass, too bright after a lifetime of
tunnels. Gizmo squinted against it, one hand shading his eyes, the other resting
on the Orb that drifted at his shoulder — a dim blue beacon against the cold.
"So that's the sky," he muttered. "Too big. Should come with walls."
The Orb pulsed once, its glow shifting in quiet amusement. Gizmo adjusted his
hood and began his descent toward the valley below.
The world unfolded in colors he didn't yet trust: slate mountains fading into
bronze ridges, rivers silvering in the light, forests sighing with green. And
beyond it all, nestled like a heart in smoke and iron, lay Emberlight — the city
that would test him, use him, and unknowingly help him remember who he
was.
He didn't know it yet, but Emberlight was humming too.
The road was rough. Rocks slid underfoot, and the cold bit through his boots.
He'd scavenged what he could from the dwarves' stores — a patched coat, a
cracked compass, and a half-rusted hammer that reminded him of home. The
Orb floated beside him, occasionally sparking faint blue whenever it passed
iron veins embedded in the stone. It was listening, maybe learning.
By midday, clouds gathered, and snow began to fall again.
Gizmo paused on a ledge overlooking the lower valley. Emberlight's towers
were visible now — thick, crooked spires capped with brass domes that glinted
like molten suns. A network of steam plumes drifted across them, weaving
light and shadow together in endless rhythm.
"Looks like a forge that learned to breathe," he murmured.
The Orb pulsed in agreement.
He continued downward, humming under his breath. Each step brought a new
sound: wind, birds, the distant groan of engines far below. Every noise fed his
curiosity. He recorded it mentally — the rhythm, the pitch, the pattern. He
didn't realize it yet, but he was mapping the world in sound.
By dusk, he reached the gates of Emberlight.
They loomed twice his height, built from blackened iron and carved with sigils
that flickered like embered veins. The guards — two burly dwarves and a
human woman — looked him up and down as he approached.
"Goblins don't usually knock," one dwarf grunted.
"I'm full of surprises," Gizmo said, tilting his head. "Do I pay the toll or just
charm you with conversation?"
The human smirked. "You can try both."
He grinned and produced a small copper token. "My last coin and my finest
words: I fix what others break."
The Orb glowed faintly behind him as if punctuating the offer.
The guards exchanged looks. The dwarven one shrugged. "Let him through. If
he causes trouble, the Guild'll chew him up anyway."
"Pleasant city," Gizmo muttered, stepping past them.
Inside, Emberlight was alive.
Steam hissed from vents. Clockwork birds darted overhead. Streetlamps
flickered with rune-fire instead of oil.
The scent of metal and coal mixed with roasting bread and fried onions. The
air was thick with invention — and arrogance.
The Foundry Quarter stretched ahead, a labyrinth of workshops where sparks
danced in open windows and engines coughed smoke like beasts. Apprentices
shouted orders, dwarves argued over schematics, and humans bargained for
materials too dangerous to touch.
Gizmo's eyes widened. "Beautiful chaos," he whispered.
The Orb hummed low, its light resonating faintly with the rhythm of the city's
magic.
He could feel it — the whole place out of tune, just slightly. The forges sang in
clashing keys. The machines worked, but not well. The resonance was wrong.
He couldn't help himself. He followed the disharmony.
By evening, he'd fixed three broken valves, adjusted a blacksmith's runic
torch, and corrected the alignment of a merchant's automaton leg — none of
which he was paid for.
"Do you ever not tinker?" the Orb seemed to ask through its hum.
Gizmo smirked. "Do you ever not judge?"
He ended up in the Market Square, where a massive brass statue of an old
artificer — Thalos of the Seven Rings — loomed over the crowd. Its plaque
read:
He taught machines to remember, and they never forgot him.
The name sent a pulse through Gizmo's veins, though he couldn't say why.
The Orb glowed faintly in recognition, then dimmed again.
As the sun dipped, Gizmo wandered into a tavern glowing with amber light. Its
sign read The Melted Crucible. The air inside was thick with warmth and oil
smoke. Artificers, mercenaries, and guild runners filled the space.
He found a quiet corner, ordered something calling itself beer, and watched the
room.
A halfling nearby was dealing cards, laughing too loudly. Two dwarves argued
ver an engine blueprint. And near the bar, a cloaked elf with silver hair sat
alone, polishing a runic blade that shimmered faintly in rhythm with the Orb.
Gizmo's pulse quickened. He didn't know her name yet — Kaelira — but the
air between them already felt charged.
The Orb flickered, almost shyly.
Gizmo took a slow sip of his drink and smiled. "Well," he muttered to himself,
"looks like the mountain isn't done with us yet."
(End of Chapter One)