Warmth.

  Comfortable warmth surrounded me, the sensation of water flooding me from all angles like a intimate embrace.

  I was submerged. Completely beneath the surface, pressure gentle against my skin. But I didn’t need to breathe. The water held me suspended in perfect stillness - dark, infinite, safe.

  Somewhere above, a bell tolled.

  Distant at first. Muted by the depths.

  Then louder.

  Each ring vibrated through the water, through my chest, until the sound became physical - a pressure that built and built until-

  Light.

  I opened my eyes, instinctively raising a hand to shield them.

  White radiance bled down from above, piercing the darkness. A single point that grew impossibly bright, tugging at me with gentle insistence.

  The water around me stirred.

  The bell rang again.

  Louder.

  Closer.

  Until I couldn’t bear it anymore.

  I gasped awake.

  A bronze bell swung inches from my face, its arc wide enough to rattle the entire platform beneath me.

  The same bell I had very intentionally chosen to sleep under.

  Its toll hammered straight through my skull.

  “Shit-!”

  I scrambled back, hand flying to my mask. Cold metal met my fingers just as my heel slipped past the edge.

  The platform vanished.

  I fell.

  Icy cold wind tore past me, numbing my face with its bite. Below, the city unfolded in detail - rooftops stacked like rusted plates, narrow streets threading between them, laundry lines hanging from window to window swaying in the morning breeze. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys as the sound of the morning rush could be heard from below, a thousand voices drowning together.

  A Victorian sprawl. All brass, brick, and questionable air.

  It was beautiful in a sense. Especially so high up in the sky.

  My hand slipped my mask into place. The seal hissed.

  I blinked.

  Reality folded.

  The world snapped back into shape and my boots hit clay tile with a jolt that rattled my knees. I landed in a crouch on a rooftop, breath rasping through the vox.

  The pain was still present. My body ached, my mind felt groggy - reminding me of the price of last nights charade.

  “I gotta stop relying on it so much. ” I muttered, swatting my fringe away from my eyes.

  Morning light washed over the buildings I could see - rooftops glowing amber, the occasional airship drifting lazily in the sky like fat metal fish. For a brief moment, it was almost peaceful.

  Then the bell rang again.

  My eyes widened.

  Whoops.

  Someones irritated face entered my mind.

  Someone I really didn't want to anger.

  Shit.

  I was going to be late.

  I blinked.

  ---

  I started jogging, keeping my pace steady despite the protest from my body. The streets were already filling - workers in soot-stained clothes heading toward factories, merchants raising shutters, street vendors setting up carts for the morning rush.

  I was now in a plain set of brown parts, dark brown boots and a humble white shirt. Around my neck hung a silver necklace. Attached to the bottom hung a small mask - an important symbol of the Church.

  Considering where I was going, I thought it would be fitting.

  Maybe I'll even get some extra brownie points despite being late.

  The market district opened before me like a kaleidoscope of color and sound.

  It sprawled around a central fountain - an old thing, weathered stone carved with imperial sigils that had long since lost their sharp edges to time and rain. Water burbled from its center, the sound almost lost beneath the cacophony of vendors hawking their wares.

  The stalls were a testament to the Empire's sheer reach and size.

  To my left, a woman sold spices from the southern territories - saffron and cardamom in glass jars that caught the morning light, their scents sharp and foreign. Next to her, a man displayed bolts of silk from the western provinces, fabric so fine it looked like colored water flowing across his table.

  I wove between them, boots splashing through puddles left by last night's rain.

  A vendor called out prices for salted fish from the southern coast. Another arranged exotic fruits I didn't recognize - purple things with spined skin, golden orbs that smelled of honey and citrus. The diversity was staggering. All of it flowing into the capital like tributaries feeding a great river.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  This is what Empire looks like. Not the ballrooms and airships. This. A thousand cultures ground together into something new.

  It such a decrepit place, it carried a sense of belonging many clung to.

  I picked up my pace, sidestepping a group of children playing near the fountain's edge.

  A woman stood near the fountain's base, a wooden collection box held in weathered hands. She wore simple clothes - grey wool that had seen better days, patched at the elbows and hem. A boy stood beside her, maybe eight or nine years old, holding a crude sign painted with words I could read from several paces away.

  ORPHANS OF MARTYRS - PLEASE HELP

  My hand instinctively went to adjust my collar.

  Too late.

  The necklace was still visible - a small silver pendant bearing the Church's symbol, hanging outside my shirt where anyone could see it.

  The woman's eyes found it immediately.

  "Excuse me, sir." Her voice was polite, hopeful but not desperate in its approach. "Surely a venerable member of the Church of Man could spare a few coins for the orphans of martyrs? Those who gave their lives for the Empire's glory?"

  I stopped.

  Every instinct screamed at me to keep moving. I was late. The ceremony was starting soon and I couldn't afford-

  The boy looked up at me.

  His face was thin, cheeks hollow in the way children's faces shouldn't be. But his eyes were clear. Determined. He wasn't begging - just standing there, helping his mother with the quiet dignity of someone who understood responsibility far too young.

  Dammit.

  I looked at the woman more carefully. Mid-thirties, maybe. Tired eyes, but genuine. No signs of the practiced desperation you saw in career beggars. Just someone trying to survive.

  "Is he yours?" I asked, gesturing to the boy.

  "Yes, sir." She managed a small smile. "My son. He helps me collect donations for the children who lost their fathers in the northern campaign."

  "Your husband-"

  She nodded before I could finish. Sad, but not bitter. Just... resigned. Like so many other souls within the city.

  The boy's hand tightened around the sign's wooden handle.

  I reached into my coat and pulled out several folded notes - more than I should give, probably more than I could afford at this point. But the numbers on them suddenly seemed meaningless compared to the hollow look in that kid's eyes.

