Stories

The rain hammered the glass towers of New Avalon like a thousand tiny fists, each drop echoing against the endless lattice of holographic billboards that flickered with crimson warnings: “WATER CONTAMINATED – DO NOT DRINK.” The city’s arteries—its massive, interwoven water mains—glowed faintly beneath the streets, a network of veins pulsing with a liquid that had once been the lifeblood of billions. Now it carried something else.

The basalt palace of Ignis-Rahl did not sit upon the volcano; it was carved into its very throat. Outside, the world was a jagged wasteland of obsidian, but inside the Throne of Embers, the air was a thick, grey soup. Ash drifted from the ceiling like cursed snow, coating the velvet tapestries and the lungs of the few who remained.

The square lay empty beneath the clocktower, its stones slick with the night’s cold breath. Frost traced the mortar lines like pale veins, and the statues of saints watched with eyes dulled by centuries of soot. Above them all rose the tower—gothic ribs climbing into darkness, its clock face a moon caught in iron. When it chimed, the sound was not a bell so much as a presence, pressing against the ribs and the lungs alike.