《Skies Beyond (WIP)》 Prologue Tram sat at the small wooden table, trying not to fidget as he watched the lamp¡¯s flame dance against the darkening window. He and his younger brother, Gin, had been waiting for their father longer than usual. Outside, the dull rumble of the nearby Foundry rolled through the evening air. Inside, it was warm but tense. ¡°Momma, where is Papa?¡± Gin asked, tapping an apple against the table¡¯s edge. ¡°He¡¯s late¡­ I¡¯m hungry.¡± Their mother hovered by the window, apron twisted between her hands. She was usually patient, but tonight her knuckles shone white. ¡°Soon, Gin. Just a bit longer,¡± she said, eyes flicking to the street. ¡°We always wait for him, don¡¯t we?¡± Tram sighed, leaning forward. ¡°You know how it is, Gin. He can¡¯t leave until his shift is covered. If the next crew¡¯s late, he¡¯s stuck.¡± Gin frowned, rolling the apple slowly between his palms. ¡°I know, but¡ª¡± ¡°Shh,¡± Mother said, gentle but firm. ¡°Your father works hard at that Foundry. The least we can do is share a meal together. He likes to hear about your day, remember?¡± The cramped kitchen bore quiet witness to their routine: the tattered plaid cloth spread over the table, the mismatched chairs, the chipped cupboard that creaked when anyone crossed the floor. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was home. The smell of bread and soup lingered in the warm air, making Tram¡¯s stomach tighten with hunger. Gin slumped in his chair, still sulky, while Tram nudged the apple with two fingers, sending it rolling back to his brother. The boys tried half-heartedly to distract themselves¡ªguessing how many buckets of ore their father had hefted today, or what he might bring home from the market square next week. Meanwhile, their mother said nothing more, just kept scanning the narrow street beyond the shutters. Then she stiffened. ¡°Oh, I see him!¡± Her tone rose, relief mixing with uncertainty. ¡°He¡¯s just turned the corner¡­¡± She paused, her voice dropping to a murmur. ¡°Something¡¯s wrong.¡± The door flew open, rattling in its frame. Their father stumbled inside, panting hard, sweat and grime streaking his face. Tram saw blood matting the hair near his temple and the strange angle of his right arm, as if he were trying not to use it. He shoved the door closed and dropped the latch with a trembling hand. Mother gasped, rushing forward. ¡°You¡¯re hurt! What¡ª?¡± He pressed a finger to his lips, cutting her off. ¡°Quiet. Lights out,¡± he rasped, voice rough. ¡°Douse the fire.¡± She hurried to the small hearth and smothered the coals beneath a thick cloth, her breathing sharp. The lamplight vanished as she pinched the wick, plunging them into a half-darkness lit only by the faint moon glow through the window. ¡°Papa?¡± Tram asked, voice small. Gin stood behind him, half-hidden. Their father took a shaky breath. ¡°Brigands¡­they attacked The Foundry,¡± he said, still catching his breath. He peered through the window, then jerked back, yanking the thin curtains closed. ¡°They¡¯re hitting the whole island. I got away, but¡­¡± Mother pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes full of questions she didn¡¯t dare ask. Instead, she moved closer, reached for Father¡¯s good arm. ¡°What do we do?¡± ¡°Hide the boys,¡± he said, voice tight. He bent low, sweeping the rug aside. The old door set into the floor creaked as he lifted it. ¡°You two,¡± he turned to Tram and Gin, ¡°down here. Quickly. And not a sound.¡± Gin looked from Tram to Father, eyes watering. ¡°Papa¡ª¡± Father¡¯s tone softened, even as his breath stayed ragged. ¡°Listen, lads. You must stay quiet, no matter what. Don¡¯t come out until I return. Promise me.¡± Tram nodded, grabbing Gin¡¯s hand and guiding him toward the dark space. ¡°Papa, what about you¡ª?¡± Their father knelt, wincing, and placed his good hand on Tram¡¯s shoulder. He tried to smile, tried to calm them. ¡°Your mother and I love you. More than anything,¡± he said, voice hoarse. He kissed their foreheads, one after the other. ¡°Do as I say, and we¡¯ll be fine.¡± Mother hovered behind him, silent tears glistening on her cheeks. She smoothed Gin¡¯s hair before Tram helped him down. The space below smelled of damp earth and old wood. Tram climbed down after his brother, turning to see their parents¡¯ silhouettes above. ¡°Not a sound,¡± Father repeated, gently lowering the door until darkness and silence enclosed them. The rug rustled back into place overhead, leaving the boys huddled together, hearts pounding in the blackness. Darkness pressed down on Tram and Gin as they crouched beneath the floorboards, clutching each other. Above, the muffled hush of their home felt fragile. Tram tried to make sense of the chaos: the crash of their door, Father¡¯s urgent whispers, Mother¡¯s trembling voice. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to imagine what might happen next. Then came the brutal sound of wood splintering. Tram stiffened as something toppled above, maybe a chair or the old cupboard. Footsteps scuffed the floor. A low, rasping voice filled the silence: ¡°You took one of my men. D¡¯you think we¡¯d let that slide?¡± Tram¡¯s heart hammered. He pictured his father squaring his shoulders, standing between these invaders and Mother. Outside, the distant roar of flames and collapsing timbers reminded them all that this wasn¡¯t just a robbery¡ªit was a raid on their entire island. A second voice joined in, thick and amused. ¡°Barrel, grab ¡¯er,¡± it said, deep and steady. Tram imagined the hulking figure called Barrel stepping forward, the floor creaking under his weight. Father must have moved too, because there was a dull thud and a grunt, as if he¡¯d tried to shield Mother from a blow. ¡°Please,¡± Mother¡¯s voice trembled. ¡°We have coin¡­valuables. Take them. Just go.