Thump. Thump. Thump.
'Uhh, whose there?'
Thump. Thump.
'Five more seconds please...'
THUMP. THUMP.
Aamon slowly opened one eye.
The ceiling of his attic room was mere inches from his nose, gray and stained with years of rising damp. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of pale light slicing through the small, circular window.
Thump. Thump.
'I'm up,' Aamon thought, squeezing his eyes shut for a second longer. 'I'm up, you old bat.'
"I know you're awake, boy!" Silas's voice came muffled through the wood, sounding like gravel grinding in a mixer. "The tea is getting cold! And rent is due!"
Aamon sighed, the sound scraping against the silence of the room. Rent wasn't due for another week, and the tea was likely scalding hot, capable of stripping paint off a wall. That was just Silas. The man operated on a timezone that was perpetually twenty minutes ahead of the rest of Blackiron.
Aamon threw off the thin, patchy quilt. The air in the attic was freezing. It always was. In the Lower City, heat was a luxury reserved for the furnaces, not the people.
He sat up, shivering as his bare feet hit the cold wood. He rubbed the sleep from his face, feeling the grit of the city on his skin. Even with the window closed, the smog found a way in. It tasted of coal dust, ozone, and the sour tang of unwashed humanity.
'Another day in paradise.'
He stood up and began the ritual.
He walked over to the mannequin in the corner—a wireframe thing he had haggled from a merchant years ago. Hanging on it was a suit.
His only suit.
It was second-hand, maybe third-hand. The cuffs were slightly frayed, and the black fabric had faded to a dark charcoal in the sun. But Aamon kept it meticulous. He spent ten minutes every night ironing the creases until they were sharp enough to cut paper. He polished the brass buttons with a stolen rag until they gleamed.
He washed his face in the basin of cold water, slicked back his unruly dark hair, and stepped into the trousers. He buttoned the shirt, tied the cravat with practiced ease, and slipped on the waistcoat.
He looked in the cracked mirror propped up against the wall.
The tired, hungry boy with the cynical eyes vanished. In his place stood Aamon, the respectable Clerk. A dutiful assistant. The young man with a bright future, or at least, the appearance of one.
'Fooled you,' he thought at his reflection.
He grabbed his coat and headed downstairs.
The shop smelled of oil, old paper, and time.
Silas's Antiquary & Clock Repair was a graveyard of things people had forgotten. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with brass gears, broken pendulums, and runic compasses that pointed nowhere. It was cluttered, dark, and felt like home.
Silas sat behind the counter, a jeweler's loupe screwed into his right eye. He was hunching over the guts of a pocket watch, his gnarled fingers moving with delicate precision. He didn't look up when Aamon came down the creaking stairs.
"You took your time," Silas grunted, tweaking a microscopic spring with a pair of tweezers. "I was about to sell your breakfast to a rat."
"The rats in this district have better taste than your cooking, old man," Aamon replied, leaning against the counter.
Silas snorted, finally looking up. He popped the loupe out of his eye. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, scarred by years of working with volatile runic machinery. But his eyes were sharp. Too sharp for a simple shopkeeper.
He pushed a chipped mug and a bowl of porridge across the counter.
"Eat. You look like a skeleton in a cheap suit."
Aamon took the mug. The tea was black, bitter, and strong enough to wake the dead. Just the way he liked it. He spooned the porridge into his mouth. It was bland, but it was warm.
"Nervous?" Silas asked, his tone dropping the gruff act for a split second.
"It's just a job, Silas," Aamon said, though he tapped his fingers on the wood. "Assistant Clerk. Simple work. Filing papers, making tea, looking busy."
"It's a job in the High City," Silas corrected, picking up his tweezers again. "Don't get cocky. You're a slum rat in a lion's den up there. If you mess this up, don't come crying back to me when you can't pay rent."
"I won't mess it up. The guy who hired me—Mr. Thorne—he seemed... manageable. Desperate, actually. He didn't even ask for references."
