34 – Different Worlds, Same Sky

The streets of Steelwatch tell stories in every footfall, every shadow. Between the towering metal structures, humanity flows like a river of countless tributaries merged into one churning current. Here, the boundaries between flesh and metal blur – a woman with brass fingers that click and whir as she haggles over spare parts, her mechanical digits dancing in the air like conductor’s batons. Beside her, a man whose face is half-hidden behind an intricate copper mask that shifts with his expressions, gears catching the sunlight as he laughs at something his companion says.

Children dart between the adults’ legs, some whole, some carrying their own modifications – little silver joints that help them walk, telescope eyes that make their games of hide-and-seek more challenging. A group of traders pass by, their skin pale as moonlight, wrapped in layers of gauzy fabric against the relentless sun. They walk beside merchants whose dark skin gleams with sweat and whose mechanical cooling vests hum softly as they navigate the heat.

The variety is dizzying. A tall figure wearing flowing robes that hide everything except eyes that glow with an inner light – implants, probably, though whether for necessity or fashion is impossible to tell. Not far away, an elderly woman sits cross-legged on a woven mat, her mechanical legs folded neatly beneath her as she repairs delicate clockwork with fingers steady despite their age. Her face is a map of wrinkles, each line earned in desert winds and mechanical workshops.

“Watch yourself,” Braam mutters, pulling me aside as a group of dock workers lumber past. Their arms are a mix of flesh and hydraulics, powered by steam packs strapped to their backs that release regular puffs of vapor into the already thick air. The workers move with the casual confidence of those who know their strength, their modified limbs capable of lifting cargo that would take four normal men to move.

Between market stalls selling everything from scrap metal to synthetic organs, I spot a woman whose skin catches the light strangely – not quite like my sister’s shimmer as Papa described it, but something similar. She notices my gaze and quickly pulls her hood lower, disappearing into the crowd like smoke. The moment serves as a sharp reminder that in Steelwatch, everyone has something to hide.

“It’s changed,” Amari says softly beside me, adjusting her niqab. “More people every time I visit. More desperation too.” She gestures toward a group huddled in an alley’s shadows – refugees maybe, their clothes dust-stained from travel, their eyes holding that haunted look of those who’ve seen too much. Some sport crude prosthetics, clearly salvaged and repaired multiple times. A child among them has a mechanical hand that doesn’t quite match their organic one, the color slightly off, the movements not quite synchronized.

The crowd parts suddenly as a wealthy merchant’s entourage pushes through. His guards are a testament to Steelwatch’s finest work – their modifications sleek and deadly, all chrome and precision. They form a perfect circle around their employer, whose own enhancements are subtle but clearly expensive – fingers tipped with diamond-hard claws, telescoping eyes that probably see in spectrums I can only imagine.

“Different worlds, same sky,” Isaiah comments, noting my observation of the contrast between the refugees and the merchant. He’s right – above us all, the same merciless sun beats down, casting shadows that don’t discriminate between rich and poor, modified and whole, those who chose their changes and those who had no choice at all.

As we weave through Steelwatch’s mechanical maze, every step on the hard-packed ground sends tiny vibrations through my proths. The streets feel different here – not the gentle, giving earth of Graven Pointe, but something harder, more deliberate. Like the whole settlement was carved from a single massive stone, baked beneath an unforgiving sun until it became something else entirely.

Isaiah leads us to a tavern, its wooden doors hanging askew like broken wings. They creak a mournful song as we push through into the dim interior, where dust motes dance in shafts of light that manage to penetrate the grimy windows. The air is thick with stories – some told in loud voices over mugs of krum, others whispered in corners where shadows gather like conspirators.

A bar stretches along the right wall, its surface worn smooth by countless elbows and spilled drinks. Men slump over their mugs like wilting flowers, seeking something at the bottom that they’ll never find. The scene reminds me of the times I’d watch Papa sort through broken machinery, looking for the one salvageable piece that might make everything work again.

We claim a table in the back corner, where the shadows are deepest and secrets feel safest. The wooden bench creaks beneath us, and I catch Amari’s eye, remembering all the meals we’ve shared at Lydia’s table. The comparison makes my chest ache with a homesickness I didn’t expect to feel so soon.

“What’ll it be?” the barkeep’s voice scrapes across the room like rusty gears.

“What’ve you got?” Braam croaks back.

The list is short and uninspiring – teyrelsk, skitterer, bread pudding, krum and water. But hunger makes even the simplest fare sound like a feast.

We’re halfway through our meal – the food more filling than flavorful – when the conversations floating around us shift like wind changing direction. Words catch in my ears, sharp as hooks: “teenage girl” … “double proth legs” … “fast.”

“Supposedly she has extraordinary capabilities,” one man says, his voice carrying the eager tone of someone sharing forbidden knowledge.

“I heard she jumped completely out of the arena,” another adds, the words sending ice down my spine.

“How?” asks the first. “Those walls are four times the height of a man.”

“I told you. Her proths are special. She’s some kind of freak.”

The word ‘freak’ settles in my stomach like cold lead. Under the table, my mechanical legs feel suddenly obvious, conspicuous, though I know they’re hidden from view. I think of my sister, wondering if she too has been called ‘freak’ for her shimmering skin, her mixed blood.

“I heard she killed a baldagaar single handedly,” a woman says from the next table over, and the memory of that fight flashes through my mind – the creature’s roar, the taste of fear and triumph.

“It wasn’t single handedly,” Braam shouts suddenly, his voice too loud in the confined space. “She had help… I heard.”

All eyes turn to our table, and I feel each gaze like a physical touch. My hand finds Asher’s compass in my pocket, fingers tracing its edges, finding comfort in its steady purpose.

“Anyway…” one of them says, turning back to his companions, “Word has gotten back to Solomon and he is looking for her. He’s offering five-hundred quill to anyone that turns her in.”

The reward hangs in the air like smoke, and I can almost see the wheels turning in people’s minds, calculating the worth of betrayal. My legs shift restlessly beneath the table, and I’m grateful when Isaiah drops a length of fabric in my lap – a waist wrap that will hide my proths more securely.

“You think you can get that on under the table without being noticed?” he asks quietly, his eyes carrying understanding and concern in equal measure.

I nod, fingers already working the fabric. “Yes. Thank you.”

The wrap feels like armor as I secure it, not just hiding my legs but shielding a larger truth. Somewhere out there, my sister lives behind her own disguise, surviving in plain sight. I wonder what she uses to hide her shimmer, how she’s learned to blend into Solomon’s shadows. Soon, I promise her silently, soon we’ll both step into the light.