The steam-wagon lurched to a grinding halt, its brakes squealing against the cobblestones with a metallic shriek that cut through the afternoon air. The engine hissed, venting a final plume of white steam that curled upward into the smog-choked sky before dissipating into nothing.
Amir sat in the back, his body slumped against the worn leather seat, every muscle in his body screaming at him to just stay there. To not move. To let the world continue without him for just a few more minutes.
But the driver's voice crackled through the speaking tube, sharp and impatient.
"Right. Here we are. Steelhaven University. That'll be... let's see... normal fare is twenty gold. You said double, so forty gold."
Amir groaned, pushing himself upright. His ribs protested with a dull, grinding ache. His knuckles throbbed. His entire body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder, and the smell—god, the smell—clung to him like a second skin.
He reached into his coat pocket, careful to avoid the small, cloth-wrapped bundle containing the Misfire flesh, and pulled out a handful of coins. He counted out forty silver pieces, the metal cool and slick against his filthy fingers, and passed them through the narrow slot in the partition.
The driver's face appeared briefly in the rear-view mirror—an older man with a weathered face and a grey, unkempt beard. His eyes were sharp, calculating, the eyes of someone who'd spent decades navigating Steelhaven's streets and had seen it all. Or thought he had.
He pocketed the coins with a practiced motion, then glanced back at Amir one last time.
"Pleasure doing business, mate," he said, though his tone suggested it had been anything but. "And, uh... no offense, but maybe hit a bathhouse before your next appointment, yeah? You smell like something died, came back to life, then died again."
"Noted," Amir muttered, pushing open the door.
The moment he stepped out onto the street, the air hit him.
It was different here.
Not clean—nowhere in Steelhaven was truly clean—but different. The usual oppressive stench of coal smoke and industrial exhaust was still present, a constant undercurrent that defined the city. But here, it was muted, diluted by something else. The faint, earthy scent of greenery. Trees. Grass. Things that had no business surviving in a place like this, yet somehow did.
Amir straightened, his boots hitting the smooth, pale cobblestones with a dull thud. He turned, and for the first time, he looked up.
And his breath caught in his throat.
Steelhaven University wasn't just large.
It was a monument.
A statement.
A declaration carved into stone and iron that screamed one simple, undeniable truth: Knowledge is power, and power is everything.
The university didn't occupy a corner of a district. It didn't share space with factories or tenements or markets.
It was the district.
The entire sector—one of Steelhaven's seven great divisions—had been given over to this singular institution. Every street, every building, every carefully manicured garden and tree-lined avenue existed for one purpose: to serve the pursuit of knowledge. Or at least, the pursuit of the kind of knowledge that kept the Iron Republic's wheels turning and its chimneys smoking.
Amir stood at the edge of what could only be described as a plaza—a vast, open expanse of smooth, grey stone that stretched out before him like a frozen sea. It was easily the size of three city blocks, maybe four, and it was filled with people. Students, professors, administrators, all moving with purpose, their voices a low, constant murmur that echoed off the surrounding buildings.
But it was what lay beyond the plaza that stole his breath.
The Main Hall.
It rose before him like a cathedral to industry and intellect, a towering structure of dark grey stone that climbed into the smog-laden sky with a defiance that bordered on arrogance. The building was massive—five, maybe six stories tall—its walls carved from blocks of stone so large they must have required entire teams of workers and steam-cranes to lift into place.
The architecture was a brutal marriage of two worlds.
At its core, it was classical—grand, imposing, with tall columns that rose from the ground to support a triangular pediment. The columns were fluted, carved with precision, their surfaces worn smooth by decades of wind and rain. The pediment itself was a masterpiece of sculpture, depicting the Seven Gears in relief. Each god was rendered in exquisite detail: the Great Artificer with his hammer raised high, the Wyrm King Heliaus with wings spread wide, the Silent Weaver with threads spilling from her hands.
But layered over that classical foundation was something else. Something uniquely Steelhaven.
Iron.
Massive iron beams had been bolted into the stone, reinforcing the structure, turning it into something that was part temple, part fortress, part factory. The beams crisscrossed the facade in geometric patterns, their surfaces dark with rust and soot. Steam vents jutted from the walls at irregular intervals, releasing steady plumes of white vapor that hissed and curled upward, adding to the building's sense of living, breathing presence.
The windows were tall and arched, their glass tinted a deep, smoky grey that made it impossible to see inside. But the frames—god, the frames—were works of art. Wrought iron, twisted into intricate patterns of gears, cogs, and interlocking mechanisms, as if the very act of looking through the window should remind you of the machinery that powered this world.
