The river morning sleeps under a shroud of pale, silver silk.
Across the wide, glassy belly of the water, thick river mist curls like sleeping serpents around the roots of the ancient, water-logged willows that droop from the banks. In the quiet reed beds, gray herons stand rigid, motionless as carved grey granite, their sharp yellow eyes tracking the slow, phantom shadows of carp darting through the dark silt below. Out in the mid-channel, an ancient wooden ferry sits anchored in the glass-still water, its weathered oak timbers groaning softly against the gentle current. On the flat, rotting deck, an old ferryman sits on a overturned wooden bucket, his knuckles white around the handle of a clay pipe, watching his line bob lazily in the grey water.
A single drop of dew slips from the leaf of an overhanging fern and breaks the river's surface. A faint, perfectly circular ripple spreads outward.
Then, the world tears open.
A terrifying, violent flash of sapphire light erupts from the bank, accompanied by a sound like a thunderclap echoing through an empty hall.
The calm surface of the river shatters. The tranquil mist is ripped to shreds, blown back by a roaring wall of superheated blue mana. Deep below the surface, school after school of silver trout leap wildly into the freezing air, their scales glinting like scattered coins before they slap back down into the churning froth. A boiling wave of white steam rolls violently across the water, smelling sharply of raw ozone, scorched river weed, and hot iron. The old ferry rocks violently, its heavy mooring ropes snapping with the sound of musket shots, sloshing icy river water across the deck.
The old ferryman falls off his bucket onto his back, his pipe flying into the river. He slowly pushes himself up, his trembling hands gripping the wooden railing as he watches a narrow wooden boat streak past at an impossible, demonic speed. The vessel skips over the water like a thrown slate, leaving a towering, boiling rooster-tail of white spray fifty feet in the air.
The old man slowly removes his battered wool hat, wipes his dripping forehead with a sleeve, and stares into the fog.
" . . . "
"...I am too old for this."
Inside the flying wooden vessel, the wind roars like a dying beast.
Aldo stands near the center of the shaking boat, his boots jammed firmly against the ribbing of the hull to keep his balance. His dark coat snaps furiously behind him, the leather whipping against his arms with the sharp crackle of a battle flag. His knuckles are stark white where he grips the edge of the gunwale, his eyes wide, reflecting the blinding blue light pouring from the iron contraption bolted to the transom. His jaw is tight, his face set in a mask of rigid, intense concentration as the river banks blur into a green streak of trees and mud.
The hydrodynamic drag is diminishing exponentially as the hull lifts onto the surface layer, Aldo thinks, his mind racing through calculations while his stomach drops into his boots. If the thrust vector shifts by even two degrees to the port side, the wooden keel will split upon impact with the next swell.
"Reduce thrust!" Aldo shouts over the deafening roar of the jetpack, his voice straining against the rush of air. "Comtois, throttle it down twenty percent! The friction on the hull timbers is dangerously high!"
Aldo squints through the blinding spray, watching the blue flames lick the surface of the river, leaving a churning trail of boiled fish and floating mud. He leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studies the stabilization fins Comtois had crudely welded to the sides.
"...Interesting..." Aldo mutters softly under his breath, his voice devoid of its earlier panic, his fingers tracing the wind-blown air currents above the bow. "...The air cushion created by the flat bottom is actually stabilizing our lateral drift..."
Beside him, Comtois is a vision of absolute, unadulterated madness.
The giant man crouches at the stern, both hands clamped onto the iron steering tiller with a grip that could crush stone. His broad, scarred face is split by a wide, hysterical grin, his eyes wild and bloodshot behind his flying hair. The wind peels his lips back over his teeth as he roars with childlike glee, utterly unbothered by the fact that they are three inches away from being obliterated by a submerged log.
"Look at her go!" Comtois howls into the gale, his deep voice booming over the sound of the mana-thrusters. "Who needs horses?! Who needs roads?! Aldo, look at the spray! We're making our own weather!"
"The hull is groaning, Comtois!" Aldo yells back, his eyes darting down to the floorboards, where tiny trickles of river water are beginning to spout through the stressed seams. "The structural integrity of this timber is not rated for sixty knots!"
"It's fine!" Comtois shouts, reaching out with his foot to kick the throttle lever another inch forward. The engine screeches in protest, the blue flame turning a violent, brilliant purple. "A little extra speed just settles the wood! Every time we almost flip over, that's just the boat learning how to fly! It's progress, Captain! Pure progress!"
