The light won't last. It never does.
Even as the people marvel, as they clutch onto each other with desperate, fleeting joy, I turn away. I've seen enough—or rather, I've heard enough. Their wonder, their awe, their heartbreak. It's always the same. A cruel trick played over and over, and every time, they fall for it.
The slums stretch before me, newly illuminated but unchanged in its misery. Mud clings to my boots as I step through the narrow alleys, the stench of rot thick in the humid air. The ground squelches beneath my feet, and somewhere in the distance, I hear the telltale crack of a fight breaking out—someone who didn't get enough food, or maybe someone who took too much. Either way, it's not my problem.
The closer I get to the mines, the quieter the world becomes. Not peaceful—never that—but heavy. The kind of silence that settles in places where hope has long since withered away.
I step over broken planks, sidestep a collapsed structure, and keep moving. The buildings here are worse than the rest of the slums—half-buried in dust, sagging under their own weight. Some of them used to be homes. Now, they're just part of the landscape, blending into the filth like they were always meant to crumble.
Ahead, I hear the shift of machinery. The dull, rhythmic groan of gears turning, of something massive grinding against stone. The mines never stop, not really. Even in the dead of night, something is always moving beneath the surface.
Then, I hear it—the low hum of his power.
The manager.
His Wave crackles faintly in the air, tendrils of energy pulsing against the stone walls, sinking into the mines below. Controlling the lights. Controlling us.
I roll my shoulders, exhaling slowly.
Another day. Another shift in the dark.
I step forward, letting the mines swallow me whole.
The manager stands at the entrance, arms crossed over his chest, his expression pinched with his usual scowl. His uniform is slightly cleaner than the rest, but the dirt still clings to the folds. His boots are polished but worn at the heels—like he still clings to the idea that he's better than the rest of us but knows deep down that he isn't.
"You're late," he mutters, voice as dry as the dust settling in my throat. His accent is different from the slum-born, the sharp drawl of the Length District still clinging to his words, though he speaks as if it pains him to admit where he's from.
I stop a few feet from him, tilting my head slightly. "They say the sun was out."
His expression twists, as if I spat on his boots. "So?"
"So, you should know better than to expect people to show up on time when they're being fed lies," I say, adjusting the blindfold around my eyes. Not that it matters. My world remains the same—black and white, shadows bleeding into one another.
He scoffs at me. "Spare me the philosophy. You're here now. Get below before I dock your ration for the week."
I don't move. He doesn't like that. His grip tightens around the railing beside him, his fingers pale against the rusted metal. His Wave hums faintly in the air, threading through the stone, slithering into the tunnels beneath our feet. He controls the light in the mines. He thinks that makes him in control of us.
But I've never cared for the light.
"You have something to say?" he grits out, his patience thinning.
I shrug. "Just wondering what it feels like."
His brow furrows. "What?"
"To be from Length but stuck here. To be close enough to the powerful to taste it but never close enough to have a seat at their table." I tilt my head. "Must burn."
His jaw tightens. For a moment, the lights flicker—just slightly, just enough to betray his anger.
Then he exhales through his nose, composing himself. "You're lucky I don't send you into the lower tunnels for that."
"Maybe." I step past him, the scent of sweat and frustration lingering in the air between us. "But we both know you won't."
He says nothing as I descend into the mines.
But I can feel his glare on my back long after I disappear into the dark.
The mines stretch deep beneath the surface, a labyrinth of tunnels carved into stone long before my time. The walls are jagged, sweating with dampness, the air thick with the scent of iron and old earth. The deeper I go, the heavier it feels—like the weight of the entire world is pressing down, waiting to crush those who toil beneath it.
Red lights pulse along the ceilings, casting everything in a sickly, blood-washed glow. They flicker in uneven intervals, barely strong enough to push back the darkness, more like dying embers than true illumination. The shadows stretch unnaturally beneath them, elongating like clawed hands reaching from the depths.
The workers move beneath the red haze, their figures twisted and blurred by the dimness, their faces hollow and skeletal under the crimson cast. The glow makes their sweat shimmer, makes their exhaustion look like open wounds.
Machines groan in the distance, their metallic cries swallowed by the oppressive heat. Sparks flicker as pickaxes strike stone, and the air is filled with the rhythmic clang of labor—desperate, ceaseless.
I can feel the glances of some workers as I pass. Their eyes dull, and their expressions unreadable. Beneath the red lights, they don't even look human, just shadows stitched together by exhaustion.
This place is meant to keep us alive just enough to work, but dead enough not to fight back.
And under the red glow, it's easy to believe we're already buried.
