The darkness inside the compartment was absolute.
Not the darkness of night, where the eye slowly adjusts to the absence of light. This was the darkness of enclosed metal areas lacking any source of illumination whatsoever. Darkness that was pressing upon his eyeballs, making him question whether he still had eyes in his head. Alucent blinked repeatedly, as if forcing his eyes to adjust to what there was to adjust to. There was simply darkness; movement vibrating from every surface.
The heat was misplaced. That initial feeling that comes when one awakens to the dark. Certainly not coldness, as one might have expected when touching metal, nor the inherent warmth that came from the space that had been shared by three bodies. It was drying heat, mechanical heat, generated by hot-operating machinery that brought warmth through metal systems. It made the air thick and difficult to breathe, not automatic.
The walls of the compartment pulsed weakly. Alucent sensed it through his back, pressed against the wall of the compartment, through his hands against the floor. Not rhythmic, in a strict definition of the word, but definitely according to a pattern he couldn't quite define. Cycles of pressure, perhaps. The workings of the Steamwagon, activating and deactivating, generating and releasing the steam, a certain balance necessary for the proper functioning of the machinery.
Every hiss of steam was like a breath held released. Too human, too alive for something made of metal. The wagon would let the pressure build in silence, its presence only known by the strengthening of the vibrations and then, of course, by its characteristic hiss of relief as pressure valves were released. As if it were alive. As if it had its own form of life that did not depend on biological life.
The sweetness had passed. The cloying smell of flowers in Glowrose tea and in the Worm-like creatures nest had been overwhelmed by oil, smoke, and burnt copper. It was an industrial smell, the smell of hot machines working metal. Alucent's nose began to hurt from it.
Time itself became hard to measure. It could be an hour since they had gotten into the compartment, or maybe three hours, or even ten minutes that had lasted longer because of the darkness, discomfort, and stress. Alucent tried to count the pressure cycles, thereby using them as a clock, though he consistently found himself losing track when his mind drifted away or when the cycles changed unpredictably.
Gryan shifted his position ever so slightly, this happening through their contact, which came because they were pressed so closely together that they could not avoid contact. His robotic arm whirred softly as the hydraulic systems adjusted to hold their position in the cramped environment. Then too he was motionless, and Alucent could feel the tension in him even though he could not see his face.
Something had changed. A shift in the motion of the wagon or the sounds coming through the metal walls. Gryan had picked up on this instinctively, with his engineer's mind.
The land travel changed. It became more controlled, more intentional. The rough, jerking quality of rough land travel smoothed, as if they were moving over packed roads rather than earth. And it was clear that their speed was not what it would have been if they were traveling over open land, as it was a speed indicative of travel through populated areas.
Gryan's hand touched Alucent's forearm, his fingers imprinting a message on the skin. More than words, but less than speech—a kind of communication, a warning. His mouth drifted up to Alucent's ear, his breath warm against the flesh, his words struggling through the hum of the engines.
"Inspection routes."
Two words loaded with implications Alucent's mind quickly began to analyze. This was no longer civilian transportation, nor was it a Harvester ranging wherever it pleased through an empty landscape. It was an industrial shipment, regulated and bound by protocols, passing through checkpoints and subject to observation and regular examination. Simply put, they could be found at any given time by anyone only doing their job.
There was complete stillness from Raya. Not the stillness of sleep or unconsciousness, but active stillness, the kind that takes effort and focus. Every movement calculated, every breath monitored. Alucent could make out the counting she was doing under her breath, numbers so small they were almost inaudible. She was cataloging something, charting patterns, mapping out what was occurring outside their iron cage.
The wagon slowed down further. Then it stopped completely. The engine was idling for maybe thirty seconds, keeping up a palpable pressure. Then it moved again, this time at a walking pace.
The voices came through the metallic walls, warped by their transmission through the solid materials and enhanced in curious ways by the shape of the cargo bay. At first, Alucent had not been able to pick out the words, only the pattern and the cadence of people speaking as they did their chores.
And then his ears adjusted, or the speakers got closer, or something changed and he was able to understand the words.
"…pressure variance logged at checkpoint seven…."
Male voice, flat and professional. No concern, just the facts.
"…'Forge Canon' allows deviation under sanctioned yield parameters…."
Another voice, an affirmation of something. Talking in terms that verged on the religious, yet relevant to machinery. Forge Canon. Almost scripture, yet specifically for industry.