In the middle of the boat, Hano is curled into a tight, miserable ball near the central thwarts, his fingers dug so deeply into the damp wood of the bench that his fingernails are bleeding. His face has turned a sickly, pale shade of olive green. Every time the boat skips over a wave, lifting entirely out of the water before slamming back down with a spine-rattling CRACK, Hano's eyes bulge out of his head.
"I cannot believe command approved this," Hano whimpers internally, his voice a frantic, looping mantra inside his own skull. I survived the ambush in the snow of the northern trenches. I survived musket volleys and artillery bombardments. And I am going to die because a lunatic bought a magical stove at a black market auction.
Hano opens his eyes just long enough to glare at the back of Aldo's head, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw aches. "This is military negligence!" Hano screams over the wind, his voice cracking with pure outrage. "Which officer signed off on this contraption?! Who gave you clearance to mount an experimental engine to a forty-year-old fishing skiff?!"
Onaga sits directly across from the huddled conscripts near the bow, his long legs wedged against the sides to create a human barrier. While the rest of the crew clings to the boat in sheer terror, Onaga remains remarkably calm. His dark eyes do not watch the foaming river or the passing shore; they are fixed entirely on the men around him.
A young conscript, a boy no older than seventeen with mud-stained cheeks and a hand-me-down tunic, is sobbing uncontrollably, his hands clamped over his ears. Onaga reaches out, his massive, calloused hand coming down gently on the boy's trembling shoulder. He squeezes firmly, grounding the young man amidst the chaos.
"Breathe, lad," Onaga says softly, his deep, soothing voice carrying easily beneath the roar of the thrusters. "Keep your weight low. Look at the horizon, not the water. We are still floating."
Onaga adjusts his position, checking the straps on a second conscript's leather armor, ensuring the metal buckles won't tear into the boy's skin if they hit the water. Once the conscripts are settled, Onaga turns his head, his dark, watchful eyes settling on Aldo.
Aldo is still leaning over the bow, shouting technical adjustments about the water's displacement to Comtois, completely oblivious to the spray soaking his clothes to the bone.
Onaga shuffles forward an inch, his hand reaching out to touch Aldo's elbow. "Captain," Onaga calls out, his tone laced with quiet, steady concern. "Are you holding together?"
Aldo doesn't look back, his eyes glued to the river bend ahead. "The fluid dynamics are fascinating, Onaga! If we adjust the ballast forward, we can reduce the drag by another five percent!"
Onaga sighs softly, a gentle, sad smile touching his lips as he lets go of Aldo's coat. He knows Aldo isn't fine—he knows the Captain gets lost in the math when the world becomes too loud, forgetting his own fatigue, forgetting his own healing wounds, forgetting that he is a human being made of flesh and bone rather than numbers on a slate.
Near the front of the boat, two conscripts lie huddled together under a wet canvas sail, their faces pressed against the damp floorboards.
"I thought officers were supposed to keep us alive," one of the conscripts whispers, his voice trembling so violently his teeth chatter.
The other conscript slowly turns his head, staring at Aldo, who is currently yelling at Comtois about the angle of the engine's exhaust manifold while the boat airborne over a sandbar.
"They probably think they are," the second conscript replies, his eyes wide with dark, hopeless resignation.
"Look out!" Hano screams suddenly, pointing a shaking finger straight ahead. "REED BED! ROCK WALL!"
The river narrows violently as it approaches the lower district of Aldoria. The wide, sweeping waters compress into a tight, stone-lined canal bordered by towering warehouses and rotting wooden wharves. Directly in their path lies a shallow mudbank, bristling with jagged, submerged rocks and abandoned wooden pilings.
"Comtois, kill the engine!" Aldo roars, his hands flying to the steering ropes. "KILL THE ENGINE NOW!"
"Full throttle it is!" Comtois bellows back, misunderstanding the command entirely over the deafening scream of the mana-burners. He yanks the lever all the way back.
The jetpack gives a final, violent shrieking roar.
The boat doesn't just hit the shallow water; it launches over it.
The hull skips once across the muddy sandbank, throwing up a fifty-foot plume of black silt. It slides over the wet, slippery river stones with a horrifying, metallic screech that tears through the wood. The boat skips high into the air, clearing a row of floating timber logs, and crashes violently onto the wet cobblestones of the Aldoria fish market.
