The "Industrial District" didn't have streets; it had canyons of rusted iron and pulsing steam pipes. The deeper we drove, the more the air tasted like sulfur and burnt grease. The noise was a physical weight—the rhythmic thump-hiss of the Great Forge's pistons vibrating through the very marrow of my bones.
It was the perfect place to disappear. It was also the perfect place for an ambush.
"Faster," the father pleaded from the cabin. He was holding the vial against his chest. Through the small wooden hatch, I could see the golden mist within it flickering like a dying candle in a windstorm. "It's dimming, Ferryman! She's fading!"
"The Core is at its limit!" I shouted over the roar of a nearby pressure-vent.
The Vulture-Core in the horse's chest was screaming now—a high-pitched, metallic whine that signaled a terminal overheat. Green sparks showered the cobblestones every time the construct's hooves struck the ground.
Suddenly, a heavy iron chain rattled across the road, pulled taut between two massive steam-valves.
I slammed the brake, the carriage skidding sideways. The construct-horse let out a spray of coolant-steam, its legs locking as it skidded to a halt inches from the chain.
From the shadows of the overhead catwalks, they dropped.
They weren't soldiers, and they weren't assassins. They were Rat-Catchers—low-level bounty hunters who specialized in "urban pest control." They wore patchwork leather armor reinforced with scrap metal and gas masks to filter the industrial soot. Each of them carried a "Hook-Net"—a mesh of copper wire designed to short-circuit magical constructs.
"Easy now, Ferryman," the leader called out. He was a massive man with a prosthetic arm made of hissing steam-pistons. "Ten thousand silver is a lot of weight for one carriage to carry. Why don't you make it lighter for us?"
There were six of them. Three on the ground, three on the catwalks above with heavy crank-crossbows.
I stood up on the driver's box, my hands resting on the reins. I didn't reach for my blade. Not yet. I looked at the leader, my eyes tracing the scarred lines of his mechanical arm.
"You're a long way from the Sinks, Rat-Catcher," I said, my voice flat. "This district belongs to the Iron-Lung. You start a fight here, and the Forge-Guard will turn you into scrap before the sun sets."
"The Forge-Guard is on the Spire's payroll today," the leader grinned, his mask muffling the sound. "They're busy 'inspecting' the lower vents. It's just us, the steam, and ten thousand silver pieces."
He raised his steam-arm. The pistons hissed as pressure built up.
"Give us the bag, and you get to keep your head," he commanded.
Behind me, the father whimpered. The chime from the vial was so faint now it was almost gone. The child was slipping away.
My loneliness had always been my armor, but looking at that dying golden light in my side-mirror, I felt something else. A cold, sharp clarity. These men didn't care about the soul in the vial. To them, a child's essence was just a payday. A line on a ledger.
"I don't like debts," I said, my hand slipping into the hidden compartment beneath the seat. "And I don't like rats."
I didn't pull out a sword. I pulled out a Disruption-Grenade—a crude, illegal device Silas had traded me for a "rainy day."
"Close your eyes!" I shouted to the cabin.
I smashed the grenade against the iron railing of the driver's box and hurled it at the steam-valves holding the chain.
The explosion wasn't loud, but the Mana-Pulse it released was devastating. In a district powered entirely by steam and low-level enchantments, the pulse acted like a lightning strike.
The Rat-Catchers' gear-nets sparked and melted. The leader's steam-arm buckled, the pressure-valves screaming as they inverted. But the real effect was on the district itself.
The mana-pulse triggered a "Cascade Failure" in the nearby pipes. A wall of scalding white steam erupted between me and the bounty hunters, creating a blinding, searing curtain.
"Go!" I roared, kicking the Vulture-Core one last time.
The construct-horse didn't gallop; it exploded into motion. It tore through the iron chain, the sheer force of its desperation snapping the rusted links. We plunged into the white fog, the screams of the Rat-Catchers fading behind the hiss of the steam.
The carriage felt light, almost weightless, as we hurtled toward the center of the Iron-Lung. But as the fog cleared, I felt the horse beneath me stumble.
The green light in its eyes wasn't flickering anymore. It was a steady, dying ember.
We had reached the heart of the district—a massive, rotating cylinder of iron known as the Great Cylinder. This was where Marta, the soul-weaver, kept her shop.
I pulled the carriage to a halt in front of a heavy, lead-lined door. The construct-horse gave one final, shuddering click and collapsed, its brass limbs splaying out across the soot.
"We're here," I gasped, jumping down and dragging the father out of the cabin.
The man was trembling, holding the vial. It was almost dark. The golden mist was a single, tiny spark.
"Marta!" I hammered on the lead door. "Marta, open the damn door! I've got a 'Lading' that's about to go dark!"
The door creaked open, revealing a woman covered in silver tattoos that glowed with a faint, steady light. She looked at me, then at the dying vial in the father's hand.
"Kaelen," she said, her voice like grinding stone. "I told you never to come back here. The Spires are screaming for this soul."
"Then let them scream," I said, pushing past her into the cold, silent safety of her workshop. "Just save the girl."