".If it feeds the output, it feeds the Vale."
The first voice again, and there was a kind of devotional quality to the way he spoke. Not figurative. A real conviction that working for the service of industrial production was a higher calling.
These sounds diminished as the wagon moved forward, leaving Alucent with pieces that his analytical brain struggled to piece together into a coherent picture. This was no military surveillance. The military language was always preoccupied with security, threat evaluation, and strategic needs. This was different.
Gryan was stiff against him now. His respiration had changed, slowing and shallow, as if he was trying to contain a response. It was recognition, Alucent realized. Gryan recognized those words, recognized their significance and meaning in a way that Alucent never could without experiencing life in Iron Vale.
The wagon was moving at a steady pace, its speed remaining consistent as it caught the sounds of increasingly heavy traffic. Steamwagons whizzed by on both sides of the tracks, the ringing of metal on metal and other sounds of industry indicating this was indeed a densely populated region, the business hub of Iron Vale.
Alucent's awareness kept catching on something that was wrong. Not viewable, since he was blind, but metaphysical—he could tap it through Threadweaving. There was Runeforce at work in the wagon's design; now that he focused on it, he could pick it up. Writing etched into metal, glyphs that added strength and honed function.
However, not one of these systems responded to his intentions. When he extended his mind, trying to feel out the patterns, as he had once been taught, he felt resistance. It did not feel like hostile-resistant systems, or like wards intended to protect against intruders. It simply lacked presence. The Runeforce was present, and it was tied to its task in such a way that it had no play for interpretation.
This was not magic as he had thought of it. This was obedience made manifest. Threadweaving as nothing but mechanism, devoid of all liveliness, all responsiveness, all adaptation to changing conditions. FUNCTION, simple function, performed perfectly, but without change or growth.
The revelation made him feel a gnawing within his stomach. In what manner was Iron Vale using Threadweaving if this was their philosophy? What kind of life did they give to people if such a notion was implemented for magic itself?
The wagon slowed once again, this time stopping for longer, perhaps even a full minute. Alucent could hear the external latches ringing, metal upon metal, as if someone was attending to external maintenance. Maintenance inspection, his mind filled in. A routine check as it passed through restricted zones.
After that, light broke through darkness.
There was a thin beam, a ray of light through the vent seam that should not have been visible from the outside. There was also somebody near one of the compartments, working. Alucent found himself holding his breath without even thinking about it, his whole body rigid at the imminent discovery.
A pressure gauge had been tapped once, then twice. Metal clanking on metal came through in the walls of the compartment. Someone had been reviewing data, ensuring that everything was within acceptable limits.
The hammering stopped. The light, however, was still there. A person paused, perhaps sensing something was off, perhaps just taking longer with this scan for reasons not related to the discovery of stowaways.
His hand instinctively moved towards the Runequill in his belt, his thoughts plotting ahead. He could carve a dampening glyph to suppress any sound they may make, or gain a brief delay if the inspector opened the compartment. But even as he considered this, he dismissed the notion.
Too deliberate. Too apparent. A dampening glyph would impose a dead spot on the atmosphere sound, would be detectable to any person possessing the abilities of a Threadweaver or even a strong intuition for the sound patterns of an environment.
Instead, he did something more subtle. He pressed his palm against the inner wall, not to cast but to listen. He used his Threadweaving in order to observe, not to manipulate, but to read the already existing patterns in the system around them.
There was a rhythm to this wagon. Not mystical or deliberate, just machine-like repetition. Pressure was building, and then it was released; systems were engaging and disengaging in a predictable pattern. Of course, there was a rhythm to this inspection too: he was not being meticulous or nosy; he was just checking boxes while complying with a list of verifications before he was done and on to the next wagon.
Habit, not curiosity. Process, not investigation.
Alucent measured the silence against the rhythm he felt. When the attention of the inspector would be directed elsewhere, when divided attention occurred, and when the normal, routine flow of events would carry them beyond the threshold of discovery.
The lock clanged shut, and all three of them jumped at the sound. The light was extinguished. Footsteps receded as heavily booted footsteps echoed off metal grating. The inspection was over.
The wagon started moving again, passing through the industrial area.
Nobody knew they were on board. The inspector had been close to discovering three stowaways and had not seen them because he was not supposed to look for impossible situations – it was an assumption of the system that cargo compartments contain cargo and nothing else.