The momentum is unstoppable.
The wooden vessel skids across the rain-slicked stones like an iron sled, its keel shattering into a thousand splinters. It smashes directly through a row of wooden fish baskets, sending hundreds of silver herring and crushed ice flying into the air like a glittering cloud. It side-swipes a fruit merchant's cart, bursting through crates of ripe red apples that explode into sweet, fragrant pulp against the stone walls.
"BRACE!" Hano shrieks, throwing his arms over his head.
The boat keeps sliding, plowing straight through a double set of heavy, reinforced canvas curtains hanging from the front of a dry-goods warehouse. It bursts into the dim, cool interior of the building, tearing down wooden support posts, scattering sacks of fine white wheat flour into the air.
A massive, blinding cloud of white powder instantly fills the warehouse, mingling with the dying, hissing blue steam of the overheated jetpack.
Then... silence.
The violent roaring stops. The grinding of wood against stone ceases. The only sound left in the cavernous warehouse is the soft, rhythmic pat-pat-pat of flour falling from the ceiling rafters like fresh snow, coating everything and everyone in a thick, ghostly layer of white powder.
Inside the wrecked vessel, nobody moves. The ten men sit frozen in a circle of broken planks, crushed apple pulp, and white dust, looking like a collection of freshly painted stone statues.
Near the stern, a single white-coated figure slowly sits up. Comtois blinks twice, two small circles of clear skin appearing around his eyes as he wipes the flour from his face. He looks at the shattered hull, looks at the destroyed warehouse doors behind them, and then looks at the rest of the white-covered squad.
" . . . "
" . . . "
"Best landing yet," Comtois announces, his voice deadpan, completely breaking the silence.
Nobody answers him.
Onaga instantly springs into motion. He pushes himself up from the wreckage, ignoring the white dust cloud, his hands immediately flying to the nearest conscript. He checks the boy's neck, checks his limbs for broken bones, his movements swift, gentle, and practiced. "Where does it hurt? Can you move your fingers? Good. Sit still."
Simultaneously, Hano explodes out of the rubble like a demon rising from the grave. He stumbles toward Comtois, his face bright red beneath the white flour, his finger shaking violently as he points it at the giant's nose. "YOU ABSOLUTE LUNATIC!" Hano screams, his voice echoing off the high wooden rafters. "YOU COULD HAVE KILLED US ALL! WE ARE SOLDIERS, NOT ARTILLERY SHELLS! I AM GOING TO REPORT YOU TO THE HIGH COMMAND! I AM GOING TO PERSONALLY COURT-MARTIAL YOU!"
Aldo, meanwhile, has already scrambled out of the broken hull. He ignores his own torn sleeve and the flour covering his hair. He walks straight toward a middle-aged, balding man who is standing near the back office of the warehouse, holding a clipboard, frozen in utter, speechless shock.
Aldo stops two paces in front of the merchant, stands up straight, adjusts his dusty lapels, and bows deeply from the waist.
"My sincere apologies for the damage to your facility, sir," Aldo says, his voice perfectly formal, entirely calm, as if he had just stepped out of a carriage rather than an exploding boat. "We are representatives of the provincial defensive force. All property destruction, including the wheat flour, the structural timber, and the market stalls, will be fully reimbursed by the crown upon submission of Form CDR-01 (Civillian Damage Repairation) to the District Quartermaster."
The merchant slowly lowers his clipboard, his jaw hanging open, a single lump of flour sliding off his nose.
That single scene tells anyone everything they ever need to know about the squad.
Step out of the ruined warehouse, and the world changes instantly.
The quiet, misty isolation of the river is gone, utterly consumed by the roaring, living beast that is Carravin.
It is not a city that announces itself gently; it slams into the senses like a physical wave. The noise is the first thing—a deafening, overlapping symphony of human existence. Thousands of iron-shod wagon wheels grind against hard granite cobblestones. Church bells from six different districts ring out out of sync, their deep brass tones clashing in the humid air. Blacksmiths' hammers ring against anvils like metallic heartbeat beats, while hundreds of street hawkers scream their wares in a dizzying dialect of river slang.
The air is warm, thick, and heavy, carrying a dense, layered tapestry of smells that shifts with every single step.
