The night stretched vast and merciless, a cloudless vault of stars pressing down upon the slow-moving column. Hundreds of slaves were driven forward along a dirt road worn smooth by centuries of passage, their chains whispering softly with each step. They traveled on foot and by creaking wooden wagons pulled by oxen, the air heavy with sweat, dust, and quiet despair. Torches bobbed at irregular intervals, their flames bending in the dry wind and casting warped shadows that made the line seem endless.Above them, the moon hung low and watchful. At first it glowed an eerie blue, bathing the land in cold, spectral light that made skin look ashen and eyes hollow. Then, without warning, its color bled and darkened, shifting into a deep crimson, as though the sky itself had been wounded. A murmur rippled through the captives as well as their new masters; some bowed their heads in fear, others stared upward in silent awe.They were being driven toward Veyl Ashkara, the Hollow Confluence—home of the Synchronisation Machine. Even from miles away, the land felt wrong, the air thrumming faintly, as if reality itself was tightening in anticipation.
The wagon Keith had been thrown into was better built than most—reinforced oak slats bound with iron bands, its wheels wider and less prone to sink into the ash-soft road. It was the kind of wagon reserved for valuables, not people. That alone had told him something was wrong when he was first chained inside it. Still, he had gone limp the moment they shoved him down, letting his body slacken, breath shallow, eyes half-lidded. A convincing corpse was often safer than a struggling man.
The wagon lurched onward through the night, pulled by two massive draft beasts whose hooves struck the road like slow drumbeats. Keith counted the rhythm in his head. He counted everything. Time. Distance. Breaths. The moon above had already shifted once, bleeding from its cold blue glow into a bruised crimson that stained the land in red shadow. That meant they were nearing the inner routes of the realm—close to places where the world thinned.
Inside the wagon, there were five others besides him.
Closest was Atas, the woman with bound hands etched faintly with sigils that never quite faded. Even restrained, magic clung to her like heat haze. Keith had felt it the moment he was thrown beside her—a low pressure in the skull, a warning ache behind the eyes. She sat upright, spine straight, gaze calm but calculating, as though the chains were an inconvenience rather than a cage.
Across from her lounged the gentleman.
He looked absurdly out of place among slaves: coat immaculate, boots polished, hair combed as if for court. He held a silver flask loosely, sipping from it whenever the wagon jolted too hard. His eyes flicked over Keith now and then, sharp despite the drink, lingering longer than comfort allowed. There was no kindness in them—only appraisal.
Beside him sat the swordsman.
Keith knew him instantly.
The man's armor was worn but well-maintained, the insignia on his shoulder scratched nearly smooth. His sword rested across his knees, hands folded calmly atop it. He stared forward, expression empty, as if the world had little left to offer him. Keith's chest tightened. That face—older now, lined by time—had been looming over his mother as she bled into the dirt years ago. Keith tasted iron just remembering it.
The other two slaves were quieter things: a trembling boy no older than sixteen and a broad-shouldered man whose eyes had already gone dull with surrender.
Keith waited.
When the wagon slowed—just slightly—he knew they were passing through a narrow stretch of road near the Ember Flats, where blackened stone rose like broken teeth and the beasts had to pick their steps carefully. Guards always relaxed there. Familiar danger bred carelessness.
He moved.
In one breath he rolled from stillness into motion, snapping his wrists hard against the weakened link he'd been worrying since dusk. The chain gave with a sharp crack. Keith surged to his feet, slammed his shoulder into the wagon's side, and kicked the rear latch with everything he had.
Wood burst open.
He hit the ground running.
The night air tore into his lungs, cold and clean compared to the wagon's rot. He ran barefoot over ash and stone, ignoring the pain, the shouts behind him, the sudden blare of horns. The moon overhead burned crimson now, casting his shadow long and warped ahead of him. He sprinted toward the jagged hills of the Black March, where the land folded into ravines and old ruins—places a lone man could disappear.
He made it farther than he thought he would.
He crossed the first marker stone, cracked and leaning, etched with runes warning of thinning realms. He cleared the low ridge where the road bent sharply south toward Veyl Ashkara. For a heartbeat—just one—hope flared.
Then the magic struck.
Invisible force slammed into his spine, driving him face-first into the dirt. His vision exploded into white sparks. He screamed, more in fury than pain, and tried to rise—
Steel pressed gently, almost politely, against the back of his neck.
"Don't," the swordsman said, voice flat.
Keith twisted his head just enough to see him. The man's face was unchanged. Calm. Empty. The same face that had watched his mother die.
Behind him, Atas stood with one hand raised, fingers trembling slightly now that the spell had landed. The gentleman ambled closer, flask in hand, disappointment creasing his perfect features.
"A shame," he sighed. "I had hoped you'd be cleverer."
Keith spat blood and tried to lunge anyway.
They struck him together.
The swordsman's hilt caught his temple. The world folded inward, dark and roaring.
When Keith woke again, the wagon was moving.
His head throbbed like it had been split and poorly mended. Chains bit deeper now, doubled and secured to an iron ring in the floor. Across from him, the gentleman was watching openly this time.
"He'll try again," the man said mildly, taking a drink.
Atas nodded once. "Yes."
The swordsman said nothing, but his grip on the sword tightened.
"He won't get far," the gentleman continued. "But it's tedious to repeat ourselves."
The solution was decided without ceremony.
They struck Keith again—harder this time—and again when he stirred too soon. Darkness swallowed him whole.
He did not wake until the air changed.
The hum came first, low and constant, vibrating through bone and chain alike. Even unconscious, his body reacted to it. When his eyes finally opened, the world looked wrong.
They had arrived at Veyl Ashkara.
The Hollow Confluence rose from the earth like a wound that never healed—a vast circular basin carved into black stone, its edges lined with ancient pylons leaning inward. At its center stood the Synchronisation Machine: a towering construct of interlocking rings and suspended plates, etched with symbols that shifted and rewrote themselves endlessly. Light poured from its core in slow, rhythmic pulses, colors bleeding into one another—blue, white, violet, crimson.
The air screamed quietly.
Keith felt tears slide from his eyes without knowing why.
Slaves were being herded down the ramps toward the machine, their shadows stretching unnaturally long across the stone. Guards shouted. Chains rattled. Somewhere, the realm itself seemed to hold its breath.
Keith was dragged upright.
The swordsman stood behind him. Atas watched the machine with something like reverence. The gentleman took one last drink, straightened his coat, and smiled.
"Welcome," he said softly, "to the edge of everywhere."
The machine flared brighter.
And the night, at last, ended.