At the top of the building, crowning it like a iron halo, was a clock tower.
It was enormous—a spire of stone and iron that rose another three stories above the main structure. The clock face itself was easily twenty feet in diameter, its hands forged from blackened steel, its numbers marked in brass that had turned green with age. The mechanism that drove it was visible through a series of glass panels, a mesmerizing dance of gears and springs and weights that ticked with a rhythm so deep it was more felt than heard.
The clock read 1:54 PM.
Wide stone steps led up to the main entrance—a set of massive wooden doors, each one easily fifteen feet tall and bound with iron straps. The wood was dark, almost black, polished to a sheen that reflected the weak afternoon light. Flanking the doors were two statues, each one carved from pale marble.
On the left, a robed scholar held an open book, his face serene, his eyes cast downward as if reading. On the right, an engineer clutched a set of calipers and a blueprint, his expression focused, determined.
The mind and the machine. Theory and practice. Thought and industry.
It was the university's philosophy, rendered in stone.
But the Main Hall was just the beginning.
Amir's eyes swept across the plaza, taking in the sheer scale of what lay before him.
To the left of the Main Hall stood a cluster of smaller buildings—though "smaller" was relative. Each one was at least three stories tall, built from the same dark grey stone, connected by covered walkways with arched ceilings supported by iron pillars.
These were the lecture halls.
He could see students streaming in and out of them, their arms laden with books and papers. Through the open doorways, he caught glimpses of the interiors: rows of tiered seating, chalkboards covered in equations and diagrams, gas lamps burning bright even in the middle of the day.
To the right stood another complex—this one more utilitarian, less ornate.
The laboratories.
The buildings here were lower, wider, their walls reinforced with thick iron plating. Steam vents dotted the roofs, releasing a constant stream of vapor, and the faint, acrid smell of chemicals drifted across the plaza. He could hear the distant clang of metal on metal, the hiss of pressure valves, the muffled roar of furnaces.
This was where theory became practice. Where the ideas scribbled on chalkboards were tested, refined, turned into the engines and weapons and machines that kept the Iron Republic running.
Beyond the laboratories, almost hidden behind a row of tall, dark-leafed trees, was another structure.
The Library.
It was a building of impossible size, a long, rectangular structure that stretched for what must have been half a mile. Its walls were lined with tall, narrow windows, each one glowing with the warm, steady light of Aether-lamps. He could see the shadows of bookshelves through the glass—row upon row upon row, stretching back into depths he couldn't fathom.
How many books does this place hold? Thousands? Tens of thousands?
And still, there was more.
Behind the Main Hall, he could see the tops of other buildings rising above the trees and pathways. Dormitories, probably, where the students lived. Administrative offices. Perhaps even faculty housing.
The entire district was a self-contained city within a city.
Gardens and courtyards broke up the stone and iron, small pockets of green that had been carefully cultivated and maintained despite Steelhaven's toxic air. Trees lined the pathways—tall, with dark green leaves that somehow survived the smog. Their branches arched overhead, creating canopies that filtered the weak sunlight into dappled patterns on the cobblestones below.
Benches sat beneath the trees, occupied by students reading, debating, or simply resting between classes. Fountains burbled in the centers of courtyards, their water clear—impossibly clear, given the filth that ran through the rest of the city's pipes.
They must have their own water treatment system. Their own reservoirs. Of course they do.
Steam-wagons moved along the wide boulevards that crisscrossed the district, though these were different from the grimy, functional vehicles that clogged the factory districts. These were sleek, polished, their chassis painted in deep blues and greens, their brass fittings gleaming. They ferried students and faculty between buildings, moving with a quiet efficiency that spoke of careful maintenance and considerable expense.
And the people.
God, the people.
They were everywhere.
Students, mostly—young men and women in their late teens and early twenties, dressed in a dizzying array of styles that all shared one common thread: wealth.
Some wore the traditional academic uniform—long, dark robes with colored trim that denoted their field of study. Blue for engineering. Green for natural sciences. Red for applied alchemy. Gold for theoretical mathematics.
Others wore more practical clothing—tailored trousers, waistcoats, shirts with high collars. But even the "practical" clothing was expensive. The fabrics were fine, the stitching precise, the boots polished to a mirror shine.
No one here wore the oil-stained coveralls of a factory worker. No one wore the patched, threadbare clothes of the poor. No one looked like they'd ever missed a meal in their life.