¡± Tram felt Gin tremble in his arms. He pressed his hand over his brother¡¯s mouth to keep him quiet. Papa said not a sound. The first voice let out a slow, mocking laugh. ¡°We¡¯ll be taking all we want. But you cost me a man, and that don¡¯t come free.¡± A pause, then: ¡°Where¡¯s Tarley? He should be back at the ship by now.¡± A frustrated sigh. ¡°No matter. We¡¯ve got time for this.¡± Tram swallowed, trying not to sob. They¡¯d killed someone at the Foundry, one of these pirates. Father must have fought back. But these men didn¡¯t seem impressed¡ªjust angry. Father¡¯s voice, desperate and raw: ¡°She¡¯s done nothing! Take me if you must¡ªjust leave her be!¡± ¡°Barrel,¡± the captain said again, voice tightening with impatience. ¡°You heard me.¡± He sounded older now, and cold as iron. ¡°Let¡¯s settle our debt and be on our way before Tarley sends word. The Authority might show any moment.¡± A struggle. Mother¡¯s pleading turned to a shriek. Tram couldn¡¯t see, only hear the scrape of boots, the huff of exertion as Father fought back, and then a sickening crunch. A gunshot rang out¡ªTram nearly jumped¡ªand he felt Gin flinch violently. Father¡¯s cry was cut short. Silence, broken only by harsh breathing and Mother¡¯s stifled sob. Another thud, and Mother¡¯s voice vanished with a strangled gasp. The floorboards overhead trembled as the pirates moved about, yanking drawers open and tossing items aside. A rough voice spoke from somewhere near the door. ¡°Not much, Cap¡¯n. Just a few coins and some old books. No sign of Tarley yet. Let¡¯s move.¡± ¡°Fine,¡± the captain growled. ¡°We¡¯ve wasted enough time.¡± He sounded irritated now, like a man behind schedule. ¡°Authority might be on the prowl. Come on, Barrel.¡± Tram listened as footsteps shuffled toward the exit, the door¡¯s hinges whining. The distant crackle of fire and the muffled cursing of pirates drifted away. Then, at last, silence. He held Gin tight, both boys shaking, terrified. Above them, nothing stirred. The captain, Barrel, and their crew had gone. Tram waited, ears straining. Footsteps had faded, leaving only the crackle of distant flames and the distant hum of machinery outside. He counted to twenty in his head, then another twenty. Finally, he eased his grip on Gin.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. ¡°Stay here,¡± Tram whispered. His voice wavered, but he tried to sound sure. Gin stared at him, eyes full of tears and confusion. ¡°Where¡¯s Papa?¡± Gin asked, voice so soft Tram barely heard it. Tram swallowed hard, his throat raw. ¡°I¡¯m going to find them,¡± he lied gently. ¡°Remember what Papa said¡ªstay put, keep quiet. I¡¯ll be back soon.¡± Gin nodded, though fresh tears welled up. Tram reached up and pushed on the door in the floor. It stuck for a moment before sliding open, the rug dragging heavily. He climbed out, careful not to make any noise, then lowered it again, leaving Gin in darkness. The room smelled of spilled soup and something metallic and bitter. His heart clenched when he saw them. His father lay facedown near the table, blood pooling beneath him. His mother lay in the doorway, eyes wide and glassy, as if still begging for mercy. Tram covered his mouth, fighting the urge to cry out. He staggered forward, nearly slipping in the blood, but forced himself to look away. He couldn¡¯t afford to break down. Not yet. He stepped over her body and into the night. The alley was lit by flickering flames reflected in puddles of oil and water. The sky glowed an eerie orange from spreading fires. In the distance, people screamed, and somewhere glass shattered. Tram stayed low, heart pounding. He had to think. He had to find help, or at least understand what was happening. Down the hill toward Copper Forge, the clang and scrape of metal rose above the din. He followed it, half-running, half-stumbling over broken crates and scattered debris. Dead neighbors lay slumped in doorways, smoke stung his eyes, and everywhere he looked, ruin. As he neared the forge¡¯s courtyard, the shadows grew thicker, cast by something enormous overhead. A banner drifted from the ship¡¯s aft rigging: red and white cloth emblazoned with a skull. A rose replaced the skull¡¯s right eye, and a jagged crack split across it¡ªa mark that felt both mocking and cruel. The same emblem, smaller but unmistakable, was stitched onto the cloaks and sashes of the men below. Tram realized this must be their standard, the sign of their crew. The pirates worked fast, hauling crates and metal ingots into nets that were winched upwards. High above, on the ship¡¯s deck, a lean figure in a long coat hollered orders through a copper funnel. ¡°Captain!¡± he called, voice cutting through the engines¡¯ roar. ¡°We¡¯ve spotted an Authority cruiser approaching!¡± This must be Tarley, Tram thought. The first mate¡¯s tone was urgent and clipped, the kind of voice used to keeping men moving. Tarley¡¯s silhouette leaned over the railing, holding a spyglass that caught a flash of firelight. Moments later, another figure stepped forward on the deck, visible through the haze: the Captain. Older, weathered, and broad-shouldered, he wore a dark cloak with that same red-and-white insignia stitched on the back. A patch covered one eye, and a white streak cut through his disheveled dark hair. He gestured sharply, and his men sprang into action. Even from down here, Tram could sense his authority¡ªhe ruled these pirates through fear and skill, and they answered him without question. ¡°Time is running short!