One step smells of fresh, crusty rye bread baking in wood-fired ovens. The next smells of wet horse manure, damp wool cloaks drying in the sun, and the sharp, acrid tang of coal smoke belching from thousands of brick chimneys. Turn a corner, and the air turns sweet with the scent of melted tallow, fresh leather oil, and the bitter, dark aroma of crushed ink from the printing houses near the central square. Beneath it all lies the perpetual, earthy baseline of the river—mud, wet fish, and iron.
The streets are suffocatingly crowded. barefoot children weave through the dense throngs like swift little fish, chasing fleeing chickens while carrying bundles of stolen turnips. Guild apprentices stagger under impossible wooden crates loaded with copper pipes and bolts of velvet, their faces red with exertion. Women lean out of the third-story timber windows above the narrow alleys, shouting furiously at each other across the gap while hanging wet laundry on long wooden poles.
The city glitters and rots simultaneously. Stained-glass windows of grand merchant halls flash brilliantly in the afternoon sun, casting jewel-toned light down onto the muddy, filth-streaked gutters below.
Aldo steps onto the main thoroughfare, his eyes wide, his posture relaxing for the first time in weeks. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth enters his eyes. He takes a deep breath of the coal-scented air, looking up at the soaring timber-framed buildings that bow toward each other over the street.
He is home. He genuinely, deeply loves this city.
Hano walks beside him, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his shortsword, his sharp eyes scanning the high rooftops and narrow alleyways with practiced military paranoia.
"Those roofs are dangerously close," Hano mutters, leaning toward Aldo as they dodge a passing coal wagon. "A sniper on the east side could easily jump across to the west side. Two men could hold a entire company at bay in these tight choke points."
Aldo looks up at the overhanging eaves, nodding approvingly. "Correct," Aldo says softly. "The urban density makes asymmetrical defense highly effective. They're also excellent firebreaks."
Hano stops dead in his tracks, blinking at Aldo. " . . . "
"...That's what you noticed?" Hano asks, his voice dripping with disbelief. "The structural fire safety?"
"A fire in 1089 burned down three whole wards because the eaves were made of pine," Aldo explains matter-of-factly, stepping around a pile of horse manure without breaking his stride. "The city council mandated stone fascias and tiled roofs afterward. It reduced urban fire mortality by sixty-four percent."
Onaga walks near the back of the group, his long spear held vertically so as not to bump into the passing crowds. He doesn't look at the roofs or the tactical choke points; he looks at the people.
A tiny girl in a patched dress drops a wooden basket of apples, the red fruit rolling across the muddy cobblestones. Before the crying child can even react, Onaga kneels down, his massive frame blocking a heavy wagon wheel from crushing the fruit. He gently scoops the apples back into the basket, hands it to the girl, and pats her head with a soft, warm smile.
"Keep a tight grip on it, little one," Onaga murmurs softly.
Further down the street, an old man stumbles over a raised paving stone, his heavy sack of flour slipping from his shoulder. Onaga catches the sack with one hand, hoists it effortlessly, and sets it back on the old man's shoulders, holding his arm steady until the elder regains his balance. The old man nods in quiet gratitude, and Onaga gives a respectful bow before catching up to the squad.
Anyone watching him instantly knows this is a man who protects life, not just orders.
Comtois, meanwhile, is practically vibrating with unspent energy, his head turning so fast from side to side it looks like his neck might snap.
"I bet that chimney is climbable," Comtois says, pointing a thick finger at a five-story brick stack rising from a glassblower's workshop.
"No," Aldo says without looking back.
"I bet I could jump from that balcony onto the hay wagon down there," Comtois continues, his eyes measuring the distance.
"No," Aldo repeats firmly.
"I bet I could—"
"No, Comtois."
They turn down a wide, stone-lined avenue, and the atmosphere shifts once again. The smell of coal and bread gives way to a sharp, chemical sting that tickles the back of the throat.
They are entering the Dye Canals.
Here, the narrow stone waterways that vein through the city do not run with brown river water; they glow with intense, unnatural colors. Today, the canal is a deep, luminous cobalt blue. On either side of the canal, hundreds of workers move across wooden scaffolding, their arms and hands stained a permanent, indelible dark indigo up to their elbows.
Above the street, stretched between the upper floors of the tall workshops, hundreds of massive, long strips of dyed wool cloth hang down to dry. The wind catches the fabric, creating a soaring, shifting tunnel of deep blue overhead, blocking out the sun and turning the street into a cool, azure-tinted cavern.
Comtois blindly walks straight into a hanging sheet of wet indigo wool, wrapping himself in the heavy, damp fabric like a clumsy cocoon.