They moved through the plaza in groups, laughing, talking, debating. They carried leather satchels and thick books, their faces unmarked by exhaustion or desperation. They had the easy confidence of people who'd never had to worry about whether they'd eat tomorrow, whether they'd have a roof over their heads, whether they'd survive the week.
This is what the top of the pyramid looks like.
Amir felt a twist of something bitter in his chest. Not quite jealousy. Not quite anger. Just a cold, distant recognition of the gulf that separated him from these people.
He was covered in filth, reeking of sewers, his clothes torn and stained. His hand was swollen and bruised. His face was gaunt, marked by exhaustion and violence.
And they—
They were clean. Safe. Untouched by the world that existed just a few miles away, beyond the borders of this carefully maintained bubble.
A group of students walked past him, their conversation pausing mid-sentence as they caught his scent. One of them—a young woman in a green-trimmed robe—wrinkled her nose and took a deliberate step to the side, putting more distance between herself and the source of the smell.
Her companion, a young man with perfectly coiffed hair and a frock coat that probably cost more than Amir made in a month, gave him a look of pure, aristocratic disgust.
"Good lord," the young man muttered, loud enough for Amir to hear. "Did something die?"
The woman stifled a laugh, and the group hurried away, casting glances back over their shoulders.
Amir didn't react. He'd learned, over the past few weeks, that in Steelhaven, your worth was written on your body. In your clothes. In the way you smelled. In whether you looked like you belonged.
And he very clearly did not belong here.
But he wasn't here for them.
He was here for the Cog Master.
He pulled the pocket watch from his coat, checking the time.
1:56 PM.
Four minutes early.
He scanned the plaza, his eyes searching for that familiar silhouette—the brown coat with the golden collar, the top hat, the ebony cane.
Nothing yet.
He made his way toward the base of the clock tower, weaving through clusters of students who parted before him like he was carrying the plague. He found an empty bench near the tower's entrance and sat down heavily, his body protesting the movement.
From here, he had a clear view of the entire plaza. He could see the Main Hall in all its Gothic, industrial glory. He could see the students moving between buildings. He could see the steam-wagons gliding along the boulevards.
And beyond it all, rising in the distance, he could see the other districts of Steelhaven—the factory chimneys belching smoke, the tenements stacked like broken teeth, the endless sprawl of industry and desperation that defined the Iron Republic.
This university is the heart of it all. This is where the future is built. Where the engineers and alchemists and theorists are trained. Where the ideas that keep the Republic running are born.
And it takes up an entire fucking district.
He leaned back against the bench, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the plaza wash over him.
The murmur of voices. The clang of a distant bell. The hiss of steam. The ticking of the clock tower above him, each second marked by a deep, resonant thud that he could feel in his chest.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
He opened his eyes and checked the watch again.
2:00 PM.
Alright, Cog Master. Where the hell are you?
Amir blinked.
And in that single, fractional moment—that brief darkness when his eyelids closed and opened—the world changed.
One second, the bench beside him was empty. The plaza stretched out before him, filled with the distant murmur of students and the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock tower above.
The next second, someone was standing directly in front of him.
No footsteps. No warning. No gradual approach from the edge of his vision.
Just... presence.
The Cog Master stood there, barely two feet away, leaning casually on his ebony cane. His brown coat with the golden collar was immaculate, not a speck of dust or grime marring its surface. His top hat sat at a perfect angle, and his monocle caught the weak afternoon light, flashing like a tiny star. He was smiling—that same sharp, knowing smile that suggested he'd just witnessed something deeply amusing.
Amir's brain short-circuited.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up. He jerked backward, his boots scraping against the cobblestones, his arms flailing as he stumbled off the bench. His hip clipped the armrest, sending a fresh jolt of pain through his already-abused ribs, and he barely managed to catch himself before he hit the ground.
"What the—!" The words burst from his throat, half-shout, half-gasp.
His heart was slamming against his ribs like a piston, each beat so violent he could feel it in his throat. His hand had instinctively moved to the Iron Argument holstered under his coat, fingers brushing the cold metal of the grip before his conscious mind reasserted control and pulled them away.
The Cog Master's smile widened, his grey-green eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement.
"Forgive me," he said, his voice smooth and utterly unbothered by Amir's reaction. "If I made you scared."
Amir stood there, chest heaving, staring at the man like he'd just materialized out of thin air.
Which, as far as Amir could tell, he had.