Samael retrieves his pickaxe from the storage rack near the entrance of the tunnel he is about to delve into. The metal is cool against his calloused fingers. The handle is rough with wear, molded by countless hands before his. He doesn't linger. The red lights overhead flicker as if they might give out at any moment, and the deeper tunnels are calling him.
The further he moves from the entrance, the weaker the manager's Wave becomes. The red glow sputters, dimming with each step. It's no secret the man was dumped here because his ability is lacking—he can barely sustain the light past the main tunnels. The deeper sections of the mine are an abyss he cannot touch.
But Samael doesn't need light.
As the red haze fades into nothing, swallowed by thick, impenetrable black, he tightens his grip on the pickaxe and presses forward. His world is not one of sight but of sensation. The air shifts differently in the deeper tunnels, heavier, damp with something old.
He listens.
The vibrations from distant tools striking stone ripple through the walls, guiding him. Every footstep, every breath, every small shift in the earth sends out a pulse. The tunnels become a map in his mind, shaped not by light but by echoes. He steps with certainty, unfazed by the darkness. The walls hum beneath his fingertips, speaking in subtle tremors. He follows their language, weaving through the mine with an ease the others can't grasp.
This deep, where even the manager's feeble Wave cannot reach, it's just him and the stone.
And for once, it feels almost peaceful.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eda pulled her threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders as she walked briskly through the slums, her breath visible in the cold morning air. The streets were already alive with movement—miners trudging toward the tunnels, merchants setting up their stalls, the ever-present stench of damp stone and desperation clinging to the air. She ignored the weight in her stomach, the gnawing anxiety that came with every assignment.
The transport station loomed ahead, a rusted structure that rattled whenever the massive steel carriages pulled in. The vehicles were bulky, built more for function than comfort, their exteriors caked in dust from endless trips between the slums and the wealthier Length District. She hated the sight of them.
She didn't know who she'd be serving today. That was the worst part—never knowing. Some days it was factory work, scrubbing soot-covered machinery until her hands were raw. Other times, she was sent to the homes of the privileged, ordered to clean floors that gleamed brighter than anything she had ever owned.
The overseer, a gaunt man with a permanent scowl, stood by the loading area, ticking names off his worn ledger. Eda stepped forward, forcing her expression to remain neutral as his beady eyes flicked over her.
"Eda, huh?" He barely spared her a glance before jerking his chin toward the nearest transport. "Length District. Private service. Don't screw it up."
She swallowed hard. Private service meant working in someone's home—face-to-face with the very people who controlled their world. She climbed into the transport without a word, settling into the hard metal seat as the doors slammed shut.
As the engine rumbled to life and the transport lurched forward, she pressed her forehead against the cold glass, watching the slums shrink behind her. She had no idea what awaited her in the Length District.
But whatever it was, she doubted it would be kind.
As the transport rumbled forward, Eda watched as the world outside was so much more different than what she is used to. Even though this was her first time experiencing light, and she had already took in most of everything when she was back in the slums. It was sill marveling yet terrifying. The slums, once shrouded in a perpetual gray haze, were now bathed in a rare, fleeting glow. It wasn't real daylight—not the true light stolen from the world, but a synthetic, controlled radiance allowed by the rulers of Length District. Even so, it was enough to reveal the filth clinging to the cracked streets, the sagging rooftops patched with scrap metal, and the weary faces of the people who had only ever known this existence.
For a moment, she caught glimpses of things she had only ever imagined in the dark—clothes stained in colors she could barely name, banners tattered yet still clinging to vibrant pigments, and the sheen of water puddles reflecting the glow above like fragmented pieces of a long-lost world.
Then, as the transport carried her further away, the slums disappeared, swallowed by towering steel walls that separated the destitute from the privileged. The moment they passed through the reinforced gates, the difference was blinding.
The Length District was a world apart. Skyscrapers stretched into the sky, their surfaces smooth and gleaming, bathed in artificial light that pulsed in steady, rhythmic patterns. Roads paved with polished stone glowed faintly beneath the weight of passing vehicles, sleek, hovering machines that glided effortlessly above the ground. Massive digital billboards flickered with propaganda, broadcasting messages of prosperity and order, each one a cruel reminder to those from the slums of how little they truly had.
The air itself felt different, cleaner, crisper, and tinged with a sterile coldness that sent shivers down Eda's spine. The people here walked with a purpose, their clothes pristine, woven with threads that shimmered under the manufactured light. Their faces were sharp, untouched by exhaustion, their eyes filled with something foreign to her—certainty. They belonged here. They were different, not just in appearance but something else Eda could not explain. It was not like The Seven, but they still had an air of authority around them.
Eda clenched her hands into fists as the transport slowed, approaching its designated stop. No matter how many times she was sent here, she never got used to the way this place made her feel—like an intruder, an anomaly in a world that was never meant for her.
