Chapter 38 Welcome to the Real Eclipsera
The tram’s doors seal with a pneumatic hiss, and Kane’s grip clamps around my arm, dragging me out from under the platform’s glaring fluorescence. Above, the lights sputter and dim, powered by crude magic that leaves an oily residue in the air.
“Keep your head down,” he mutters, steering me into the shadows of a narrow passage. “And try not to look so obviously horrified.”
The first breath of Lower Rings air ambushes my lungs, a toxic cocktail of industrial waste and stale humanity that coats my throat like tar.
Beneath it lurks something worse: rotting garbage and sewage; centuries of poverty leaving their putrid fingerprints in the atmosphere.
The stench of unwashed bodies mingles with cooking grease and mildewed walls, creating a miasma so thick I can almost taste it.
Even the wind down here presses wrong. It’s heavy and viscous, carrying traces of chemical runoff from the factories above. My eyes water against the acrid burn, and Kane’s grip tightens as I stumble, fighting the urge to gag.
“Watch your step,” he warns, jerking me around a puddle that gleams with iridescent film. “The drainage systems down here haven’t worked properly in decades.”
We move through a snarl of alleys that read less as streets and more as the city’s digestive tract—choked, hostile, always shifting. The main road ahead pulses with bodies, a current of hunger and exhaustion that shoves forward in silence and resignation. We stay clear.
The buildings sag as if their frames have surrendered the fight to stand.
Tenements tower into the choking smog, stitched together with rusted beams and scavenged cable.
Every surface is diseased: paint flaking in thick scabs, windows patched with cardboard that’s surrendered to mildew, doors bolted with twisted scraps of whatever metal they could find.
Walkways groan under the weight of foot traffic, and rain-streaked concrete sloughs off in chunks, revealing rebar jutting through the city’s wounds.
Above, a web of cables knots the skyline, heavy with damp laundry left to decay. A child’s sleeve torn from its shirt, a blanket more repair than thread, each piece proof that survival here is its own art form.
“This way.” Kane pulls me deeper as voices rise from the thoroughfare. “Enforcers don’t always follow patrol paths. Better to use the back routes.”
We pass a woman pressed against a window, her palm flat on the glass as she whispers a charm.
Blood wells from a fresh cut on her arm, feeding the spell.
The magic flares weakly, unsteady and close to breaking.
It won’t hold long. In Crown Heights, our windows adjust temperature automatically.
Even in Everreach, flawless rubies never demand this kind of sacrifice for basic necessities.
Something wild and molten stirs beneath my sternum. Not the usual magic my ruby keeps contained, but something older, raw; the city’s collected wounds bleeding through my veins. My fingers start to tremble and Kane’s attention snaps to my face.
“Easy,” he warns, eyes narrowing. “Your ruby’s hidden for a reason. Don’t draw notice unless you’re ready to burn everything down.”
A group clusters around a makeshift fire pit in what might have once been a courtyard, now hemmed in by crumbling walls tagged with faded spell-graffiti. They pass a small knife between them, each person adding drops of blood to feed the weak blue flames under a dented pot.
It should disgust me. It doesn’t.
There’s something sacred in their closeness, in the way they share more than body heat. No spectacle, just the raw exchange of life for life.
“How can they . . .” The words shred against my throat. “The ScryVision feeds always showed—”
Kane’s laugh could strip paint. “What? Clean streets? Happy workers? Those carefully curated tours they broadcast to other regions?” He jerks me into deeper shadow as the whir of enforcer drones echoes overhead, their sensors painting the walls with crimson light.
“Welcome to the real Eclipsera, princess. This is the truth behind the projection.”
He doesn’t have to say it.
This is what my city is built on and I never saw it bleeding.
The group pass the bowl without speaking. Thin soup scraped from a dented pot, steam rising like a ghost between them. Firelight flickers across their faces, casting them in gold and shadow. Scarred hands, chapped mouths, hollow cheeks.
And still, something lives in them that Crown Heights buried generations ago. It isn’t comfort, and it isn’t hope. What endures is harder to kill. Community, and the brutal tenderness of shared survival.
My magic roils again, this time rising as rage incarnate.
Kane’s eyes narrow as he studies my face, probably wondering if I’m about to lose control and give us both away.
But I can’t tear my gaze from this city’s truth.
