The road to the city was a scar through dying fields. The Odai flowers grew in long, blood-red rows that bowed and trembled under the constant attention of workers. From afar, it looked like the land itself bled through its skin. Closer, the illusion fractured, those red stains were hands, hundreds of them, raw and cracked, clutching stems heavy with sap. Workers, from child laborers to the elderly, were in the fields.
The air smelled of iron and pollen. The hum of the great conveyor, a chain of linked plates that crawled from the fields into the heart of the city, sounded out in the background.
Bedlam rode slow enough to observe, fast enough not to draw questions. The people did not look him in the eyes. Their movements were dull and mechanical, guided by men and women in segmented armor whose faces gleamed behind insect-like helms. He knew enough about the nearest decent civilization to the Anvil to know who they were.
Razors. The Margrave's own personal force that enforced his unquestioned will and law. They were unmarked but trained into deadly elites far beyond human convention and extravagantly armed with intonements as a direct consequence of the systemic exploitation of the common people's labor that translated into his hefty chests and coin purse.
The Razors' voices were clipped, efficient, every command punctuated by the hiss of intonement-forged blades. Banners hung above the outer gatehouses, their silk heavy with dust and rain. He did not know which families the banner represented, only that they were collectively called the Reaper families. They were the Margrave's right hand, acting above all law and person and below one, managing vast swathes of fields for him as pseudo-nobility.
At the gate stood two Razors and a Record-Taker seated behind a desk of black oak, ink staining his fingers the same hue as the Odai sap. When Bedlam approached, one Razor stepped forward.
"Name and purpose."
Bedlam paused. He could no longer call himself Evander, and it was not sound to use his title. "Lam," he said finally. "Searching for a couple of old friends."
The Record-Taker scratched the name without looking up. "Inbound traffic is restricted," he said. "These are the borderlands."
The taller Razor held out a gauntleted hand. "Entrance tariff. One gold."
It was extortion—even merchants paid in copper. Lam regarded the man for a quiet moment, then produced the coin. The Razor's eyes gleamed behind his visor. Greed, like hunger, never learned restraint.
"Another," he said, voice gaining confidence.
Lam's gaze drifted to the man's throat, to the soft line beneath the armor's joint. His tone did not change. He had been taught to differentiate between situations when he had to smile and appear non-threatening, as well as when to stand his ground. He was pretty confident this called for the latter.
"Your life is worth more than an extra gold," he said.
Something in the way he said it made the air unmake itself. The other Razor stiffened. The one demanding payment felt the chill in his spine first, then the shame that followed. He stepped aside without another word.
The Record-Taker stamped the ledger. "Welcome to the Hold. Stay out of trouble for your own sake. The Red Margrave does not take kindly to his business being interrupted."
Lam nodded and guided his horse through the gate. The world shifted from the open breath of the plains to the narrow lungs of the city.
The Hold was a fortress wrapped in stone, its streets paved with soot-black bricks that sweated oil when the heat rose. Steam pipes coiled around the walls like veins. Red glass lanterns hung above market stalls, their light reflecting off the rain-slick cobbles so the whole street glowed faintly scarlet.
Everywhere he looked, people bore the stain of their trade: Odai residue soaked into their skin until their palms and forearms shone like polished rust. Bales of flowers were tied to shoulders with rope, dripping crimson sap that mixed with sweat and blood. The City was separated into two parts: the outer circle for the working men of all professions and the manor where the Margrave lived, close to the Reaper families. The manor was where the Red Odai was processed into product and packaged in one large factory with restricted access.
The Razors patrolled in pairs, moving with the arrogance of sanctioned brutality. Their armor hissed faintly with the power of their intonements, each one carrying a weapon that whispered. The Reaper Families' sigils hung from high arches, stylized scythes framed by the outline of the locust, the Margrave's insect symbol that also happened to be the print on one side of the local currency he held.
Lam noted it all without pause. Observation was instinct, not curiosity.
He dismounted near a market square and secured his horse outside an inn whose sign was a half-faded glyph of a gear and flower. The innkeeper, a round man with a voice roughened by smoke, stared too long at Lam's face. He could see deep brown eyes and dark hair framing a face that was not overly feminine but could charm a high-born daughter to abandon her innocence despite the stubborn boyish features still lingering.
Too handsome to be a commoner, and his clothes too clean. But I've never seen a merchant like him either. The Innkeeper thought.
"Don't see many travelers this far out," the man said cautiously.
"Most roads lead somewhere," Lam answered. Not giving away anything.
He paid for a room, for food both for his horse and himself, and for silence. The coin made the man eager, if not friendly. A boy around the age of ten came carrying his tray of food on one hand and what passed off for water in the other with very little balance.