¡± the Captain roared. He angled his head toward Tarley, voice rolling down to the street. ¡°Take what we have and go! We won¡¯t tangle with the Authority unless we must.¡± Below, the crewmen cursed and heaved at the chains. Tram pressed himself flat behind the crates. He just needed to slip away, maybe find an Authority patrol before it was too late. If the Authority could scare these pirates off, maybe, just maybe, he¡¯d have a chance to return home and get Gin somewhere safe. He steadied his breathing, preparing to edge back into the alley. But a loose plank shifted under his foot with a dull creak. Tram¡¯s heart lurched. He froze, praying the noise had been lost in the rumble of engines and shouted orders. A dry chuckle came from the shadows behind him, low and smug. ¡°Well, well¡­ wha¡¯ do we ¡¯ave here?¡± A figure moved closer, half in light, half in dark. Tram saw the dull gleam of a cybertech arm, the broad shoulders. It was the brute he¡¯d heard earlier, the one they called Barrel. And he wasn¡¯t alone. Another silhouette hovered behind him, blocking Tram¡¯s escape route. Tram¡¯s pulse hammered in his ears. He¡¯d been spotted. A voice, low and oily: ¡°Well, well¡­wha¡¯ do we ¡®ave here?¡± It came from just beyond the crates, startlingly close. Tram¡¯s stomach tightened as he realized he wasn¡¯t alone. He tried to inch back, but it was too late. From the corner of his eye, he caught the dull gleam of a cybernetic arm and a broad figure looming in the shadows. The man named Barrel stepped forward, and he wasn¡¯t alone. Another silhouette hovered just behind him, blocking Tram¡¯s escape. Tram¡¯s heart hammered. He¡¯d been spotted. Tram¡¯s muscles tensed as Barrel lumbered closer, that cybertech arm glinting faintly in the flickering light. He saw the man¡¯s grin, twisted and hungry. No question what would happen if they caught him. Tram bolted. He dodged right, slipping into a narrow gap between two charred fences. Splinters snagged his clothes as he forced his way through. Behind him came a crash and a snarl of frustration as Barrel tried to follow. ¡°Over here!¡± shouted the other pirate, boots thudding on uneven cobblestones. Tram took off down the alley, lungs burning. The smoke and soot caught in his throat, and his eyes watered, but he pushed on. He had to survive¡ªfor Gin. Footsteps pounded after him, heavy and determined. He passed a toppled cart and leapt over the broken wheel. Behind him, wood splintered as Barrel barreled straight through the obstacle. Tram risked a glance back and saw sparks fly where the man¡¯s metal arm smashed into crates. The pirate was strong, but not as quick. If Tram kept moving, kept twisting through tighter spaces, maybe he could lose them. He turned down another alley, barely wide enough for a grown man¡¯s shoulders. The night was a jumble of smoke and flickering firelight, every corner hiding fresh dangers. He vaulted a low fence into a backyard piled high with discarded scrap. The metal shifted noisily beneath his feet, and he bit back a curse, hurrying onward. Beyond this, there had to be another route. A sharp clang echoed as Barrel crashed through the fence behind him. The man cursed, shouting orders to his partner. Tram couldn¡¯t make out the words, only the anger fueling them. He emerged onto a moonlit lane scarred by scorch marks and broken glass. Flames licked at a nearby building, its roof collapsing in a shower of sparks. Every turn offered dead ends or deadly obstacles. Tram darted behind a stack of crates near an old warehouse¡ªjust long enough to catch his breath¡ªand spotted a flimsy side door bent off its hinges. Before he could think twice, he squeezed through. Inside, the place reeked of rust and damp. Weak moonlight filtered through a ragged hole in the tin wall. He heard Barrel¡¯s footsteps outside, closer now, crunching on shattered planks. Tram¡¯s gaze darted around in the gloom. A few overturned barrels and scraps of metal lay scattered on the floor. He needed a hiding spot¡ªfast. He saw a cluster of crates near the back corner, piled haphazardly. Maybe he could slip behind them. But as he crept over, his foot caught on something. He looked down to see a jagged tear in the wall: a narrow opening bent inward where the metal had rusted through. Tram dropped to his knees, heart pounding. If he squeezed through, maybe he could get away from this warehouse altogether. Scraping sounds came from outside as Barrel tested the door. Tram winced when it gave way with a groan. He had to move now. Turning sideways, he shoved through the gap. A sharp edge sliced at his shoulder, drawing a gasp of pain. He clamped his teeth to keep quiet. On the other side, he nearly tripped over someone huddled against the wall. His breath caught¡ªhe wasn¡¯t alone. Moonlight from a distant streetlamp slanted in, illuminating a pair of terrified eyes. A girl, close to his own age, stared at him, cheeks stained with tears. Outside, Barrel¡¯s metal arm smashed through crates in the alley. Dust and bits of wood rained down. The girl¡¯s eyes widened, and Tram raised a finger to his lips, silent and pleading. They both froze, listening. For a long moment, Tram and the girl just stared at each other, breathing quietly in the shadowed alley. The thunder of the airship¡¯s engines had faded; distant screams and collapsing timbers were all that remained. Outside, Barrel cursed under his breath before stomping off¡ªsome urgent summons pulling him away. After a few tense seconds, his footsteps receded into the smoky night. Tram let out the breath he¡¯d been holding and slumped against the battered wall. He swallowed, blinking away tears he¡¯d kept at bay since leaving Gin behind. He had to keep it together. The girl sniffled softly. Her face was streaked with soot and grime, her eyes red from crying. When Tram looked at her more closely, he saw raw fear there, and pain. She flinched as his gaze lingered, so he softened his expression, tried to make his voice gentle. ¡°Are you hurt?