It bleeds through alleys, through whispered incantations, through children taught to bleed before they can read.
This isn’t poverty. It’s policy. Sacrifice built into the design.
A hidden altar beneath the marble of Eclipsera’s skyline.
“Why don’t they just leave?” I ask, as we pass another group huddled around a communal fire pit. Their shadows dance in grotesque patterns against crumbling walls. “The other regions can’t be worse than this. Helisvein has tech. Vairen has—”
“Leave?” Kane steers me through a narrow passage where a pipe weeps something neon and unnatural. “That’s the thing about Eclipsera’s hospitality—it only works one way. The moment they crossed the borders, they signed away that particular freedom.”
“What?”
I flinch as he yanks me into a narrow alcove, hand clamping over my mouth. A drone buzzes past overhead, its scanner red and searching.
He leans close, breath hot against my ear. “Keep your voice down,” he hisses. “And yes, you heard right. It’s not exactly advertised in those glossy recruitment pamphlets, is it? ‘Welcome to Eclipsera, where dreams come true. But only if you never try to wake up.’”
The drone fades. Kane exhales and peels back, watching a woman crouch by a broken window, coaxing her daughter through a simple heating spell. The girl’s small fingers don’t hesitate as the blade slices skin.
“She’s six,” I whisper. “Maybe younger.”
“She’s local.” Kane’s voice is devoid of pity. “She knows the cost of warmth.”
Somewhere nearby, someone’s sobbing softly. Another laugh rises, not joyful, but defiant. In this world, even noise is an act of resistance.
“Think about it,” Kane continues, his voice pitched low.
“If the Founding Families let people leave, they’d risk the truth spreading.
” He gestures at the surrounding decay. The cramped apartments are stacked, families of six crammed into spaces meant for two, children scraping mold from the last scraps of synthetic protein cubes.
“That would rather shatter the illusion of our shining beacon of progress, wouldn’t it? ”
“But they can’t just—”
“They can and they do.” His eyes glint with something dangerous.
“Who’s going to stop them? More importantly, who’s going to power it all if the workforce suddenly develops opinions about fair treatment?
This entire city runs on that silence. And it works because no one from the high towers wants to look down. ”
His gaze flicks to me and I know what he sees, the disguise and dirt smeared carefully.
“Don’t take it personally,” he says. “But I don’t see many Crown Heights princesses like yourself volunteering to bleed for basic utilities.”
The barb strikes true, and my mind drags me back to The Den, to the parties, to every moment I called myself dangerous for walking away from what was handed to me while never truly risking the comfort beneath it. He’s right. I wouldn’t last a day here.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, voice hoarse. “With me, I mean. Through this.”
Kane raises a brow, half-smiling. “You talking about my charming company, impeccable timing, and general aura of roguish sex appeal?”
I almost roll my eyes as he glances around the corner, checking for patrols.
“Or maybe it’s that I know all the city’s ugly corners,” he adds, quieter now. “The ones you weren’t supposed to see.”
A group shuffles past, shoulders brushing, one of them passing off a bottle with a grunt and a crooked grin, another breaking into a laugh—real, cracked, human—and in that moment, they’ve still found a way to keep something alive.
It stings. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s the beauty of it, or the sense that I don’t deserve to witness it.
“They’re not just trapped here,” I breathe, the truth lodging cold and final in my chest. “They’re fuel. The city feeds on them.”
“Now you’re getting it.” Kane’s voice holds no mockery, only bone-deep weariness.
“Crystal spires, automated luxuries, all the goddamn conveniences enjoyed up there,” he gestures toward the distant shimmer of Crown Heights, “run on blood. The Founding Families just prefer it comes from someone else’s veins. ”
My mind goes to my ruby, tucked safely in the lining of my pack. How often have I used it without thought? Cast spells without once considering the true cost of magic?
“The worst part?” Kane says, eyes scanning the path ahead. “Some of them still cling to hope. They convince themselves if they work hard, bleed enough, maybe their kids will earn a way out. Get a shot at those Academy halls you grew up in.”
“Do they?”
His silence is louder than any answer.
“Come on,” he mutters, tugging me away. “Checkpoint’s on the far side.
That glamour won’t last forever.” He leads us into a narrower alley where the buildings press in from all sides, swallowing what little light filters through the smog above.
