The world did not end with a whisper; it ended with the Hum.

  For a thousand miles in every direction, the Empire of Sol had built a ceiling of iron. It wasn't a roof, but a forest of chimneys so thick and cranes so tall that the sun had become a myth. To the people below, the "Heavens" were nothing more than a swirling soup of black soot and the rhythmic clank-clank-clank of pistons the size of cathedrals.

  On the edge of the Western Territories, far from the deep pits of the Solarian Mines, an Imperial scout sat atop his mechanical walker. He adjusted his visor, trying to squint through the smog.

  "Status?" a voice crackled over his radio.

  "Quiet, sir," the scout replied, his hand resting on the lever of a Flameburst cannon. "Just the usual soot-fall. The cranes are hauling at 100% capacity. The crystals are bright tonight."

  He looked up at the "stars"—jagged violet shards of Flameburst ore dangling from chains, swinging hundreds of feet above the ground. They glowed with a sickly, radioactive purple, lighting the industrial wasteland in a bruised hue.

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  Then, the "Hum" changed.

  It wasn't the steady vibration of the machines. It was a high-pitched whistle, like a bird made of glass.

  Twang.

  A streak of purple light cut through the black smoke. It didn't come from the Empire's factories. It came from the "Dead Forest" beyond the perimeter.

  The scout didn't even have time to scream. The arrow, tipped with unstable energy, pierced the pressurized hull of his walker. The machine groaned, its metal legs buckling as it collapsed into the oily mud.

  Through the flickering static of his failing visor, the scout saw them.

  They didn't wear iron. They didn't smell of grease. They emerged from the smoke like ghosts of a forgotten world, their bright red hair flowing behind them like banners of wet blood. They moved with a speed that defied the heavy gravity of the industrial zone.

  "The Elvas..." the scout whispered, coughing up grey dust. "They’re actually... here."

  A second explosion rocked the horizon, miles away toward the Southern Mines. The diplomacy had failed. The Emperor’s peace was a lie.

  The red-haired warriors didn't stop to look at the dying man. They looked toward the Great Chimneys in the distance—toward the heart of the empire where thousands of white-haired "Vessels" were being drained dry.

  The war for the sky had begun. And deep in the dirt, eighteen miles away, a boy named Kaelen was about to wake up.