¡± he asked, quiet as he could. She shook her head, lips quivering. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know,¡± she managed. ¡°I¡­ they came into our home. My da¡¯ made me run before they got inside.¡± Her voice broke, and she pulled her knees up, hugging them. ¡°He fought them off, I think. I¡¯m not sure if he got away. I ran. I¡­ I¡¯m so scared.¡± Tram¡¯s throat tightened. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, feeling the uselessness of the words. His own parents¡¯ faces flashed before him. The emptiness he felt in that moment, the pain still raw. ¡°I know,¡± he added softly. ¡°It¡¯s bad out there.¡± She wiped her eyes. ¡°Who are you?¡± ¡°Tram,¡± he said. ¡°My family¡­ we lived just up the hill.¡± His voice faltered, but he steadied it. ¡°Look, I need to check on my younger brother. He¡¯s hiding.¡± He hesitated, glancing back toward the route he¡¯d taken. Firelight flickered, silhouettes wavered, but he saw no pirates nearby. ¡°You can come with me if you want. It¡¯s not safe alone.¡± The girl hiccuped and nodded. ¡°Lizzy,¡± she said quietly. ¡°I¡¯m Lizzy.¡± Tram placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. ¡°C¡¯mon. Let¡¯s get away from here.¡± Stepping carefully, they emerged from their hiding place. Around them, Monument Island lay in ruin. Buildings smoldered, and broken beams jutted at wild angles. The smell of ash and char clung to everything. The distant roar of Authority ships hinted that help might be coming¡ªbut it wasn¡¯t here yet. They moved slowly through the alleys, avoiding main streets where bodies and debris lay scattered. Tram guided them in a roundabout route, keeping Lizzy close. Now and then, she stumbled on loose rubble, and Tram steadied her, neither saying much. There was no comfort to be had in words¡ªonly the grim task of surviving. They passed what had once been a bakery, its sign now blackened and split. A home with its roof caved in, embers glowing in the wreckage. A pair of smoke-stained figures in a doorway called weakly for help, but Tram couldn¡¯t stop. He had to find Gin first. Turning the final corner, Tram¡¯s heart caught in his throat. His home was there, but the roof was aflame, timbers collapsing inward. The heat radiated onto the street. He¡¯d left Gin in the crawl space, safe for a time¡ªbut now? He ran ahead, ignoring Lizzy¡¯s gasp. The front door stood open, just as he¡¯d left it. The room inside was hazy with smoke. He shoved his sleeve against his mouth and nose as he stepped over the threshold. He tried not to look at Mother¡¯s body, at Father¡¯s still form. He forced himself onward. ¡°Gin?¡± he called, voice muffled. He knew he should be quieter¡ªif pirates lingered¡ªbut panic took hold. Flames crackled overhead as he grabbed at the rug, yanking it aside. The trapdoor was open, empty. He stared down into darkness. Gin was gone. Chapter 1: TRAM TRAM The Iron Hearth tavern hummed with quiet energy, a low buzz of voices blending with the soft strum of strings from a trio of musicians tucked in a corner. Factory workers hunched over rough-hewn tables, easing the ache in their backs with warm stew and frothy ale. A few merchants, fresh off dealing scraps or small wares, nursed drinks by the wall. Even a couple of suspicious figures¡ªlikely Black Market types¡ªlingered near the door, sharing a nod with the tavern¡¯s regulars. Here, at least for an evening, they all belonged. In the thick of it, Tram wove between chairs and elbows. He carried a platter of hot bread and mugs of ale, trying not to spill a drop. The lamplight gleamed on the worn wooden floorboards, casting long shadows across mismatched furniture. A laugh rose from one table; a hush fell at another. Tram ducked and sidestepped, careful and quick, until he reached a group of hefty men halfway through their meal. His hand shook as he lowered a mug, and it slipped¡ªjust enough ale splashed over the rim to soak one man¡¯s lap. Tram¡¯s stomach clenched. ¡°S-sorry, sir,¡± he managed, voice catching. ¡°I¡¯ll bring a fresh one and a rag straightaway.¡± The big man¡¯s stare weighed on him, silent and unimpressed. As Tram turned, he bumped a patron who shot him a grumble and a glare. ¡°Watch it, Tram! Keep your eyes open.¡± ¡°It won¡¯t happen again!¡± Tram called back, cheeks hot, before ducking into the kitchen. Inside, the kitchen¡¯s cramped space was a world of its own: pans hissed over flames, steam rose from bubbling pots, and sacks of produce lined the shelves. The scents of roasting meat, onions, and peppercorn hung in the thick air, and a few flickering bulbs fought the shadows. Tram grabbed a clean rag, heart still hammering. ¡°Tram!¡± The voice boomed above the din. Wayland, the tavern master, planted himself near the chopping block. He was a broad man with a bushy mustache and kind eyes that held a quiet authority. Tram braced for a scolding¡ªhe¡¯d spilled drinks before, and Wayland always took notice. But Wayland¡¯s gaze was calm, if a bit tired. ¡°We¡¯re outta flour,¡± he said. ¡°Need you to run down to Sunlit Grains and fetch a few bags. Take the cart, be quick about it.¡± Tram blinked. That was it? No lecture about clumsiness? He swallowed. ¡°Sure, Wayland. Just let me fix the mess I made out there first. I spilled a drink¡­ The fellow I spilled it on looked like he might break me in half.