"Why is everything blue?!" Comtois muffled voice yells from inside the cloth.
A master dyer standing on a nearby platform immediately leans over the railing, brandishing a heavy wooden stirring paddle covered in wet pigment. "Because you just walked straight into my prime export indigo, you blind ox!" the dyer roars, his blue-stained face contorted in fury. "Get your filthy armor off my wool!"
Aldo catches Comtois by the strap of his chestplate and hoists him out of the fabric, bowing politely to the dyer.
"Percival built the canal wider in 1182," Aldo explains smoothly to the squad as they hurry along the blue-lit street.
"Why?" Hano asks, ducking under another hanging banner of fabric.
"So every workshop receives a continuous, equal flow of running water," Aldo replies, his voice carrying the calm rhythm of a textbook. "Before the expansion, the upper workshops diverted all the clean water, causing three distinct trade wars between the textile guilds. The widening stabilized the local currency and increased fabric production by forty percent."
Hano blinks, looking at the glowing blue canal, then at the orderly rows of workshops. " . . . "
"...That's actually clever," Hano admits quietly.
As they walk, the economic geography of Carravin unfolds naturally through the senses.
They step out of the Dye Canals and cross a broad stone bridge into the High Ward. Suddenly, the mud under their boots vanishes, replaced by tightly fitted, polished granite pavers that are meticulously swept by city laborers. The air here smells expensive—scented oils, fresh lavender hanging from window boxes, and fine roasted coffee beans imported from the southern colonies. The guards at the iron gates wear polished steel armor with silk sashes, their boots spotless.
Ten minutes later, Aldo leads them through a narrow stone archway into the Ironworks Ward. The contrast is absolute. The polished stone disappears, replaced once again by rough, soot-blackened cobbles. The air smells of sulfur, molten iron, and raw horse sweat. Massive steam vents hiss from the foundation walls, casting heavy grey clouds over the narrow streets. Here, the wealth is not displayed in silk or coffee, but in the sheer, terrifying scale of industry—piles of raw coal stacked three stories high, teams of twelve massive draft horses hauling glowing iron ingots on heavy flatbed wagons.
It requires no explanation. The city tells its own story.
Every time a member of the squad asks a simple, casual question, Aldo's brain opens an entire historical encyclopedia.
"When was this bridge built?" Hano asks casually as they cross a low, triple-arched stone structure spanning a secondary canal.
Onaga, walking behind them, quietly reaches out and touches Hano's shoulder. "...Just don't, Hano." Onaga whispers softly.
It is too late.
"...The original timber structure was constructed during the reign of Duke Alan II in 1042," Aldo begins smoothly, his eyes gazing fondly at the carved stone balustrade. "However, it collapsed under the weight of a mercenary baggage train during the Spring Thaw. The current stone structure was commissioned in 1085 by the Builders Guild, utilizing a double-buttressed arch design imported from the southern provinces. This allowed merchant barges to pass without lowering their masts, which in turn reduced transport transit times through the city by eighteen minutes..."
Five minutes pass. Aldo is still talking, his voice an unbroken, rhythmic drone as they cross two more intersections.
"...which ultimately led to the Toll Reform of 1102, reducing transport overhead costs by twelve percent across all major mercantile houses..."
Comtois stops walking, his hands pressed against his temples, his face twisted in profound, agonizing confusion.
"I forgot the original question," Comtois groans softly to the sky.
The transition is not sudden. It does not happen with the crack of a cannon or the blare of a war horn.
It happens like a slow, creeping poison spilling into a clear stream.
As they push deeper into the central ward toward the district of Edmundia, the vibrant, chaotic pulse of Carravin begins to falter. The shift is subtle at first—the laughter of children playing in the alleys fades away. The street musicians playing lutes on the corner pack up their wooden cases and hurry into the shadows. One by one, heavy oak shutters slam shut over the glittering glass shopfronts, the iron bolts sliding into place with heavy, metallic thuds.
The air grows heavy with a new smell that cuts through the bread and coal—the bitter, metallic tang of burning tar and grey gunpowder smoke drifting on the wind.
An abandoned vegetable cart sits in the middle of a wide, cobblestone intersection. Its wooden wheel is broken, and dozens of bruised cabbages are scattered across the street. Nobody touches them. No children run out to steal them. No stray dogs chew on them. The street is completely, terrifyingly empty.