"Desperate men are dangerous, Aamon. They take risks. Just keep your head down. Do what you're told. And for the love of the Saints, don't steal anything."
Aamon set the mug down. He checked his own watch—a simple, mechanical thing he had built himself from scraps.
"I have to go. Don't die while I'm gone."
"Get out of my shop," Silas muttered, already focused back on the broken clock. "And fix your tie. It's crooked."
Aamon touched his tie.
It was perfectly straight.
He smiled and walked out the door.
Stepping out of the shop was like walking into a wall of gray wool.
The Lower City was waking up. The smog was thick today, a heavy blanket that muffled the sound of the waking factories. Figures moved through the fog like ghosts—workers shuffling toward the mills, heads down, coughing into ragged scarves.
Aamon merged into the flow. He walked with a specific rhythm—fast enough to look busy, slow enough not to attract the attention of the pickpockets lining the alleyways.
He knew this city. He knew which cobblestones were loose. He knew which steam pipes leaked scalding water at 8:00 AM. He knew that the bakery on 4th Street threw out stale buns at 8:15, and if you were quick, you could grab one before the dogs did.
He navigated the maze of the slums until he reached the Great Stair.
It was a massive iron structure, a spiral of metal and steam elevators that connected the Lower City to the High City. A physical ladder for social climbers.
Aamon bypassed the steam elevators—those cost a copper, and he was saving every coin. He took the stairs.
Five hundred steps.
By the time he reached the top, his legs burned, but he didn't stop. He couldn't sweat. Sweating ruined the shirt. He controlled his breathing, forcing his heart rate down.
As he crested the final step, the world changed.
The gray smog vanished, cut off by the invisible runic filters that protected the upper districts. The air here was crisp and smelled of lavender and expensive coal. The buildings weren't crumbling brick; they were white marble and polished granite, adorned with gold leaf and brass gargoyles.
Carriages powered by refined engines glided silently over paved streets. People walked with their heads up, wearing clothes that cost more than Silas's entire shop.
Aamon adjusted his cuffs. He adopted the walk of a man who belonged here. He didn't look at the grandeur. He looked bored by it. That was the key. Only tourists and thieves looked impressed.
He navigated toward the Gray District—the buffer zone between the elite and the slums. This was where the struggling professionals lived. The dentists, the accountants... and the lawyers who had fallen from grace.
He stopped in front of a narrow building with peeling paint. A brass plaque by the door read:
[Legal Consultancy. Julian Thorne, Esq.]
'Here we go,' Aamon thought. 'First impressions are everything.'
He pushed open the door.
The office was small. It consisted of a reception area that was barely big enough for a desk and a chair, and a back office where the "magic" happened. Stacks of paper were piled high on every surface—legal tomes, case files, and unpaid bills.
A young woman was standing behind the reception desk, furiously organizing a stack of documents. Her brown hair was pulled back in a severe bun, not a single strand out of place. She wore a simple blouse and skirt, practical and neat.
She looked up as Aamon entered, her eyes sharp and assessing. She didn't smile. She looked him up and down, noting the worn fabric of his suit, the scuff on his shoe, and the way he held himself.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice cool and professional.
"I'm Aamon," he said, stepping forward. "The new assistant. Mr. Thorne hired me yesterday."
The woman's expression didn't change, but her shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Right. The new hire. I'm Elara. I manage the office." She gestured to the coat rack. "You're three minutes late."
"The stairs were crowded," Aamon lied smoothly, hanging up his coat. "A steam pipe burst on Level 4."
"Excuses don't file paperwork," she replied, though she pushed a file folder toward him. "Review this. It's the brief for the morning meeting. Mr. Thorne is... well, go see for yourself."
Aamon took the file. "Anything the matter?"
"He's been pacing for an hour. I think he's trying to wear a hole in the carpet."
Aamon walked to the inner door and knocked once before entering.
Julian Thorne was indeed pacing. He was a young man, only a few years older than Aamon, with the sharp features of nobility but the anxious energy of a squirrel in traffic. His suit was expensive—a remnant of his family's former wealth—but it was starting to show wear at the elbows.