¡± Wayland grunted, passing him a fresh mug of ale. ¡°Put the flour on my tab. I¡¯ll head down to pay tomorrow.¡± He studied Tram¡¯s face for a moment. ¡°Gonna miss havin¡¯ ya ¡¯round, lad. You¡¯ve been a good help all these years.¡± A lump formed in Tram¡¯s throat. He managed a smile. ¡°Not gone yet. You¡¯ll still have me underfoot until I start at the Stonemill.¡± In five days, he¡¯d turn sixteen, and factory work waited like an inevitable dawn. ¡°I¡¯ll be back in a flash.¡± Wayland nodded, and Tram hurried to the common room with the fresh drink and a rag. He apologized softly as he mopped the table and set down the replacement mug, careful not to meet the big man¡¯s eyes for too long. Then, leaving behind the hum of voices and the golden lamplight of The Iron Hearth, Tram stepped through the tavern¡¯s door. Evening had settled over the island, painting the sky in smoky oranges and dusky blues. The air felt cooler out here, the distant grind of factories blending with muted chatter from below. A heavy handcart waited near the tavern¡¯s side wall, its wheels caked with dust. Tram sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and gripped the cart¡¯s handle. It was time to head into town. Tram guided the cart away from The Iron Hearth, which perched at the island¡¯s highest point like a watchtower over a smoky sea. From up here, he could see it all: the factories clustered around the island¡¯s edges, their silhouettes sharp against an orange-streaked sky. Tall chimneys belched thin plumes of smoke that curled into the twilight. Steel frameworks rose in uneven rows, each factory built with purpose and pragmatism¡ªcopper refineries near one cliff, mills near another, and The Foundry¡¯s blazing furnaces scattered along the southern rim. Far below, at the docks jutting from the island¡¯s perimeter, air haulers hovered and drifted, their great engines humming. Some eased in gently, guided by crewmen shouting orders and flapping signal flags. Others, already loaded, soared away into the haze, carrying copper coils, iron rods, and machine parts bound for distant markets. The subdued roar of engines and the clank of cranes rose faintly to Tram¡¯s ears, mixing with the hum of voices and distant laughter from below. He started downhill, cart wheels rattling over uneven cobblestone. Old neighbors and passing acquaintances greeted him¡ªan old man who always winked and asked if the tavern¡¯s stew was as good as last week, a weathered woman sweeping her doorstep who paused to call, ¡°Evenin¡¯, Tram!¡± A pack of grubby children scampered by, shrieking with delight as they chased a makeshift ball. Even here, so close to the factories¡¯ relentless grind, a flicker of warmth persisted. Tram took care to avoid darker alleys, where Black Market dealers lurked in half-light, their whispered bargains barely audible. Instead, he kept to the main lane leading down toward the market square. From here, he could glimpse the steady flow of goods¡ªbundles of raw materials rolling toward the factories, and carts of finished products trundling back toward the docks to meet the haulers. The island never truly slept; it only shifted gears as day gave way to dusk.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. It was near a sputtering gas lamp that Tram spotted a familiar figure. Declan stood there, tall and lanky, long red hair hanging awkwardly around a face that never quite settled into ease. Though the air smelled of soot and distant cooking fires, Tram could almost sense Declan¡¯s tension in it¡ªan uneasy energy, like static before a storm. ¡°Declan!¡± Tram called, slowing his pace. The boy turned as if startled from a deep reverie. He offered Tram a quick, uncertain smile, his gaze darting over the cobblestones before flicking briefly to meet Tram¡¯s eyes. ¡°Tram,¡± Declan replied softly, voice muffled by the hum of distant engines. He shifted his weight, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. In the background, an air hauler¡¯s distant horn sounded, and the glow of factory furnaces tinted the horizon red. ¡°How¡¯s The Foundry treating you?¡± Tram asked, leaning on the cart handle. He kept his tone casual, though he knew Declan¡¯s unease well. The other boy had a knack for understanding the island¡¯s workings in theory¡ªhe could recall which factory specialized in what, or how an airship¡¯s rigging functioned¡ªbut his body never seemed to cooperate when it came to the rough labor these jobs demanded. Declan let out a sigh, lips twisting in a wry half-smile. ¡°Still clumsy, still knocking things over,¡± he said, words tumbling in a quick hush. ¡°I think faster than I move. I know what¡¯s needed¡ªexact torque on a bolt, how the molten metal should pour¡ªbut my hands don¡¯t match my head¡¯s timing. The foreman glares, the men curse, and I¡¯m left feeling like a spare cog rattling around inside some big machine.¡± Tram nodded, listening over the soft rumble of a distant hauler docking near the Copper Forge. ¡°You¡¯ve always been a thinker, Declan,¡± he said carefully. ¡°This island forces us into certain roles, but it doesn¡¯t mean you¡¯re not good at something else. I remember you rigging up that makeshift crane from scrap beams and old rope when we were kids. Your head¡¯s full of answers¡ªjust maybe not the ones The Foundry wants right now.¡± Declan snorted softly, an awkward, nasal sound that carried a hint of self-conscious laughter. He ran a hand through his wild hair, eyes darting toward a distant airship drifting overhead, its hull illuminated by deck lanterns. ¡°I guess. But what good¡¯s a head full of answers if I can¡¯t put them to use?¡± He paused, shoulders hunching. ¡°So, uh, what brings you out here?