  After seeing his eyes, I realised even without the necklace around my neck, I wouldn't have been able to walk past.

  Despite my best efforts, I still had a conscious.

  I dropped the notes into the collection box.

  The woman's eyes widened. She stared at the notes, then at me, her expression shifting from surprise to something that looked dangerously close to tears.

  "Sir, this is - you're far too generous, I couldn't possibly-"

  "It's the least I can do," I said, cutting her off with an awkward smile. Praise always made me uncomfortable. "May I?"

  I gestured to the boy. The woman nodded, purple eyes watching me with careful attention as I knelt down to the child's level.

  Up close, I could see the boy fighting back tears. He'd seen his mother's reaction to the money, seen the relief and gratitude flooding her face, and he was barely holding it together.

  I reached out and patted his head gently.

  "You look strong," I said quietly. "Don't ever lose hope. Your father fought for that hope. Died for it. The least you can do is cherish it."

  The boy nodded, tears finally spilling over to streak down his cheeks. "Y-yes sir."

  "What's your name?" the woman asked, her own eyes glistening with purple-tinted moisture.

  "Damian."

  "Thank you, Damian." She smiled - genuine and warm.

  "You have beautiful eyes."

  I blinked, caught off guard. "You too."

  Then I turned and walked away before the moment could get any more awkward.

  I did something good today. Pat on the back, Damian. You're not a heartless asshole yet.

  The warm feeling lasted approximately three seconds before reality crashed back down.

  Shit.

  I was extremely late.

  Once I was out of sight of the woman, I broke into a proper run, weaving between stalls with renewed urgency. The market blurred around me - flashes of color and sound, vendors shouting, the smell of fresh bread mixing with spices and metal and a thousand other things that made the capital what it was.

  A stall selling clockwork toys from the western workshops.

  Another displaying prayer beads carved from bone.

  Woven baskets stacked three-high, filled with grain from the eastern farmlands.

  All of it proof that the Empire's reach stretched across the known world, pulling everything into its orbit like gravity made manifest in trade and conquest.

  I burst out of the market and onto the main avenue.

  Saint Fredrick's Cathedral rose ahead like a mountain carved by belief.

  At the base of its vast stairway stood a statue.

  A faceless man, towering, carved from pale stone. One hand held a massive key, the other rested calmly at his side. No eyes. No mouth. Just smooth, unbroken features turned eternally toward the city below.

  A Plaque lay in front of it, the writing simple and concise in its message.

  Here he watches.

  A man.

  A martyr.

  An angel.

  I stared at his faceless visage for a second.

  Saint Fredrick, huh.

  The facelessness didn't move me. It was common practice for those dedicated to the church to remain faceless, a tradition buried deep in the history of both the church and Empire. What interested me more...

  I wonder what the keys for?

  Despite my curiosity, I didn't bother with the thought any longer. Now wasn't the time for useless conjecture.

  The stairs stretched upward behind him, endless and worn smooth by centuries of devotion.

  I slowed.

  Then climbed.

  People crowded the stairs - faceless priests ascending in solemn procession, families, seemingly all within the middle class of wealth, descended after morning prayers.

  Kids clutched their mothers hands, happiness and excitement plastered on their faces. Wives with makeup, accenting their good features while sniffing out the bad. And the Husband's, whose suit, ties and listless expressions could only be broken by their children's insesent chattering.

  I smiled briefly at the sight, admiring the small glimpse of happiness and peace in an otherwise dreary city.

  On the stairs, I took the steps two at a time, weaving between them, trying my hardest not to disturb anyone around me.

  By the time I reached the top, my legs screamed and sweat soaked through my shirt.

  A courtyard opened before me - vast, paved in white stone that gleamed like bone. Priests in white robes moved between buildings, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods and their auras matching that of sheathed blades. Paladins stood guard at intervals - men in polished steel armor carrying swords and halberds that gleamed like mirrors.

  It was an image of the past, compared to the age of steam and machinery that we lived in now. The Church had largely been adverse to the wave of technological advancements the Empire had seen in the last hundred years. Something they claimed ensured tradition remained pure.

  Though I highly doubted it would help them in the long run.

  A priest passed nearby to my right. I quickened my pace, falling in beside him.

  "Excuse me, father." I said, slightly breathless as I humbly lowered my head. "The Chamber of Rites - where is it? I'm to attend a ceremony today and I fear the trains morning congestion has made me late."

  The priest turned his hooded face toward me. I couldn't see his expression, only shadow beneath the white fabric. It felt as though the man underneath could spring at me at any second, yet I had a hunch that he never even considered me a factor to begin with.

  "Western wing." His voice was flat, uncaring, betraying nothing. "Adjacent to the chambers of the ordinary priests."

  "Thank you, father."

  He inclined his head and continued walking.

  I broke into a light jog, mind racing.

  What excuse do I give? Train congestion? No, it's to be expected. Got lost? They'd never believe that. Maybe I-

  No, that won't work either.

  I'll just say I woke up weak. Exhaustion. Had to take time to recover before attending. It's not even a lie.

  Technically.

  The western wing loomed ahead - a long structure of white stone with narrow windows and a single set of massive doors. Two paladins flanked the entrance, their armor catching the sun like polished mirrors.

  I slowed to a walk, straightened my posture, and bowed as humbly as I could.

  "Initiate Damian Solmere," I announced, attempting to sound as professional as possible. "Here to attend the initiation ceremony."

  One paladin turned his head toward me - slow, deliberate. His gaze swept over my clothes, lingered on my flushed face. His expression remained utterly neutral.

  "Enter." he said flatly.

  The doors swung inward with a low groan.

  "Thank you."

  I stepped through.