This realization was more frightening to Alucent than the possible detection that came with being seen. Because this implied a society in which going beyond procedure was so unusual, so discouraged, that people stopped doing even when they should. A society which had rationalized procedure to such extremes that going beyond procedure was not just improbable but literally unimaginable.
But the wagon went on, and the grade changed too. It started climbing, at an angle sufficiently steep that Alucent had to support himself against sliding towards the back of the compartment car. They had to climb some terrain or structure demanding large changes in elevation.
The heat began to intensify suddenly, not gradually but abruptly, as though they had moved into a different temperature zone. The dry warm air they had previously experienced had turned into oppressive heat that made it hard to breathe, and sweat began to form on their bodies.
Via the ventilation grille, Alucent caught glimpses of the red light flashing. Not the purple-cyan of the Turquoise Moon, nor the yellow of conventional fire. Rather, the deep red of heated metal on the verge of melting, the fiery lighting of forge fires that would prove deadly to the unprotected flesh of humans.
Shadows swept beyond the grate. Massive shapes, machine-like and too large for any understanding through the limited openings. Perhaps construction cranes, or pistons, or factories constructed on scales that had nothing to do with human observation. Somewhere in this place, all was larger-than-life, built for industrial purposes that made the contribution of individual human labor irrelevant in the equation.
Raya finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. Quiet. Absolutely. Sure.
"This place does not conceal its monsters."
Gryan's response came even softer, to the point of inaudibility, yet with impact regardless of volume.
"It does not believe they are monsters."
This simple assertion hit home with far more power than any complex explanation might have. The problem was that Iron Vale did not cloak their cruelties, nor did they attempt to pretend that the pain was not, in fact, what it was. They had simply convinced themselves, or been convinced, that their cruelties were necessary, that the end justified the cost, that productivity alone was the measure to be taken.
Contrastingly, however:
The Verdant Vale had hidden its horrors behind beauty, mercy, and the promise of peace—drugging their victims and handing them off to parasites while claiming salvation. There, the horror was the deceit—the difference between promise and delivery.
There was no deceit. No empty promises. Simply the heavy machinery of an industrialized theology for which pain was an acceptable cost of increased production.
The wagon moved through another gate. Alucent could hear the sound of metal plates slamming shut behind them, massive barriers to control the flow of traffic. Checkpoints within checkpoints, a maze of oversight and procedure.
A bell rang once. Not an alarm, since the tone was not fitting for such a purpose. No celebration, either. Just a point of recognition, a sign of transition, a procedural mark that was readily identifiable among employees, though not understandable to a stranger.
They were officially within Iron Vale. Beyond the perimeter checkpoints, through the controlled freight channels, into the core of the facility where the actual work took place, where raw materials were transformed into finished products, where productivity was gauged by tons per hour, where even the workforce was managed like the machinery.
Not infiltrators, Alucent realized. Not yet prisoners, at least not yet. They were unregistered cargo, smuggled goods in a system where every legitimate shipment was recorded, but there was no process to address items that never should have existed in the first place. The wagon slowed down in preparation for its final approach to its intended destination within Harvester's program.
Forge District 7, read the sign on the wagon. Somewhere in this maze of furnaces and factories was a particular location where a shipment of memory-devouring parasites would serve a purpose that made Alucent's stomach turn.
He now understood something profound that changed the way he had to think about the whole situation. In the Verdant vale, terror had pretended to be kindness, clothed not just in beauty and peacefulness, but also wrapped in the language of spiritual salvation. In this scenario, the element of mercy was completely drawn out. Removed because of the notion of its inefficiency and the acceptable existence of suffering in compliance with production needs.
This terror was neither concealed nor masked; instead, this terror was normalized, legitimized, and integrated into the way society functioned. But somewhere in this nightmarish machinery, they had to find the operation which was receiving such parasites, gather intelligence information on how the system was functioning, and somehow persevere long enough to get their reports back.
The wagon finally stopped. The sound of the engine changed from moving to idle. Alucent could hear the activities outside, the voices, the footsteps, the clinking of materials, and the reception of a delivery that had been expected.
Time was limited for them. Whatever lay in store would prove whether their desperate move was a stroke of genius or a fatal mistake. In the blackness of the cargo hold, against walls pulsating with a rhythmic mechanical beat, Alucent waited for fate to manifest itself before him.