¡± ¡°An errand for Wayland,¡± Tram explained, tapping the cart handle. ¡°We ran out of flour. Tavern¡¯s busy, and there are strangers in town¡ªmerchants, travelers, I¡¯m not sure who they are. Something¡¯s stirring, maybe new trade routes or big orders at the factories. It feels different tonight.¡± Declan nodded thoughtfully, eyes flicking between the distant silhouettes of factories and the slow crawl of another hauler edging closer to a dock. ¡°More trade means more ships, more strangers¡­ new possibilities,¡± he said softly, fingers twisting that thread on his sleeve. ¡°I-I mean, not that I know much. Just guessing.¡± Tram smiled. ¡°Your guesses are usually good, Declan.¡± The red-haired boy fell quiet a moment, then ventured, ¡°Your birthday¡¯s in a few days, isn¡¯t it? You¡¯ll start at the Stonemill?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Tram answered, trying not to sound resigned. ¡°Time¡¯s up, I guess. Stonemill¡¯s not as bad as The Foundry, but still¡­ not exactly freedom.¡± Declan¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°We¡¯re all stuck, aren¡¯t we? Factories, loading haulers, forever tied to these docks and smoke stacks.¡± His eyes drifted to the sky where the airships sailed away. ¡°I used to imagine farming or tinkering with machines in a better way, not just brute force labor. It¡¯s silly, sorry.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not silly,¡± Tram said firmly. ¡°I believe we can find another way¡ªsomeday. Maybe even get off this island. If we do, we go together.¡± Declan¡¯s gaze snapped to Tram¡¯s face, and for a second, he looked genuinely touched, his anxiety loosening its grip. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯d like that,¡± he said softly, voice nearly lost beneath the distant clatter of machinery. ¡°Really.¡± A faint clanging from The Foundry direction made Declan start. ¡°I should go. Need to rest before tomorrow¡¯s shift.¡± He gave a small, awkward wave, turning as if unsure whether to run or linger. ¡°I¡¯ll try to drop by the tavern sometime¡ªif that¡¯s okay.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Tram said, offering a reassuring grin. ¡°I¡¯ll be there.¡± Declan managed a hesitant nod, then slipped into a side lane that led toward The Foundry¡¯s dim outline, the lamplight catching in his hair before he vanished from sight. Tram watched him go, that familiar mixture of admiration and sorrow tugging at his chest. He took a breath, tightened his grip on the cart, and continued downhill toward the market square. Behind him, the tavern¡¯s warm glow still marked the highest point of the island, while ahead, ships and factories shaped the world he was bound to. As Declan¡¯s footsteps faded into the gloom, Tram continued downhill, the cart¡¯s rattling wheels echoing against worn cobblestones. The closer he got to the market square, the brighter the lamplight grew. Shops and stalls crowded together at odd angles, a jumble of patched roofs and hand-painted signs. Somewhere, a baker was still pulling loaves from cooling ovens; elsewhere, a cloth merchant¡¯s lanterns threw flickering patterns on faded bolts of fabric. Tram¡¯s mind wandered back to Declan. He remembered the boy¡¯s excited rambling about beans, of all things. Years ago, when life was nothing but scavenging scraps, Declan had coaxed a tiny garden patch to life beneath a warped window ledge. He¡¯d shown Tram how small green leaves unfurled, how delicate blossoms promised nourishment. For a brief moment, they had tasted possibility¡ªsomething other than ore and sweat and choking smoke. Even now, Tram held that memory as a quiet spark in the back of his mind. At the edge of the square, he pulled the cart to one side, taking care not to block a narrow alley where two men in hooded coats haggled over something he couldn¡¯t quite see. Tram kept moving, weaving around a knot of travelers who murmured to each other in unfamiliar accents. New faces everywhere¡ªDeclan wasn¡¯t imagining it. The island felt on the cusp of something. As he passed a tall post hammered into the stone, Tram¡¯s eye caught a flash of color. He recognized it instantly: a bounty board, the parchment nailed haphazardly in layers. The largest and most weathered sheet bore the face he¡¯d never forget: Captain Victor Thorne. The pirate who had destroyed his world eight years ago, leaving so many orphaned children in his wake. A hundred thousand gold pieces offered for Thorne¡¯s capture¡ªdead or alive. Around it, smaller scraps advertised lesser criminals, their crimes and rewards scrawled in shaky ink. Tram paused, heart twisting. He didn¡¯t linger. There was no time for old anger and grief, not with Wayland¡¯s errand waiting. Still, the memory stuck to him like soot on his hands. He could almost feel the gunshots echoing through time, his parents¡¯ faces flickering at the edges of his vision. The flicker of torches and glow-lamps pressed him onward, guiding him through the last stretch of the square. Finally, the sign of Sunlit Grains came into view¡ªa painted sheaf of wheat bathed in soft lamplight. The windows were aglow from within, promising warmth and stocked shelves. Chapter 2: TRAM Stepping into Sunlit Grains felt like entering another world, one of subtle light and fragrant possibility. The scent of spices and dried herbs mingled in the warm air. Row upon row of barrels and jars stretched along the walls, each carefully labeled with neat handwriting. There were familiar staples¡ªrice, barley, wheat¡ªalongside exotic blends Tram couldn¡¯t pronounce. His eyes drifted to the center displays, where glass cases held ornate weapons, intricate jewelry, and