The Dragon Chase: A Tale of the Everburning City

Chapter 1: Amelian

The walls must always be watched.

This creed has been law since the City's founding. One of only a handful of laws carved in stone and beyond repeal; this creed has been the City's salvation.

It is this creed that now compels a new Lieutenant to stare at the second hands of a pocket watch, waiting for an overdue communication.

"Lieutenant Rustov?" a voice tentatively asked. Lieutenant Amelian Rustov turned in her chair to regard the speaker.

The spindly boy behind her, Specialist Spendel Montessori, was dwarfed by the immense contraption he worked at. The Communications Relay Station devoured the room, and its gears and wires loomed over the young soldier like an altar to obfuscating complexity.

"Sergeant Valen is twenty-five minutes overdue, ma'am," the young communications specialist said. "Should I try his station again?"

Amelian turned her eyes back to her watch, not really looking at it. Sergeant Valen's squad was rigorously, almost brutally, trained, and displayed an adept professionalism she rarely saw in any other part of the military. The old warrior's squad would be the last to simply forget to make a regular report.

Amelian looked back to Specialist Montessori, and asked, "How can you keep track of time like that without a watch?"

Her specialist grinned, and pointed to the device behind him. "The Central Relay Hub at HQ broadcasts the time every five minutes. Almost makes up for not being issued a watch, ma'am."

"How do I get one of those, anyway?" Spendel asked.

Amelian smiled, as she held up at the timepiece in her hand. "Become an officer," she replied, before slipping the watch back into her pocket. "Try Valen's comm port one more time."

As Spendel spun around in his chair, Amelian reached for the sword leaning against the wall next to her. She flinched as the unnatural cold burned at her hand, but endured it without letting the pain show on her face. Her sword was forged with a core of Coldstone, a heat-drinking material created by the Crafters. The weapon, impossible to make without the aid of a crafter, served as her official badge of office.

"Anything?" she asked Spendel, as she pulled her coat aside to buckle the sword to her belt.

"No, ma'am," Spendel replied.

Amelian's left hand instinctively lingered over the pommel of her sword, her thumb tracing over the small hoop with a single bar through it. The design on the pommel denoted her rank, one bar for a lieutenant, and served as the official insignia of her office.

"I'll go check on them. If you don't hear any word in twenty minutes, assume their comms are down," Amelian said, as she pulled her coat over her shoulders. She smiled, and looked back at Spendel. "If I don't report in forty, assume it's more serious."

"Yes, ma'am," Spendel replied. He smirked, and asked, "Should I put a work-order in now? So that it gets repaired in six months?"

Amelian cringed, her lip twitching in irritation over his informal tone, but otherwise smothered her response. Specialists were allowed a great deal of leeway in their conduct compared to regular enlisted soldiers. Particularly specialists with Spendel's talent. Instead, she let her grimace slide into a hard frown.

"No," she said. "Just in case it's more serious."

"Yes, ma'am," Spendel replied, and to Amelian's surprise, he stood up to salute.

She smiled to herself as she returned the salute, snapping into a stiff, formal posture and placing her right fist over her heart.

She stepped out into the night, bundling her coat closely as the wind swept past her, towards the City. Out of habit, she glanced back to find the familiar sight of the Spire.