"How—" Amir started, his voice still shaky from the adrenaline dump. He swallowed hard, forcing his breathing to slow, his heart to stop trying to beat its way out of his chest. "How did you do that?"
The Cog Master tilted his head slightly, the picture of casual curiosity. "Do what?"
"That!" Amir gestured wildly at the space around them, at the bench, at the plaza. "You just—you appeared! Out of nowhere! I blinked and you were just there!" His eyes narrowed, suspicion and awe mixing into something uncomfortable. "Can you teleport?"
The Cog Master's expression shifted instantly. The amusement vanished, replaced by something sharper, more urgent. He raised a gloved finger to his lips in a universal gesture of silence.
"Shhhhh," he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. His eyes darted toward the students moving through the plaza around them. "Don't say that aloud. You don't want to scare the students, do you?"
Amir's mouth snapped shut, though his mind was racing.
He looked around, his eyes scanning the plaza, searching for... what? Reactions? Evidence that anyone else had noticed the Cog Master's impossible arrival?
Nothing.
The students continued their conversations, laughing, debating, moving between buildings with the easy confidence of people who had no idea that reality had just bent itself into a pretzel right in front of them. No one was staring. No one was pointing. No one seemed to have noticed anything unusual at all.
It was as if the Cog Master had been standing there the entire time.
Or—
Amir's brain stuttered over the thought.
—had he?
Had the Cog Master teleported, appearing out of thin air in a way that somehow bypassed everyone's perception except Amir's?
Or had he been there all along, standing in plain sight, and Amir simply hadn't noticed until the exact moment he blinked?
The uncertainty gnawed at him. Both options felt equally impossible, equally wrong in ways that made his skin crawl.
What the hell kind of power is that?
The Cog Master, seemingly satisfied that Amir had stopped shouting about teleportation, straightened up. His gaze swept over Amir from head to toe, his expression shifting from amusement to something more clinical, more assessing.
His eyes lingered on Amir's coat—still damp and stained with sewer filth, the fabric clinging to his frame in a way that made him look like he'd been dredged from the bottom of a canal. They traced down to his trousers, equally soaked, the knees caked with grime. Then to his boots, which squelched faintly with every movement, water still seeping from the seams.
Finally, his gaze settled on Amir's face—pale, exhausted, with streaks of dried blood still visible under his nose from the Night Vision potion.
The Cog Master's lips curved into a faint smirk.
"Hmm," he said, his tone dry. "By the looks of it, you seem like you took a bath in the sewers."
Amir let out a short, bitter laugh. "Actually," he said, his voice flat, "I did."
The Cog Master's eyebrow arched slightly, but he didn't look surprised. Just... mildly interested.
Amir lifted his right hand, holding it up for inspection. The knuckles were swollen, the skin split and purple-black from where he'd punched the hidden wall. Blood had dried in the cracks, and the entire hand looked like it had been put through a meat grinder.
"This," Amir said, gesturing at the mangled appendage, "is the result of my investigation."
The Cog Master's smirk widened. "Good."
The word was barely out of his mouth before he moved.
It happened so fast that Amir's brain didn't have time to process it, let alone react.
One moment, the Cog Master was standing a comfortable distance away, leaning on his cane.
The next, his mechanical hand shot forward with blinding speed—faster than any human hand should be able to move—and his fingers clamped down on Amir's swollen knuckles.
Pain exploded through Amir's hand.
Not the dull, throbbing ache he'd been living with for the past hour, but a sharp, white-hot agony that lanced up his arm and straight into his brain. It was the kind of pain that bypassed all rational thought and went straight to the part of the brain that screamed.
Amir gasped, his mouth opening in a silent scream, his free hand instinctively reaching up to pull the Cog Master's grip away—
But before he could move, before he could even register what was happening, he saw it.
Blood.
A single, bright red drop welled up from the split skin on his knuckle, pushed to the surface by the pressure of the Cog Master's grip. It hung there for a moment, perfectly round, catching the weak afternoon light.
Then the Cog Master released him.
Amir stumbled back, clutching his hand to his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "What the fuck—!"
But the Cog Master wasn't paying attention to him anymore.
He was focused entirely on the drop of blood.
With movements that were precise, almost ritualistic, the Cog Master reached into his coat with his free hand—the real one, not the mechanical one—and pulled out a small, rectangular piece of paper.
It was white. Pure white. So white it almost seemed to glow against the dark fabric of his coat. The texture looked strange—not quite like normal paper, but thicker, more fibrous, as if it had been made from something organic.