rare books brought in from distant islands. It all spoke of a wider world, one he could barely imagine. Behind the counter, Lizzy¡¯s laughter rose like a bright melody. Tram smiled at the sound. He remembered when they used to work side by side at The Iron Hearth, swapping jokes between serving tables. Even though she¡¯d found steadier employment here, he missed her daily presence. Still, it was good to see her happy in her new role. As Tram approached, Lizzy finished helping a pair of customers. She noticed him and beamed, her blue eyes lively beneath the few wisps of blonde hair that had slipped free from her tidy bun. Her apron bore the Sunlit Grains insignia, and though she looked modest and unassuming, there was a quiet confidence in her posture. It had always drawn people in. Tram hovered near a case of fine jewelry, entranced by a golden pendant carved with swirling patterns and set with a gleaming jade stone. For a moment, he felt an urge to pocket it¡ªan impulse he knew better than to indulge. Just then, Lizzy¡¯s whisper sent a playful shiver down his spine: ¡°Tram. Caught you red-handed. Don¡¯t even think about it.¡± He turned, grinning sheepishly. Her tone was light, but he knew the warning was real. ¡°Relax,¡± he said, hands raised in surrender. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it. I know you¡¯d never cover for me.¡± Lizzy rolled her eyes, still smiling. ¡°I can¡¯t lose my job just because you get sticky fingers. Now, what brings you here? Did Wayland send you, or are you just making trouble?¡± Tram managed a laugh, though her teasing warmed him more than he liked to admit. ¡°I¡¯m on a mission,¡± he said. ¡°We ran out of flour up at the tavern. Wayland¡¯s been swamped, and he sent me down to fetch four big bags. He¡¯ll pay you tomorrow, if that¡¯s all right.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± she replied, her tone shifting easily from playful to helpful. ¡°C¡¯mon, they¡¯re this way.¡± She led him to the stacks of flour bags, each nearly as tall as Tram¡¯s waist. ¡°They¡¯ve been selling fast lately. Must be all the newcomers in town.¡± Her voice was casual, but Tram caught the note of curiosity there, an echo of what he¡¯d felt himself¡ªsomething was changing on the island. He bent to lift one of the hefty bags, muscles straining, but tried to hide it. ¡°I¡¯ve got it,¡± he said, gritting his teeth. ¡°Just, uh, could you hold the door?¡± Lizzy darted ahead and propped the heavy door open while Tram hauled the first sack to his cart outside. The evening air cooled his flushed face. After a few more grunts and heaves, the flour was loaded. Wiping her hands on her apron, Lizzy grinned. ¡°I¡¯m closing up soon and heading back to the tavern. Could you ask Wayland if he can set aside something simple for my dinner? I¡¯m starving.¡± ¡°Sure thing,¡± Tram said, leaning against the cart¡¯s handle and catching his breath. ¡°I¡¯ll let him know.¡± They exchanged a warm look, a quiet understanding passing between them. Not working together every day had changed their routine, but not their friendship. With a quick wave, Lizzy disappeared back inside. Tram lingered a moment before turning his cart around, the sacks of flour rustling with his movement. The lamplight from within Sunlit Grains stretched across the cobblestone street, and he found himself smiling as he pushed onward into the deepening dusk. Tram pushed the cart back up the hill toward The Iron Hearth. The journey was easier now that the roads were quiet, and the flour sacks settled firmly in place. A few travelers meandered toward their lodgings, and a pair of merchants discussed tomorrow¡¯s prices in hushed tones, but most folks had turned in for the night. Overhead, a pair of haulers drifted away from the docks, their running lights blinking like distant fireflies against the dim sky. By the time Tram reached the tavern¡¯s door, he could feel a pleasant ache in his muscles. He parked the cart outside and hoisted a bag of flour over one shoulder. Inside, the tavern¡¯s buzz had mellowed into a comfortable murmur. Lamps glowed warmly against wooden walls, and the scent of roasting meat and simmering broth lingered in the air. Wayland spotted Tram and waved him over, eyebrows raised. ¡°About time!¡± he teased, though the corners of his eyes crinkled kindly. ¡°Get that flour in the kitchen before the stew thickens into mortar.¡± Tram just grinned and hauled the sack through the door. The kitchen clanged and hissed as cooks tended pots and pans, but Tram only stayed long enough to drop off the flour. On his way back out, he noticed a ripple in the tavern¡¯s atmosphere¡ªpatrons huddled a bit closer, some leaning in to listen. Following their gazes, Tram spotted the old man who had claimed a corner near the hearth. He was nursing a tankard of ale and spinning tales, voice low and conspiratorial.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°¡­I tell ya, I¡¯ve seen it,¡± the old man said, tapping the side of his nose. ¡°Islands that float so high, the air¡¯s clean as mountain spring. Taller buildings than you can imagine¡ªdocks at every level, goods flowing like rivers of gold.¡± He paused for effect, and a few listeners murmured uncertainly. ¡°The Authority,¡± he lowered his voice to a hush, ¡°doesn¡¯t want the likes of us to know. We¡¯re cogs in their grand machine. They keep us down here, hauling and smelting. They take what we make and turn it into wonders.¡± Tram edged closer, heart pounding. Could any of it be true? Ever since the raid eight years ago, he and Declan had dreamed about escaping these smokestacks and cramped alleyways. Every mention of distant islands, cleaner skies, and secret trade routes tugged at him. His fingers tightened around the damp rag he¡¯d meant to take to a table. He almost forgot his chores¡ªalmost. ¡°Oi! Tram!