Steelhaven, Kingdom of Albrion
Autumn, 1887
Steam spilled from factory chimneys like the breath of iron giants, drifting low across the streets of Steelhaven. The air smelled of oil, wet stone, and burning coal—an odor that clung to clothes and lungs alike. Somewhere beyond the station walls, gears groaned and interlocked, their metallic rhythm punctuated by the sharp whistle of a factory siren calling another shift into motion.
Alistair Finch stood on the platform, a simple cloth bag slung over his shoulder. In his hand was a folded letter—creased from being read far too many times.
Nullhedron Institute Scholarship.
"From a blacksmith to a Cubist," he murmured, his breath fogging in the cold autumn air.
As the steam locomotive hissed to a halt, Alistair caught sight of the city beyond the station. Rising above the brick districts and iron rooftops were structures unlike church spires or clock towers—geometric forms of glowing crystal, hovering in controlled suspension above the academic quarter.
Zone Cubes, his father had called them.
"They drive the factories, light the streets, move the trains," his father used to say. "They're what made Albrion great."
But what Alistair remembered most were his father's hands—scarred and burned from twelve-hour shifts at the forge. He remembered his mother's coughing fits, and the wages that were never quite enough to buy proper medicine.
"You have to get in, Al,"
his father had said the night before, gripping his shoulder with rough, calloused fingers. "Not to become a lord or a noble. But to understand the system that runs this world. And maybe… change it, if you can."
The train doors opened. Alistair stepped onto the crowded platform, where posters lined the stone walls:
CUBE FOR PROGRESS!
ALBRION LEADS THE WAY!
Before he could take more than a few steps, a figure blocked his path.
An old man stood there, wrapped in an ash-gray robe. In his hand was a peculiar staff, its head shaped like a rotating three-dimensional cube.
"Alistair Finch?" the man asked. His voice was dry, but carried undeniable authority.
"Yes, sir."
"I am Professor Ignatius." The old man gestured toward a nearby streetlamp.
It wasn't a gas lamp. Suspended within an iron frame was a small crystalline cube, hovering steadily and emitting a soft, stable white glow.
"A standard Cubist Level 4 construct," Ignatius said. "Street lighting."
Then he raised his staff.
The cube at its tip rotated slowly—and the streetlamp's light shifted. White turned to blue, then green, then red, pulsing in a steady rhythm, like a beating heart.
"And this," Ignatius said, his eyes gleaming, "is a Cube that is understood."
Alistair stared. Not at the light itself, but at the principle behind it—controlled change, function altered through comprehension.
"Is it," he asked carefully, "like blacksmithing? Understanding the nature of metal, then shaping it accordingly?"
Ignatius paused. Then, for the first time, he smiled.
"An interesting analogy. Incorrect—but interesting. Metal has fixed properties. Empty does not. It is pure potential."
A distant chime rang out across the city—clear and crystalline.
"The academy bell," Ignatius said. "Orientation has begun. Come."
As they walked along the cobbled streets, Alistair noticed another poster, half-torn and weather-stained. It depicted a Cubist with sunken skin and hollow eyes, skeletal beneath the robes.
NECRO-CUBE KILLS!
"What's that about?" Alistair asked.
Ignatius's expression hardened.
"Your first lesson, Finch," he said. "Every Cube has a price. Physical. Immediate. There is no magic without consequence."
At last, they reached the academy gates.
There were no statues of kings or heroes—only two massive cubes.
One rested firmly upon the ground, solid and immovable: The Anchor. The other hovered above its pedestal, its sharp angles twisting subtly in midair: The Drift.
Between them, carved into the stone archway, were the words:
EX NIHILO, ORDO
From Nothingness, Order.
Alistair inhaled slowly.
This was no longer the world of the forge. This was a world where emptiness itself was raw material—and understanding was the hammer.
"Welcome," Ignatius said as the gates opened, "to the Nullhedron Institute. Here, you will learn that the most dangerous thing in this world is not what exists… but what could exist."
Inside his coat pocket, the scholarship letter felt warm against his chest. Whether it was imagination or something else, Alistair couldn't tell—but it felt as though something had responded to his first true thoughts about Cubes.
He stepped forward.
Outside the walls, factory steam still rose into the gray sky. But within these grounds, the air felt different—charged with potential, promise, and dangers yet unformed.