The morning air in the Lower Tier of Lesternam didn't smell like the perfumes of the palace. It smelled of damp stone, woodsmoke, and the faint, metallic tang of the great iron chains that held the city above the abyss. For Eirene, it was the smell of home.
Eirene stood at the heavy oak table in the center of the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hands were buried deep in a mound of dough. Making bread for two people was a chore; making bread for fifteen was an Olympic sport.
"Leo, if you touch that jam before the prayer, I will tell Silas you're the one who broke the garden shovel," Eirene said, not even looking up.
A tow-headed boy of seven froze, his finger an inch away from a ceramic pot. He looked at Eirene with wide, shocked eyes. "How did you see me? Your back is turned!"
Eirene finally looked over her shoulder, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. "I have thirteen sets of eyes, Leo. One for every child in this house. Now, go wake Pip and the twins. If they aren't down in five minutes, they're helping Silas at the forge today."
Leo scrambled away, his boots clattering on the wooden floorboards.
The house, known as The Hearth, was a chaotic, beautiful mess. It was a tall, narrow building squeezed between a bakery and a clockmaker's shop.
To the neighbors, it was just an orphanage run by Iris and Silas—a childless couple who had opened their hearts to the city's forgotten. But to Eirene, it was a fortress.
She was the first. Fifteen years ago, she had been the "gift" left on the doorstep. Since then, twelve others had followed. Some were left in baskets; some were found wandering the docks; one had even been found hidden in a delivery of hay.
Iris entered the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked tired, but her eyes softened when she saw Eirene. She walked over and squeezed Eirene's shoulder.
"You do too much, Eirene," Iris whispered. "You're seventeen. You should be out in the square, watching the performers or dreaming of the festival."
"And leave you to deal with the twins?" Eirene laughed, dumping the dough onto the table with a heavy thud. "Sana would have the roof sold to a merchant by noon, and Milo would have disassembled the front door just to see how the hinges work. No, I'm fine here."
"You are a wonder," Iris said. She glanced toward the mantle, where a small glass jar sat. Inside, a single silver thread lay coiled like a sleeping snake. "Silas says the Royal Guard is restless today. There are whispers that the King is angry. Something has been stolen from the palace vault."
Eirene looked at the jar. For as long as she could remember, that thread had been dull—just a piece of string. But today, in the grey morning light, she thought she saw it flicker. A tiny, heartbeat-like pulse of white light. She blinked, and it was gone.
"The King is always angry about something," Eirene said, trying to ignore the sudden chill in her chest. "He has a golden palace and a son everyone loves. What could he possibly be missing?"
High above the Lower Tier, where the air was thin and the sunlight reflected off walls of polished glass, Prince Xanthe was having a very different morning.
He stood on a balcony overlooking the entire kingdom. From here, Lesternam looked like a jewel suspended in the sky. He could see the clouds drifting beneath the iron chains, and the tiny, ant-like movement of the people below.
"You look like you're planning a daring escape, Your Highness," a voice said.
Xanthe didn't turn. He knew the voice of Captain Kael, his personal guard and only real friend. "Is it that obvious, Kael?"
"You've been staring at the Lower Tier for twenty minutes without blinking. Either you're planning an escape, or you've spotted a very interesting bird."
Xanthe turned, a practiced, charming smile on his face—the smile that made the court call him the 'Golden Son.' But his eyes were troubled. "My father is losing his mind, Kael. He's obsessed. He spent all night in the Vaults. He thinks the 'Missing' are coming for him."
"The Missing?" Kael frowned. "The stories for children? People don't just vanish and get forgotten, Xanthe. That's folklore."
Xanthe reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, brass compass. The needle wasn't pointing North. It was spinning wildly, occasionally snapping toward the Lower Tier with violent force.
"This belonged to my grandfather," Xanthe said quietly. "It's supposed to point toward the 'Soul of Lesternam'—the source of our magic. For a hundred years, it pointed at the Palace. This morning, it changed its mind. It's pointing down there."
He looked back at the sprawling maze of the Lower Tier.
"I need to go down there," Xanthe said, his voice firm. "Not as a Prince. Not with a parade. I need to find out why the magic of this city is turning its back on the throne."
Back at The Hearth, breakfast was a roar of noise. Silas had joined them, smelling of coal and warm iron. The children were shoving bread into their mouths, arguing about who got to use the wooden sword today.
"Where's Maya?" Silas asked, looking around the table.
Eirene paused, a pitcher of milk in her hand. She counted the heads. One, two, three... eleven. "She's probably sleeping in," Eirene said. "I'll go get her. That girl would sleep through an earthquake."
Eirene walked up the creaking stairs to the girls' dormitory. It was a long room with six small beds. She walked to the bed in the corner—the one by the window where Maya, a quiet six-year-old with a talent for drawing, always slept.
The bed was made. The sheets were pulled tight.
"Maya?" Eirene called. "Breakfast is getting cold, and Leo is eating your portion."
No answer.
Eirene looked under the bed. Empty. She looked in the small wardrobe. Only Maya's spare tunic was there. But then, Eirene noticed something that made her blood turn to ice.
On the nightstand sat Maya's sketchbook. Eirene opened it. The pages were blank. Every single drawing Maya had spent months working on was gone. It was as if the lead had evaporated from the paper.
Eirene ran back downstairs, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Iris! Silas! Maya isn't in her bed. Her drawings... they're gone."
Iris looked up from her tea, a confused expression on her face. "Maya? Who are you talking about, dear?"
Eirene stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She felt like the floor had just dropped away. "Maya. The girl we took in last winter. The one who likes to draw birds? She sits right there!" Eirene pointed to the empty stool next to Leo.
Silas rubbed his beard, looking at the stool. "Eirene, you're tired. There's no one named Maya. We have twelve children. You've always been the eldest of twelve."
Eirene looked at the other children. Leo, Pip, Sana—they all looked at her with pity and confusion.
"There are thirteen of us!" Eirene shouted, her voice cracking. "I made thirteen portions of bread! I... I..."
She turned and looked at the kitchen table. There were only twelve plates. The thirteenth plate—the one she was sure she had set—was gone.
Eirene backed away, her breath coming in short gasps. She ran to the mantle and grabbed the glass jar.
The silver thread inside wasn't just flickering anymore. It was glowing with a fierce, blinding white light. It was warm to the touch, vibrating with a frantic energy.
At that exact moment, a heavy knock sounded at the front door. Not the gentle knock of a neighbor, but the rhythmic, echoing boom of a royal soldier.
"By order of Prince Xanthe," a voice shouted from outside. "Open the door for inspection!"
Eirene looked at the glowing thread, then at the empty stool where a sister she loved used to sit.