As the transport glided through the Length District, Eda's gaze climbed higher and higher. Skyscrapers dominated the skyline, their polished surfaces reflecting the artificial glow that bathed the city in an otherworldly brilliance. Some buildings twisted like coiled metal, their structures defying logic, while others stood like unwavering monoliths, silent testaments to the wealth and power hoarded within this district.
But among them all, one structure dwarfed the rest.
It was impossibly tall, piercing through the sky itself until its peak disappeared into the thick clouds above. Its sheer size cast an oppressive presence over the entire district, a reminder of the ones who ruled from above. The Seven.
Eda had only heard whispers about them—the untouchable elite who wielded absolute power over Wave and, by extension, over everything. Their quarters stood unreachable, nestled at the tower's highest point, where no ordinary citizen could ever hope to set foot. The tower's surface gleamed a perfect silver, unblemished by time or touch, its presence alone enough to make the rest of the city feel like mere extensions of its will.
Even the people here, those who lived better than anyone in the slums could ever dream, would never see inside. They existed under The Seven's dominion, never beside them. And for someone like Eda, someone plucked from the gutters and brought here to serve, the idea of such power felt impossible—like staring at a glow, so high, so bright, you'd never reach it.
Her transport came to a halt near one of the lower skyscrapers, a place she knew well enough. She inhaled sharply. It was time to serve.
The transport came to a slow halt, the doors whirring open with a mechanical hiss. Eda stepped out onto a platform of polished steel, the surface so pristine that her worn-out boots looked out of place against it. The air was different here—crisp, perfumed with something artificial yet oddly pleasant. It was a stark contrast to the slums, where the air always carried the scent of rust, sweat, and desperation.
Before her stood the Lemmings estate, a towering structure of glass and a type of blue metal, sleek and imposing. Unlike the chaotic layering of the slums, everything here was symmetrical, meticulously designed to perfection. The insignia of the Lemmings family—a stylized bird in flight—was etched in gold on the doors, an extravagant display of wealth that made her stomach twist.
She swallowed her nerves as a man in a crisp black uniform approached. He barely spared her a glance before checking a small device in his hand, scanning something before giving a curt nod.
"Eda, slum registry. Assigned to the Lemmings household," he confirmed in a monotone voice. Without waiting for a response, he turned sharply. "Follow."
Eda tightened her fingers into her sleeves and obeyed, stepping inside.
The moment she crossed the threshold, she felt the weight of luxury press against her. The interior was a world apart—soft, glowing panels of blue light lined the ceiling, casting a warm blue, but artificial ambiance. The floors were smooth like flowing water, and walls stretched high, carved with intricate designs that she couldn't begin to decipher. The scent of something rich—spiced wood and something faintly sweet—filled the air, the kind of aroma that only those with excess could afford.
Servants moved in quiet precision, dressed in deep blue uniforms, their faces carefully blank. Eda didn't need to be told, she had to fall in line. She was here to serve, nothing more.
A woman approached, her sharp gaze raking over Eda with an almost clinical detachment. She was tall, dressed in high-collared silk, her posture rigid yet effortlessly elegant.
"You're late," the woman stated coolly, though there was no real expectation in her tone—just an assertion of authority.
Eda quickly bowed her head. "Apologies."
The woman regarded her a moment longer before turning. "You'll start in the lower quarters. Kitchen duty. If you prove competent, you'll be reassigned accordingly." She gestured toward a hallway, already losing interest. "Go."
Eda clenched her jaw, swallowing the bitter taste in her mouth. Without another word, she made her way toward the kitchens, her place in this grand, merciless world now firmly decided.
Eda's started in the kitchen, where the sharp scent of freshly cooked food clashed with the sterile cleanliness of the room. Unlike the slums, where meals were a luxury and cooking fires filled the air with the scent of char and desperation, the Lemmings' kitchen was pristine—every surface polished, every utensil in its place. The appliances gleamed with an almost unnatural perfection, sleek and humming with quiet efficiency.
She scrubbed the counters first, moving swiftly as the head cook barked orders to the kitchen staff. The clatter of dishes and the hiss of steam filled the space, a rhythmic chaos that made it easy for her to work unnoticed. She wiped away invisible specks from the marble countertops, dried the steel sinks until they shone, and gathered the discarded vegetable peels and scraps, though the household's waste far exceeded what she and others in the slums would have considered inedible.
As she turned a corner, she nearly crashed into one of them. A young man, maybe a few years older than Samael, stood before her. He was dressed in cleaner, sturdier work clothes, the fabric free of the grime and patchwork that marked he was officially apart of the Lemmings household. His dark hair was slicked back, his sharp gaze scanning her as if she were some pest that had scurried into the wrong room.
