33 – Steelwatch

I barely sleep again, Papa’s revelation still racing through my mind. Each time I close my eyes, I see shimmering skin and shadows, imagining a face that might mirror my own. But morning comes anyway, painting the world in watercolors while my mind still swims in secrets.

“You ready, girl?” Braam’s voice cuts through my reverie as I step out into the dawn air. The sun peers over distant mountains like a curious child, casting long shadows across Graven Pointe’s familiar paths. Beside me, Amari adjusts her niqab against the morning chill, her presence steady and grounding.

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” I reply, though the words feel hollow against the weight of everything unsaid.

“We?” Isaiah questions, his right eyebrow lifting at an odd angle as his eyes shift between me and Amari. He stands before one of the largest buildings in Graven Pointe, its weathered walls stretching toward the sky like ancient guardians.

Amari speaks up, her voice carrying the quiet confidence I’ve come to rely on. “I’ve been to Steelwatch many times with Hugo. I know my way around.”

Isaiah considers this for a moment, then nods. “Fair enough! Could use another pair of hands anyway. Follow me.”

The massive doors groan open, revealing a cavernous space where morning light streams through high windows like molten gold. In this ethereal glow rests our transportation – an airship smaller than the one that brought us through the Dread Wastes, but no less magnificent in its promise of freedom and flight.

Seven and Asher are already there, their silhouettes merging with the shadows and light. Seven’s crystalline eyes catch the dawn as he processes data, his head tilted in that precise angle that makes him look more like a curious child than machine. “Structural integrity at ninety-three percent,” he announces, fingers dancing across the control panel. “Recommended maintenance: minor hull reinforcement at stern.”

“Already on it,” Asher calls from below, his voice echoing off wooden walls. The sound of his tools creates a rhythm of musical beats to compliment the soft curse when a bolt proves stubborn, the satisfied hum when everything aligns. When he emerges from beneath the hull, his smile carries a warmth that makes me smile. “Thought you might need an extra set of hands. Or four, counting Seven’s.”

The morning unfolds in a choreography of preparation. We pull the ship from its berth, wheels protesting against ancient tracks. The burner roars to life, feeding hot air into twin balloons that will carry us skyward. Steam hisses through copper pipes, and the whole vessel seems to breathe like a living thing.

Amari works beside me, our movements falling into an easy rhythm. Several times, I catch myself watching her, the secret about my sister pressing against my skull like a physical thing. Amari has become my closest friend here, and I want to share my secret with her, but Papa’s warning echoes: “Tell no one, Neeka. The wrong ears could mean her death.” So, I swallow the words back like bitter medicine, even as they burn.

When the ship is finally ready, gleaming in the strengthening sunlight like some great mechanical bird, Seven runs his final checks while Asher pulls me aside. His hands are warm despite the morning chill, and when he presses something into my palm, the metal is warmer still – a small mechanical compass, its brass surface catching the light.

“It’s not much,” he says, voice rough with something unspoken. “But it’ll always point you home. Just… come back in one piece, okay?” His fingers linger on mine for a heartbeat too long, and I feel the weight of words unsaid hanging between us like morning mist.

The moment shatters when Isaiah begins distributing goggles – each pair unique, telling its own story. His are metal-rimmed with tinted lenses, clearly the finest of the lot. Mine and Amari’s are battle-scarred with scratched lenses and worn leather straps. But it’s Braam’s that bring unexpected levity to the morning – tiny, pink, and rubbery, making his face look like a balloon about to pop. Amari’s laughter rings out, pure and bright, and for a moment, the weight of secrets lifts from my shoulders.

The ship’s propellors roars to life, drowning out Seven and Asher’s farewell calls. We skim across Lake Brackenmoore, so low I can see our reflection rippling in the mirror-smooth surface. Then up, up into the embrace of the wind, where the air tastes of freedom and possibility.

Amari joins me at the railing, her headpiece fluttering like a battle flag in the wind. The vast emptiness below should feel threatening, but up here, suspended between earth and sky, I find a strange peace. Even my mechanical legs seem lighter, as if the altitude has stripped away their weight along with my earthbound fears.

“You’re carrying something heavy today,” she says, those knowing eyes finding mine through our scratched goggles. “I can see it in the way you hold yourself. Like a bird with clipped wings, trying to remember how to fly.”

The truth rises like a tide in my throat. I want to tell her everything – about the sister I never knew, about how the ice-cold rage that’s fueled me for so long has transformed into something warmer, more urgent since learning of her existence. Instead, I ask about Steelwatch, and Amari’s stories flow like water, painting pictures of a place where invention and desperation dance together in streets of steel and stone.

“It’s not beautiful like Graven Pointe,” she tells me. “Nothing grows there except ambition. But there’s life in its own way – music in the taverns that plays until dawn, deals whispered in shadows, dreams being bought and sold alongside scrap metal. Even the beggars there have schemes that would make Solomon’s head spin.” Her words carry the weight of experience, each one a small truth wrapped in memory.

The journey passes in a blur of wind and conversation until finally Isaiah’s voice cuts through our reverie: “There it is.”

Steelwatch rises from the wasteland like a mechanical flower blooming in hell – all geometric precision and mathematical beauty. Unlike Graven Pointe’s organic sprawl, everything here is measured, calculated, manufactured. The octagonal walls gleam in the midday sun, streets cutting through the settlement like sword slashes. Smoke rises from forge-buildings in perfect columns, and even from this height, I can see the streets teeming with life – vendors, traders, travelers, all moving in their own careful patterns.

The heat hits us like a physical wall as we descend toward the wooden dock near a scrapyard. The sun turns the metal buildings into mirrors that reflect light and warmth back at us in waves. Other airships and dirigibles stand moored like sleeping giants, their shadows stretching across the sun-baked ground. The air here tastes different – metal and smoke, yes, but also spices and cooking meat, sweat and desperation, hope and fear all mixed together.

“Shouldn’t one of us stay with the ship?” I ask, eyeing the other vessels and the rough-looking dockhands moving between them.

Isaiah laughs, the sound rich with understanding. “Commerce is a religion to these people,” he explains, dropping a handful of quill into the dockmaster’s waiting palm. “Theft is punishable by death. Besides,” he adds with a knowing grin, “aren’t you hungry?”

The word awakens something primal in me – we left before breakfast, and the morning’s work has left me ravenous. As we make our way down the main street, the scents of cooking food wash over us in tempting waves. Vendors line the streets with their wares – grilled meats that sizzle and pop, vegetables steaming in huge copper pots, sweets I’ve never seen before glinting like jewels in glass cases.

But beneath the enticing aromas, there’s something else – the metallic taste of fear, the bitter edge of desperation. I notice the way people’s eyes dart about, never resting too long in one place. I see shadows that move in alleys, the whispered conversations that stop when we pass. This is a place of commerce, yes, but also of secrets.