He would make for a very poor weapon with that balance. Lam thought silently, considering whether that was why the boy had started culinary training early.
The stew arrived first, a simple lamb broth thick with root vegetables and served with a wedge of dense, unleavened bread. Lam ate without haste, his expression unreadable. The innkeeper, watching from across the counter, mistook that stillness for disdain.
He is probably not used to such basic offerings. He sighed.
However, for Lam- Marvelous, this food tastes too good! It's probably intentional to keep the people well fed and out of shape; this is how they dull men from being weapons.I must be careful here; the wider world is more wrought with nuanced subversions than I thought.
When Lam finished, he set the spoon down and spoke as if to himself. "Excellent," he said quietly. "One of the finest meals I've had."
The man blinked, unsure if he was being mocked. Lam didn't clarify. He rose, leaving the bowl empty and spotless while the water was untouched.
Upstairs, the room was small but clean. Lam paced it with mechanical precision, counting steps from door to bed, bed to window, window to wall, mapping his responses before sleep. The furniture was heavy enough to serve as a barrier if needed.
He shifted the bed slightly toward the corner. Then he placed two fingers against the door and whispered the words, voice almost soundless:
"You are closed and tranquil. Disturbance offends you; speak loudly if forced."
The air stilled in the room as if it held its breath and listened.
He repeated the same for the window. The room seemed to settle, a subtle thickening of silence around him. The act drained him more than it should have.
He sat at the edge of the bed, listening to the distant grind of the conveyor belt as it dragged its load of Odai toward the Margrave's manor. Each metallic clank echoed through the city like a clock counting down something unseen.
He slept without dreams.
---
Morning rose red. The Odai fields outside the walls had already begun their slow bleed into the sky, the pollen turning sunlight into dusted crimson. The Hold stirred awake with the rhythm of a machine; it did not wake naturally; it was switched on.
Lam left the inn after a measured breakfast and asked the innkeeper to tend to his horse. Internally, he promised himself to increase his routine workouts to combat the luxury dining. His clothes were plain, his posture unremarkable, yet he knew what he looked like to them—too clean, too straight-backed, a face without exhaustion. It was intentional.
He moved through the market's narrow lanes with deliberate pace, neither hurried nor cautious. Every step, every angle of his shoulders, was premeditated bait. The scent of coin drew eyes.
Stalls overflowed with processed petals, dried Odai packed in sacks, and glass vials of the red oil used by the Reaper merchants. The air shimmered with heat from forge vents, the smell a blend of iron, incense, and sugar rot.
He felt the theft before it happened, the slight shift in air behind him, the brush of cloth against his belt. A small hand, quick and practiced, slipped his coin purse free. Lam did not turn.
He continued walking.
Through the reflection in a window, he saw the boy, a slight figure with soot-streaked cheeks and eyes too bright for his age, vanish into the crowd.
Lam followed at a measured pace, watching the boy weave through bodies, under a wagon, across a narrow bridge between two supply yards. The pursuit was quiet, almost elegant. The boy ran like a creature that believed the world owed him speed. Lam moved like something that knew the world would wait.
The boy glanced back once and froze. The stranger was closer than he should have been, moving without sound, without hurry. Panic made him faster but clumsier. He darted into a side alley, a narrow throat of wet stone and hanging laundry.
He thought he'd lost him.
When he stopped to catch his breath, Lam stepped from the shadow ahead, expression unreadable.
The boy's eyes widened. He tried to run back, but Lam caught his wrist, turning it with impossible precision. Three fingers bent sharply with a muted crack. The boy's cry caught in his throat as Lam placed a hand over his mouth.
"You have seven left unbroken," Lam said quietly. "Choose your next actions carefully."
The boy trembled, eyes wide with the disbelief of someone who'd never been caught before.
Lam crouched slightly, meeting his gaze. "You see the streets," he said. "You see who comes and goes. I'm looking for someone new, someone who doesn't belong. Tell me what you know."
The thief hesitated, then nodded quickly, words spilling through clenched teeth. "One came two days past. Hurt badly. The Razors of House Harrun took him, said he was dangerous. Took two whole companies to capture him. They took him to the Reaper's Hall by the east lift. Rumours are that he's one of the legendary cursed"
Lam released him. The boy stumbled backward, clutching his broken hand.
"Keep the coin," Lam said, retrieving his purse from the ground. "You've earned the lesson."
The boy fled into the maze of alleys.
Lam watched him vanish, then straightened and brushed the dust from his gloves. The city's hum returned, indifferent. Somewhere above, the conveyor groaned, carrying its endless cargo toward the manor.
He looked once toward the direction of the east lift. His face remained still, but his pulse quickened barely.
There were too many questions he needed answered.
He began walking.