The gates of the Neutral Zone weren't made of gold or marble, but of rusted gears and salvaged hull plates from fallen warships. As Alaric and Evelyn walked through the entrance of the city known as Oakhaven's Shadow, the sound of hammers hitting cold iron replaced the howling wind of the marshes.
"Keep your hood low," Evelyn whispered, her hand resting on the hilt of a hidden dagger. "The people here don't care about the Church, but they do care about bounties. A man with wings is worth a fortune to the local pit-fighters."
Alaric nodded, his jaw tight. The city smelled of coal smoke, cheap ale, and unwashed bodies. To his enhanced senses, it was an assault. He could hear a thousand conversations at once, the rhythmic thumping of industrial pistons, and the heartbeat of every thief in the alleyways.
"There," Evelyn pointed to a leaning tower made of green copper. "Varkas's Apothecary."
They pushed through a heavy oak door. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of drying herbs and something acrid, like burnt hair. A man with a mechanical eye and a prosthetic arm made of brass looked up from a bubbling cauldron.
"Evelyn?" the man rasped, his mechanical eye whirring as it focused on her. "I heard you were executed in the capital. I should have known the pyre couldn't catch a shadow like you."
"Save the flattery, Varkas," Evelyn said, stepping into the light. "I need a place to stay, a forge, and a way to mask his signature. The Inquisition is using Sun-Casters to track his mana."
Varkas turned his gaze toward Alaric. He walked around the former Paladin, his brass arm clicking. "He smells like a dragon that died and crawled back out of the pit. Impressive work, even for you."
Suddenly, Alaric's wings twitched under his cloak, a low growl vibrating in his throat. The "Dragon's Rage" was reacting to Varkas's intrusive stare.
"Careful, old man," Alaric warned, his voice sounding like grinding tectonic plates. "My patience is thinner than your copper tower."
Varkas laughed, a dry, hacking sound. "A feisty one! Good. You'll need that fire. The city is preparing for the Iron Tournament, and the Church has sent 'observers' to make sure no heretics are hiding in the crowds."
Evelyn's face turned grim. "We aren't here for a tournament, Varkas."
"You might not have a choice," Varkas replied, pointing to a poster on the wall. "The prize this year is a shard of Star-Steel. The only metal in the world that can channel the kind of power your friend is leaking without shattering."
Alaric looked at his broken sword. If he wanted to survive the next encounter with the Inquisition, he didn't just need to hide—he needed a weapon that could withstand the monster he was becoming