The Cog Master held the paper between two fingers, then brought it close to his face. His lips moved, forming words too quiet for Amir to hear. They weren't in any language Amir recognized—the syllables were sharp, guttural, clipped in ways that made his teeth ache just from listening.
As he spoke, he used his mechanical hand—the same one that had just crushed Amir's knuckles—to bring the drop of blood to the paper.
The moment the blood made contact with the white surface, something changed.
The paper shivered.
Not metaphorically. It literally trembled in the Cog Master's grip, the edges vibrating like a tuning fork struck at just the right frequency.
And then the blood spread.
It didn't drip. It didn't seep. It moved, crawling across the surface of the paper in thin, branching lines that looked disturbingly organic—like veins, or roots, spreading through soil.
The Cog Master's lips continued to move, the strange words flowing faster now, more urgent.
The blood lines reached the edges of the paper and stopped. For a moment, the entire thing glowed faintly red, as if backlit by some internal fire.
Then, with a single, fluid motion, the Cog Master pressed the paper against Amir's chest.
Amir flinched, his body tensing, expecting pain, expecting—
Warmth.
It started at the point of contact, a gentle, spreading heat that seeped through his filthy coat and into his skin. It wasn't burning. It wasn't uncomfortable. It was... soothing. Like sinking into a hot bath after a day of hard labor.
The warmth spread outward in waves, flowing down his arms, up his neck, through his torso and legs. Everywhere it touched, something changed.
Amir looked down, his eyes wide, and watched as the paper began to darken.
The pure white was bleeding away, replaced by a creeping blackness that started at the edges and moved inward. It wasn't just turning black—it was crumbling, disintegrating, turning to ash even as it clung to his chest.
Within seconds, the entire paper had transformed into a fine, dark powder.
And then it was gone.
The ash didn't fall to the ground. It simply ceased to exist, evaporating into nothing, leaving no trace behind.
The warmth faded, leaving Amir standing there, his chest heaving, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.
Then he felt it.
His hand.
He looked down, lifting his right hand into his field of vision.
The swelling was gone.
The skin, which had been split and purple just moments ago, was now smooth. Whole. The bruises had faded to nothing. The blood had vanished. Even the dried crust that had formed in the cracks between his knuckles was gone.
It was as if he'd never punched anything at all.
But it wasn't just his hand.
He looked down at his coat. The fabric, which had been soaked through with sewer water and stained with god-knew-what, was dry. Completely dry. The dark, wet patches had vanished, replaced by clean, unmarred cloth. The stains—the filth, the grime, the unidentifiable muck—had disappeared entirely.
He lifted the collar to his nose and sniffed.
Nothing.
No rot. No rust. No sewage. Just... cloth. Clean, neutral, inoffensive cloth.
Even his trousers were dry. His boots had stopped squelching.
Amir stood there, frozen, staring at his own body like it belonged to someone else.
His gaze slowly lifted to the Cog Master, who was watching him with that same calm, clinical expression—like a scientist observing the results of an experiment.
"How?" Amir breathed. The word came out as barely more than a whisper, his voice tinged with confusion, awe, and a healthy dose of fear.
The Cog Master adjusted his monocle, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"Talisman of Reversal," he said simply, as if that explained everything. "It removes all bad conditions and light wounds from a human. Minor injuries, surface filth, residual toxins." He gestured vaguely at Amir with his cane. "Essentially, it rewinds your body's state to a point just before the damage occurred. Convenient, no?"
Amir's brain was doing cartwheels trying to keep up.
Talisman.
The word triggered a cascade of memories—fragmented pieces of information he'd absorbed during his long nights in the Aetherspire archives, buried under stacks of dusty books and crumbling scrolls.
Talismans.
They were different from Tuner abilities. Fundamentally different.
Tuner powers came from resonance with the gods—direct, personal connections to divine essence. You sacrificed something, and in return, you gained access to a fragment of a god's power. It was transactional. Intimate. Personal.
But talismans were something else entirely.
They were bonding-based magic.
The archives had been frustratingly vague on the details, but the core concept was clear: to create or use talismans, you needed to form a pact—a bond—with a creature that possessed mythosige abilities. Beings that existed on the fringes of reality, creatures of myth and old magic that predated the gods themselves.
Once the bond was formed, the talisman user could channel a fraction of the creature's power—usually somewhere between five and ten percent of its full strength—by inscribing specific symbols or words onto specially prepared paper or other mediums.
It was an entirely different school of magic. Rare. Dangerous. And incredibly powerful in the right hands.
Amir scratched his head, his mind racing.