¡± Wayland¡¯s voice cut through his thoughts. ¡°Wipe down those empty tables, lad. Lizzy¡¯s coming by soon, and I won¡¯t have her tripping over crumbs.¡± Shaking himself, Tram moved to comply, but his ears stayed tuned to the old man. Snippets of phrases¡ª¡°fabrication quadrant,¡± ¡°dangerous mines,¡± ¡°monsters in the west¡±¡ªsparked his curiosity. He wanted to ask questions, press for details. He wanted to know how to get away from here, how to rise above what everyone called fate. Just then, the door slammed open. A handful of new arrivals strode in without so much as a nod. They wore mismatched leathers, some with patched jackets, others armed with short blades clacking at their hips. They smelled of sweat and stale booze, and one of them shoved a patron aside as if making a point. The tavern¡¯s murmur died, cut short by a tension that spread like spilled oil on water. Tram recognized trouble by the set of their shoulders and the sneers curling their lips. These had to be pirates¡ªor at least some rough crew from off-island. The biggest among them snagged a mug right out of someone¡¯s hand, draining it in one gulp before slamming it onto the table, foam flying. The tavern fell silent, everyone waiting. Tram¡¯s heart hammered. He glanced around for Wayland, who stood behind the bar, jaw tight, but quiet. Best not escalate things just yet. The big scary fellow from before¡ªthe one Tram had spilled ale on earlier¡ªrose slowly from his seat. He said nothing at first, just faced the intruders with a heavy-lidded stare. His knuckles cracked as he flexed his fingers. Without warning, he kicked a chair aside and stepped forward, making it clear he wasn¡¯t going to tolerate their behavior. The pirates paused, eyes flicking to one another, sizing him up. A hush stretched thin. Before anything could happen, another trio entered the tavern. The effect was immediate. Faces went pale, and some patrons drew back. Tram¡¯s breath caught. A hush settled over The Iron Hearth as Victor Thorne stepped into the lamplight. At his side stood Tarley, lean and watchful, and Barrel, his cybertech arm gleaming with menace. A few of Thorne¡¯s crew slunk in behind them, shoulders tense and hands drifting near their blades. Across the room, the big man¡ªstill bearing a faint ale stain on his trousers thanks to Tram¡¯s earlier mishap¡ªstraightened to his full height. He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck once, a deliberate gesture. Where others shrank from Thorne¡¯s presence, this man showed not a hint of fear. Thorne¡¯s single good eye swept the tavern. Murmurs rippled through the patrons; some recognized him, some only sensed trouble. Either way, the moment crackled with impending violence. The big man cleared his throat, voice rumbling like distant thunder. ¡°Victor Thorne,¡± he said, testing the name. ¡°Didn¡¯t expect to see you slumming down here. I take it you¡¯re lost?¡± Thorne¡¯s lips twitched into something that wasn¡¯t quite a smile. ¡°I go where I please,¡± he replied smoothly. ¡°Question is, what are you doing here, Captain?¡± He emphasized that last word ever so slightly, drawing a few nervous looks. The big man didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°Enjoying my drink,¡± the big man said, taking a step closer. His crew¡ªrough, steady types¡ªrose from their seats around him, spreading out to flank their captain. ¡°You and yours would be wise to move along. I don¡¯t fancy cleaning blood off these floors tonight.¡± Tarley¡¯s eyes narrowed, and Barrel flexed his metal arm. Thorne studied them all with a calm, calculating air, as though weighing the cost of a scuffle. He gave a slow shrug, as if to say they weren¡¯t worth his time. ¡°I have better things to do than brawl with your sorry lot. We¡¯re due elsewhere.¡± The big man¡¯s mouth curved into a half-smile. ¡°Smart. See, around here, we respect Wayland¡¯s place. Anyone who can¡¯t manage that gets shown the door¡­ or the edge of a blade.¡± He flicked his gaze to Thorne¡¯s men, and they stiffened. For a beat, no one moved. Then Thorne made a small, dismissive gesture. He and his crew backed toward the exit, never taking their eyes off the big man. The tension unwound just enough for the air to feel breathable again. As soon as the door swung shut behind them, a low buzz of murmurs filled the tavern. People swapped glances, relieved but still rattled. Tram stood rooted near a table he¡¯d half-heartedly wiped down, heart hammering in his chest. They were here. Victor Thorne, Tarley, and Barrel¡ªliving ghosts from his past. He could let them slip away into the night¡­ or he could do something. He thought of Declan, of Lizzy, of the old man¡¯s tales about other islands and other lives. He thought of his parents, years ago, lost to the very man who¡¯d just walked out that door. He thought of his missing brother, Gin. Rage and a strange, desperate hope sparked inside him. Without stopping to think it through, Tram darted across the room. Wayland called his name, but Tram barely heard him. He burst outside, the night air cool on his face, and caught a glimpse of Thorne¡¯s crew retreating down the hill. He didn¡¯t hesitate. He ran. Lizzy was just cresting the top of the hill, expecting a warm meal and a quiet evening. Instead, she saw Tram tear past, face set with fierce determination. ¡°Tram?¡± she called, startled, but he was already gone, flying down the slope in pursuit of the pirates who had shaped his destiny¡ªand perhaps might shape his future.