Part I: The Carriage
The heavy iron-reinforced gates of the Schola Minor opened with the groan of massive hinges.
Sola stood in line with twenty other students, clutching the strap of her satchel. They weren't walking. A massive vehicle waited for them in the courtyard.
It was a Transport Carriage of intimidating size. Built of dark, treated oak and reinforced with bands of iron, it sat on eight heavy, wooden wheels rimmed with steel. It was not powered by an engine, but by muscle.
Harnessed to the front were eight Draught Horses. They were massive creatures, twice the size of the starving ponies Sola had seen in the Union. their coats were black as pitch, and their hooves were shod in shimmering obsidian to grip the stone streets. They snorted, their breath pluming in the cool coastal air, waiting for the command.
"Single file," Instructor Davos ordered, standing by the folding stairs. "Stay with your partner. Torin, you are with Sola."
Torin limped forward, the clockwork gears in his prosthetic leg clicking softly. He grinned at Sola. "My brother drives a supply wagon like this. He says the horses eat better than Union mayors."
They boarded the carriage. The interior was lined with benches upholstered in durable grey leather. Lanterns containing glowing violet crystals hung from the ceiling, swinging gently as the carriage shifted.
With a crack of the driver's whip and a shout, the carriage lurched forward. The sound was not the hum of a motor, but the thunderous, rhythmic clop-clop-clop of thirty-two massive hooves striking the pavement.
As they rumbled out of the Sanctuary District and began the descent toward the industrial tiers of Observo Marus, Sola pressed her face against the thick glass window.
The city revealed itself.
From the high tower, it had looked like a map. From down here, it was a canyon of stone and iron. The buildings towered overhead, connected by stone sky-bridges. The streets were alive—not with cars, but with other carriages, hand-carts, and citizens moving with purpose.
The carriage turned a sharp corner, the wheels grinding against the cobblestones, and the air inside grew warmer.
"We are entering the Iron District," Matron Vara announced. "This is the muscle of the city."
Part II: The Symphony of the Hammer
The Forge Halls were not a building; they were a cavernous, enclosed ecosystem of heat and noise.
The carriage came to a halt in a designated unloading zone. As the children stepped out onto the railed gantry, the sound hit them—a rhythmic, thunderous CLANG-HISSS-THUD that shook the fillings in their teeth.
Below them, a floor the size of a battlefield was alive with industry.
Rivers of molten alloy flowed through channels cut into the floor, fed by massive crucibles. There were no machines doing the thinking here; there were men and women.
The smiths were giants. They wore heat-reflective aprons of silver leather and protective goggles. They moved with the synchronized grace of dancers. They weren't chained; they were conducting.
"Observe," Instructor Davos said, pointing to a team of three smiths working on a massive plate of armor. "They do not strike at random. One holds. One strikes. One cools. It is the Unity of Labor."
Sola leaned over the railing. She closed her eyes for a second.
She could feel the Iron Pulse. It wasn't the deep, slow hum of the stone tower. This was faster, aggressive, alive. It was the sound of a city arming itself against the chaos.
Torin tugged on her sleeve. "Look! Over there!"
He pointed to a quieter alcove where intricate, delicate work was being done. A smith was working on a prosthetic leg, almost identical to Torin's. He was using a magnifying lens and a fine-point chisel to adjust the brass tension springs.
"They are making more," Torin whispered, his voice full of awe. "For people like me."
"It is not magic that heals the broken," Matron Vara said softly, stepping up behind them. "It is engineering. It is effort. The Raven Lord provides the metal, but these men and women provide the will."
Sola watched the smith wipe sweat from his brow, take a drink from a canteen, and smile at his coworker. They looked tired, yes. But they looked proud.
Part III: The Weave of Economy
They left the heat of the Forge and traveled to the Weaver Halls.
The contrast was jarring. The Forge had been a cacophony of violence and fire; the Weaver Halls were a sanctuary of silence and color.
The air here smelled of fabric and dye. Rows of massive wooden looms stretched into the distance. But there were no shuttles flying back and forth by hand.
The weavers stood at the ends of the looms, their hands moving in complex patterns in the air.
"Magic," a girl behind Sola whispered.
"Applied Thaumaturgy," Matron Vara corrected. "These are the Spell-Weavers. They are not just making cloth. They are weaving durability into the fibers."
Sola watched, mesmerized. She saw a woman with blue-stained fingers guiding a thread of grey wool. As the thread passed through the loom, the woman whispered a word, and the thread shimmered briefly with a faint blue light before locking into the fabric.
"This is the wool for the Legion cloaks," Davos explained. "It repels rain. It holds heat. A soldier who is warm fights harder than a soldier who is shivering."
Sola looked at her own sleeve—the grey tunic of the Schola. She touched the fabric. It felt sturdy. Warm.
She realized, with a sudden jolt of understanding, that someone had stood at a loom like that and thought about her. Someone had woven a spell into this wool so that an orphan they never met wouldn't be cold.
In the Union, she had worn a potato sack.
Here, she was wearing a spell.
Part IV: The Purpose of Power
Lunch was served in a public park suspended between two looming towers. They ate sandwiches wrapped in wax paper made from the wax of bees, watching the city move below them.
Sola sat on the edge of a fountain carved in the shape of a Raven. She looked at her sandwich. Fresh bread. Cheese. A slice of cured ham.
"What are you thinking, Sola?" Instructor Davos asked, sitting down on the bench nearby. His metal leg clicked as he adjusted his stance.
Sola looked at the Forge Halls in the distance, venting clean white steam into the sky. Then she looked at the Weaver Halls.
"In the Union," Sola said quietly, "work is a punishment. If you are bad, they send you to the mines. If you are poor, they send you to the fields."
"And here?" Davos asked.
"Here..." Sola struggled to find the word. She looked at the happy exhaustion of the workers passing by on the street. "Here, work is a weapon."
Davos smiled, the scars on his face crinkling. "A shield, Sola. It is a shield. We work so the walls stand. We work so the granaries are full. We work so that when the chaos comes—and it always comes—we are the rock that breaks the wave."
Sola nodded. She finished her sandwich, feeling the energy of the city soaking into her bones.
She wasn't just a child being kept safe. She was an investment. The smiths, the weavers, the soldiers, the Raven Lord himself—they were all pouring their effort into her.
I have to be worth it, she thought, her small hand clenching into a fist. I have to be strong enough to pay them back.
As the Carriage arrived to take them to the final stop—the Great Market—Sola felt a familiar pull in her chest. The "Iron Pulse" of the forges was fading, replaced by something else. Something ancient.
The carriage turned toward the market square, where a massive Obelisk of black stone pierced the sky. Sola felt the Obsidian call to her, louder than it ever had in the classroom.
"Next stop," Matron Vara called out. "The Testing Ground."