So that means... the Cog Master found one of those creatures. Met it. Negotiated with it. Formed a pact. And now he can use its power through these talismans.
The implications were staggering.
What kind of creature would grant the ability to reverse physical damage and cleanse impurities? Something tied to time? Or purification? Or...
He didn't know. And that scared him more than he wanted to admit.
The Cog Master's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.
"Hey." The tone was sharp, cutting. "What's going on in that brain of yours?"
Amir looked up, snapping back to the present.
The Cog Master was staring at him with an expression of mild concern mixed with that ever-present amusement. "Did you start seeing women in the sewers too?"
Amir blinked, then shook his head quickly. "No. No, nothing like that."
"Good," the Cog Master replied, his tone brisk. He straightened, adjusting his top hat with his mechanical hand. "Now. Let's get inside, shall we?"
Amir frowned. "What? Like... inside the university?"
"Yes," the Cog Master said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He gestured toward the towering Main Hall with his cane. "Why? Never been into a university before?"
No, it's not like that, Amir said quickly. Back on Earth, he'd ground through college while working his office job—juggling spreadsheets by day and assignments by night, surviving on coffee and spite. But that wasn't the point. "I just—
"What are you waiting for, then?" The Cog Master interrupted, already turning toward the Main Hall. His cane tapped against the cobblestones in that familiar, rhythmic pattern—tap, tap, tap. "Let's go to the main campus. We've got to meet someone."
Amir stood there for a moment, still processing everything that had just happened.
His hand—healed.
His clothes—clean.
The Cog Master—teleporting, or not teleporting, or doing something his brain couldn't even begin to categorize.
And now they were going inside the university. To meet someone.
Who?
He opened his mouth to ask, but the Cog Master was already walking away, weaving through the clusters of students with practiced ease, his brown coat billowing slightly behind him.
Amir sighed, adjusted the Iron Argument under his now-clean coat, and followed.
The Main Hall loomed before them, its Gothic-industrial architecture even more imposing up close. The steps seemed to stretch upward forever, each one worn smooth by decades—maybe centuries—of use.
Students passed them on the stairs, moving in both directions. Some were heading inside, clutching books and papers. Others were leaving, their faces tired or exhilarated depending on how their lectures had gone.
A few of them glanced at Amir as he climbed, their eyes lingering for a moment before moving on. But the looks weren't the same as before. No disgust. No wrinkled noses or whispered comments.
Thanks to the Cog Master's talisman, he looked... normal. Clean. Like he actually belonged here.
Small miracles.
They reached the top of the stairs, and the massive wooden doors loomed before them—fifteen feet tall, bound with iron straps, their surfaces polished to a dark sheen.
The Cog Master didn't slow. He pushed one of the doors open with his cane, the heavy wood swinging inward with surprising ease, and stepped inside without hesitation.
Amir followed, his boots crossing the threshold, and for the second time that day, his breath caught in his throat.
The interior of the Main Hall was vast.
The entrance hall was a cathedral of knowledge and industry, a space so large it could have swallowed a factory whole. The ceiling soared overhead, easily fifty feet high, supported by massive iron beams that crisscrossed in geometric patterns. Between the beams, the stone had been carved into intricate reliefs—scenes of invention, discovery, and conquest. Scholars bent over books. Engineers built towering machines. Soldiers marched beneath the banners of the Iron Republic.
The floor was polished marble, dark grey with veins of white running through it like rivers. The sound of footsteps echoed—dozens of conversations, hundreds of boots, all blending into a low, constant murmur that filled the space.
To the left and right, grand staircases curved upward, leading to upper floors. Students and faculty moved up and down them in a steady flow, their robes and coats a blur of color against the dark stone.
Directly ahead, at the far end of the hall, was a statue.
It was massive—easily twenty feet tall—carved from pale marble that seemed to glow in the light of the gas lamps. The figure depicted was a man in robes, one hand raised as if gesturing toward the heavens, the other holding a book. His face was stern, wise, ageless.
At the base of the statue, a plaque read:
ERASMUS VARN – FOUNDER OF STEELHAVEN UNIVERSITY
The Cog Master didn't even glance at it. He moved through the entrance hall with purpose, his cane tapping a steady rhythm, heading toward one of the side corridors that branched off from the main space.
Amir hurried to keep up, his eyes still trying to take in everything at once.
Who are we meeting? And why here?
But the Cog Master said nothing, his expression unreadable, his focus absolute.
And so Amir followed, deeper into the heart of Steelhaven University