The Capital was not a city; it was a testament to arrogance. Known as Aethelgard, the Silver City was a sprawling metropolis of white stone and gleaming chrome, powered by massive Aetheria-turbines that hummed like a captured god.
"It's beautiful," Lyra whispered as they stood at the edge of the smog-choked forest. "And terrifying."
"It's a graveyard with lights," Kaelen replied. His fifty-year-old cynicism was at an all-time high. He saw the "miracle" of the city for what it was: a high-velocity drain on the planet's lifeblood.
To enter, they couldn't be assassins. They needed a new skin. Using the gold Kaelen had scavenged from the acolytes, they bought the clothes of traveling scholars—a group common enough in a city obsessed with "discovery."