The city’s heartbeat was a dull, distant hum from Lysandra Skylar’s perch atop the cathedral steeple. Up here, the wind was clean, scrubbing away the noise and the scent of the streets below. More importantly, it scrubbed away the thoughts. The chaotic symphony of a million minds—their worries, their loves, their petty grievances—blended into a single, manageable note of white noise. Her mindreading ability was more a curse than a gift. This was the only place she could find true silence.
Her gaze drifted downwards. Right next to the grand old church stood the First City Bank, a severe, pillared monolith of granite. Lysandra smiled faintly. She often wondered which was the city’s more powerful religion: the faith practiced in the cathedral’s pews, or the one worshiped at the bank’s counters. Coin or God? The answer seemed obvious.
Across the manicured green of the central park sat the Grand Library and the Rose Theatre. On quiet nights, Lysandra liked to lie on the theatre’s copper roof, letting the sounds of the orchestra wash over her. She didn't need to be inside; the music was purer from a distance. Her favourite was always Viola Reddington. When Viola played the violin, it was more than just music. It was a story screamed through horsehair and wood. Lysandra could feel the raw, untamed passion behind every note—the bow digging into the strings with a furious energy, then soaring into a passage so tender and full of longing it felt like a confession. It was the only mind she ever enjoyed touching, and she could do it without ever getting close.
Above the park, the city reservoir glimmered like a placid blue eye. Beyond it, was supposed to be the cinema, but that had recently been burnt down. Beyond that the one residential district began, culminating in the three towers of the Mossbrook family estate at the city's rear. Lysandra cringed every time she looked at them. Their stark, modern design was an architectural middle finger to the city's established grace. At the bottom of the park, the Petalcrest Palace sprawled in elegant, golden-stoned beauty, its gardens a riot of colour. Tucked discreetly behind it were the functional, grey blocks of the government administration building and the hospital.
The city was cradled by nature. To the west, a great mountain loomed, its shadow stretching long in the afternoon sun. That mountain was the start of a vast, unbroken range that curved from west to south to east, walling them in. To the north, the harbour opened onto the endless, churning sea.
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Her eyes followed the line of the western mountain down to the Fort, its stone walls a stark dividing line in the city's heart. Beyond it lay the exclusive district: the arena, the bustling market, and the opulent homes of the wealthy. To the east, the real city emerged, smudged with soot and ambition. The Torqueburn workshops clanged and hissed, the Vicinage factories billowed smoke, and the Veilstorm’s imposing storm tower stood sentinel. From its peak, you could get a perfect view of Party Plaza and the cheerful, rowdy lights of Hilda’s Tavern. Encircling it all was the Wall, a grim necessity protecting them from the horrors of the wasteland beyond.
The world was vast. The mountain blocked her view, but she knew what lay beyond. Southeast, Flora Mossbrook’s great greenhouse; south, the forests and farms; east, the Sea of Sand and the Pearl Mountains, where the Tanzanight Ether mines were nestled. Far to the north were the ice caps where Avalon had ventured, and to the far southeast, the great unknown that had called to Aria. Two of her sisters, scattered to the winds.
A flicker of movement below drew her attention. A lone figure in a severe grey coat was approaching the cathedral’s memorial garden. Elara Veilstorm. Like clockwork. She came every week to pay respects to the family and friends lost in the Great Calamity. At thirty-nine, Elara was one of the oldest, a survivor who had seen it all. She was a leader, but one who preferred the shadows, pulling strings with a quiet, unnerving patience.
Normally, Lysandra would have looked away. The thoughts of others were an exhausting burden. But Elara… Elara was different. There was a disciplined silence to her public mind, a wall that was intriguing rather than repelling. For the first time in a long time, Lysandra felt the pull of curiosity.
She leaned forward, her relaxed posture tightening with focus. She let the white noise of the city fade, the individual thoughts of the people on the street below becoming distinct whispers she could easily ignore. She found the single, quiet thread of Elara Veilstorm’s consciousness. And, breaking her own most sacred rule, she pulled.
The cold hit her first—a chilling, absolute lack of empathy. Then came the images, the calculations, the intricate, interlocking pieces of a grand design. Lysandra’s breath hitched. Her heart began to pound against her ribs.
This wasn't a plan for political maneuvering or financial gain.
What she saw in Elara Veilstorm’s mind was a blueprint for annihilation.