"Watch it," he muttered, stepping back like he didn't want to be touched.
Eda straightened, gripping the bowls tighter. "You walked into me," she shot back.
His lip curled. "You people always blame someone else."
"You people?" The words stung more than she wanted to admit. They always said it like that—like the slum workers were something lesser. Like they weren't even people at all.
"You don't belong back here," he said, ignoring her glare. "The slum workers should be in the lower quarters, not near the food." His eyes flicked to the bowls in her hands. "And don't expect any extras. You get what you're given."
Eda swallowed the retort on her tongue. It didn't matter what she said. He, like all the others from Length, would always see her as nothing. She turned sharply, brushing past him, but not before muttering under her breath, "Don't choke on your portion."
He scoffed but didn't bother to reply. She didn't need to hear it to know what he thought. It was always the same. He was definitely glaring from a distance, but this didn't affect her.
As she stepped back into the main hall, she forced herself to breathe. Let them think they were better. Let them look down on her. Because one day, she'd make them see—darkness doesn't care where you're from. It takes everyone the same.
Just as she had she had finished her duties in the kitchen, a sharp voice called her name.
"Eda! You're reassigned."
She turned, standing stiffly as a woman in a sharply pressed uniform approached her. "You're to clean the Master's, Mistress's, and Young Master's quarters now. Go."
She hesitated only for a second before giving a quick nod and setting down her rag. She had expected a full day in the kitchens, but it seemed someone had decided otherwise.
Making her way up the grand staircases, past silent corridors adorned with delicate, priceless art, she stepped into a world even further removed from her own—the private quarters of those who never had to lift a finger for themselves.
The air here was unnervingly still, untouched by the grime and clamor she was used to. Every surface gleamed under the soft golden glow of blue artificial light, and every object seemed deliberately placed, as if disorder itself was an offense.
She started with the Master's quarters. The room was vast, almost cavernous, with floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed the city skyline. A single command could tint them darker, but for now, they remained transparent, letting in the neon glow of the world outside. The bed was large and untouched, the sheets perfectly folded as if he never truly slept here. Eda dusted the edges of the ornate desk, careful not to shift the neatly arranged data pads and antique trinkets that sat upon it.
Next was the Mistress's room. Hers was different—softer, adorned with deep reds and golds, a stark contrast to the cold efficiency of the Master's chambers. Fragrant oils burned in delicate glass holders, perfuming the air with something floral and heady. The mirrors that lined the walls reflected Eda's small, shadowy form as she wiped the vanity clean, careful not to leave streaks. A wardrobe, half-open, revealed a cascade of silk and lace, colors she had never been allowed to wear.
Then came the Young Master's room. It was smaller but no less extravagant. Books, actual paper books, lined the walls, their spines immaculate, untouched. A sleek console flickered with the remnants of a paused game, but everything else was meticulously neat, arranged with the precision of someone who either feared disorder or never had to clean up after himself. Eda ran a cloth over the surfaces, her hands quick and practiced.
She did not belong here.
Every corner of this place was a reminder of the divide. The people of the slums worked and suffered so that homes like these could remain pristine, untouched by hardship. But Eda kept her head down and her hands busy, knowing her place.
Eda hesitated at a doorway at the end of the hall. Her eyes fixed on the eerie blue light hovering over the entrance. The Lemmings' household color was blue, but this was different—deeper, unnatural, almost alive. It pulsed faintly, casting shifting shadows against the pristine walls.
She swallowed hard and stepped inside.
The temperature dropped instantly, and her breath hitched as cold air bit at her skin. Her fingers curled instinctively, aching from the sudden chill. The first thing she noticed was the ice—thin, jagged formations creeping along the walls, crackling faintly as they spread. It wasn't natural. Nothing about this was.
Then, she saw them.
The Master and Young Master stood in the center of the room, their forms flickering as if the very light around them warped. Their Wave was active—its presence undeniable. The Master moved his hand with effortless grace, and the colors of the room distorted in response, shifting in and out of hues that should not exist. Eda's stomach twisted at the sight, as if reality itself was bending beneath his will.
But it was the Young Master who sent a true chill through her. He stood still, one arm extended, fingers outstretched as water hovered in midair before him. The liquid trembled, then solidified into crystalline ice, deep blue and gleaming like polished glass. With a slow motion, he twisted his wrist, and the ice shattered into fine mist, dispersing before reforming with the crackle of lightning dancing along its edges.
Eda's heart pounded in her chest. She knew Wave granted power, but this… this was something else. It was control. The manipulation of elements, of color, of light itself. And she wasn't supposed to see it.
The Master turned slightly, and for a breath, she saw his sharp eyes flick in her direction.
Eda froze.
"You are not supposed to be here"