“And for hell’s sake, stop looking like your conscience just woke up.
That kind of face gets people killed down here. ”
“You come here often?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the oppressive weight of our surroundings.
“Used to.” His jaw tics, that old fury creeping in. “Every week, when Harvey and I could sneak away. Brought Layla whatever we had—medicine, food, blankets. But Kian’s kept me on a shorter leash lately, and now . . .” He trails off, eyes fixed on something distant.
“Will she be okay?” I ask softly. “In the program?”
“If what they’re promising is true?” Kane shrugs, but I catch the worry in his eyes. “Sounds like a dream. But in Eclipsera, dreams usually come with a price.”
“And Harvey . . .” I hesitate, guilt crawling hot and slow through me. “Will he be safe? After this?”
Kane’s throat works as he swallows. “We were careful. Kept everything quiet—no public meetings, no messages that could be traced. Only a handful knew about us, and most of them are dead or gone now.” His fingers drum against my arm as he steers me past a crumbling doorway.
“He’s smart, knows how to play the dutiful servant when needed. Should be enough to keep him alive.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For dragging you into this and making you leave him behind.”
“Better this than licking Kian’s boots for another decade.” Kane’s laugh holds no humor. “And once we find somewhere safe—once we figure out a next move—I’m going back for him. I’ll get him out too.”
“We?”
“Well, you’re stuck with me now, princess. Can’t exactly stroll back into Eclipsera after this little act of treason, can I?” His tone stays light, but something darker lurks beneath. “I’d be wall décor in Kian’s office before sunrise.”
“Don’t.” My fingers dig into his sleeve. “Raze died because I was foolish, because I didn’t think things through. I won’t have your death on my conscience too.”
He pauses, and something gentler flickers behind his eyes before he smothers it.
“Relax. It takes more than Kian’s bottom-feeders to put me down. I’m remarkably difficult to kill. Just ask the last three assassins who tried.”
I want to believe him. Need to. But Raze’s death still haunts my dreams, and I didn’t even witness it.
My mind crafts new horrors each night—the hybrid with its eight glowing eyes, tearing into him like paper.
Sometimes I hear bones snap, see flesh tear.
Worst are the nights where he survives the attack, poison crawling through his veins, eating him from the inside while he struggles for each breath.
Children’s laughter cuts through the static in my skull, startling in its purity.
In the hollow between buildings, a group of kids clusters around a makeshift toy, a bent scrap of metal and wire, enchanted to hover briefly when fed with blood.
They take turns pressing fingertips to its surface, each drop earning precious seconds of flight.
Their clothes hang in tatters off thin limbs, but their eyes shine with wonder as the toy jerks skyward.
I stop cold, memories flooding back unbidden. My childhood bedroom, with its climate-controlled air and automated lighting. The endless parade of expensive toys: junior alchemy sets, practice rubies set in delicate chains, enchanted mirrors that showed you wearing any outfit you imagined.
I convinced myself I was lonely then. Complained about the pressure, cried when the lights glitched.
“What’s wrong?” Kane’s watching me too closely now.
“Everything,” I say, voice breaking on the word.
“I used to think I had it hard—the pressure, the expectations, the constant drive for perfection. But look at them.” I nod toward the kids, who’ve started arguing over whose turn it is.
“They’re bleeding just to have what I took for granted.
And I spent my childhood complaining about crystal plates and custom-fitted uniforms.”
“Hey,” Kane’s expression shifts, something almost gentle crossing his features. “Pain isn’t a competition. What you felt back then was still real. Doesn’t stop being valid just because someone else was hurting worse.”
“Doesn’t it?” My eyes stay locked on the oldest child, maybe ten, gently guiding the younger ones to share what little time they get with the toy. “Everything I thought I knew about this city, about who I was inside it, it was all a lie.”
“And now you see it,” Kane says quietly. “That’s more than most ever get. Question is, what are you going to do with that?”
The kids laugh again, bright and unguarded, and the sound echoes inside me; a bruise I’ll carry for the rest of my life.
“I’m not sure yet,” I murmur. “But I won’t forget this. Any of it.”
“Don’t pity them,” he says, nudging me forward again, deeper into the shadowed web of alleys. “They don’t need it. What they need is change. Real change, not more empty promises from above.”