He spun around as Aamon entered.
"You!" Julian exclaimed, pointing a finger. "You're the new guy! Aamon, right?"
"Yes, sir," Aamon said, closing the door.
"Thank the Saints," Julian exhaled, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. "I can't find the contract drafts. I had them right here. Did I lose them? I definitely lost them. It's your first day and we're already ruined."
Aamon calmly walked over to the desk. He scanned the chaotic pile of papers. He spotted the corner of a blue document peeking out from under a heavy law book.
He lifted the book and pulled the drafts out.
"They were under here, sir," Aamon said, handing them over.
Julian blinked, taking the papers. He looked at Aamon, then at the papers, then back at Aamon. "Right. Of course. I knew that. I was just... testing your observation skills."
"Excellent test, sir. I passed."
Julian collapsed into his chair, letting out a long groan. "I'm going to throw up. Do I look like I'm going to throw up?"
"You look distinguished, sir," Aamon lied. "Like a man about to secure a major retainer."
"He's going to eat me alive," Julian whispered, staring at the ceiling. "Mr. Sterling. He owns half the textile mills in the district. He agreed to meet me, but he knows who my father was. He knows the name Thorne."
Aamon poured a glass of water from the carafe on the sideboard.
He hadn't really done any research about his employer this time, so he had no idea what scandalous tales where attached to the name Throne.
"Drink this."
Julian drank. He took a deep breath, adjusting his glasses. "You're right. I know the law. I know the statutes better than anyone."
"Exactly," Aamon said. "Now, stand up. Fix your tie. It's crooked."
Julian stood up and fumbled with his tie. Aamon sighed, reached out, and fixed the knot himself.
"Does Elara have the carriage ready?" Julian asked.
"I believe so, sir."
"Let's go," Julian said, grabbing his briefcase. He tried to look determined, but his hand was shaking slightly. "To the Gilded Lily."
The "Company Car" was a monstrosity.
It was an early model Steam Carriage, a bulky beast of iron and brass that looked more like a boiler on wheels than a vehicle. It was parked in the alley behind the office, hissing menacingly.
Elara was waiting by the vehicle, holding a wrench.
"The pressure valve was sticking again," she said to Julian. "I gave it a percussive adjustment."
"You hit it with a hammer?" Julian asked wincing.
"I hit it with a hammer," she confirmed. "It stopped hissing." She looked at Aamon. "Do you know how to drive a Mark IV Steam Engine?"
Aamon looked at the rusting hulk. "I've driven worse."
"Good," Julian said, eyeing the machine warily. "Because if I touch the wheel in this state, we'll end up in the river."
Aamon climbed into the driver's seat. It was open to the air, exposed to the elements, while the passenger cabin behind him was enclosed in glass and moth-eaten velvet.
He turned the ignition key.
Chug... Chug... Wheeze.
ROAR.
The engine caught. Black smoke belched from the rear exhaust, and the carriage vibrated violently before settling into a steady, rhythmic thrum.
"Smooth," Elara noted dryly from the sidewalk.
"It adds character," Aamon shouted over the noise. He adjusted his goggles, pulling them down over his eyes.
Julian climbed into the back, clutching his briefcase like a shield. He rolled down the window partition.
"We have twenty minutes to get to the High Street," Julian shouted. "Don't hit any pedestrians. Lawsuits are expensive."
"I never hit pedestrians, sir," Aamon replied, gripping the iron steering wheel.
He released the handbrake. The carriage lurched forward, rattling over the cobblestones.
As they merged onto the main road, leaving the Gray District behind, Aamon felt a strange sense of calm. The vibration of the engine, the smell of burning oil, the chaotic traffic of steam-wagons and horses—this he understood. Machines made sense. If a machine broke, you fixed it.
People were the problem.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Julian was furiously reading his notes, muttering to himself.
Aamon steered the carriage toward the heart of the High City, toward the Gilded Lily.
'Just another Tuesday,' Aamon thought, and accelerated.