Dawn in Edgeharbor wasn't a gradual thing. The layered sky shifted from deep purple to gold all at once, like someone had flipped a switch. August woke to the sound of steam whistles and the distant hum of the city coming alive.
Marta's breakfast was hearty—thick porridge, bread that was only slightly stale, and coffee that tasted like it had been made from charcoal and optimism. August ate quickly, nervous about being late to his first day of work.
"Central Communications is in the Administrative District," Marta said, handing him a rough map drawn on the back of a menu. "Take the main lift to the fifth tier, then follow the blue markers. Don't get lost—Supervisor Kellan has a reputation for firing people who can't find their way to work."
"Thanks," August said, pocketing the map. "I'll be back tonight."
"See that you are. I don't give second chances to people who disappear."
The main lift was a massive platform operated by a complex system of counterweights and steam engines. August paid his five coppers and tried not to look down as the platform rose through the city's levels. From this height, he could see the full scope of Edgeharbor—districts spreading out like the rings of a tree, connected by bridges and walkways that defied several laws of physics.
The Administrative District was all clean lines and official importance. The buildings were newer, better maintained, with the kind of architectural confidence that suggested unlimited funding. Central Communications occupied a tower that bristled with antenna arrays and devices that hummed with barely contained energy.
August found Supervisor Kellan in a cramped office on the third floor, surrounded by stacks of message cylinders and maps covered in colored pins.
"You're the new runner?" Kellan looked him up and down with the expression of someone who had been disappointed by new employees many times before. He was a thin man with prematurely gray hair and the kind of nervous energy that suggested too much coffee and not enough sleep.
"August Philistine, reporting for duty."
"Foundation classification?"
"B-7, Adaptive Immunity."
Kellan made a note on a clipboard. "Good. Immunity types make the best runners. Less likely to die from unexpected hazards." He handed August a leather satchel and a small device that looked like a compass crossed with a radio. "Message bag and city navigator. The navigator will show you the fastest route to any address in Edgeharbor. Don't lose it—replacement cost comes out of your pay."
"Understood."
"Your job is simple. Pick up messages here, deliver them to the specified addresses, return for more messages. Some deliveries are routine—administrative paperwork, personal correspondence. Others are priority—marked with red seals. Priority messages go to the front of your queue, no exceptions."
Kellan pulled a message cylinder from one of the stacks. "This is your first delivery. Standard administrative message to the Foundation Research Institute in the Academic District. Should take you about an hour round trip if you don't get distracted."
August clipped the cylinder to his satchel. "Any special instructions?"
"Don't read the messages. Don't lose the messages. Don't get killed delivering the messages. Questions?"
"How often do message runners get killed?"
"Less than you'd think, more than you'd hope. Foundation Research Institute is safe territory, though. Just watch out for the experimental discharge vents—they're clearly marked, but some people are idiots."
August nodded and headed for the door.
"Philistine," Kellan called after him. "You seem competent. Try to stay that way."
The city navigator was surprisingly intuitive. August entered the destination address, and a small arrow appeared on the screen pointing him toward the Academic District. He followed it through winding streets and across bridges that swayed more than seemed structurally advisable.
The Academic District had a different feel from the rest of the city. Quieter, more contemplative, with buildings that looked like someone had tried to recreate a university campus in the middle of a fantasy novel. Students and researchers moved through the streets carrying books, instruments, and occasionally things that glowed or hummed ominously.
The Foundation Research Institute was a massive complex of interconnected buildings, all brass and glass with enough warning signs to stock a small apocalypse. August found the reception desk and handed over his delivery.
"Standard administrative," the receptionist said, checking the seal. "Thank you. No return message."
That was it. First delivery complete.
August checked his navigator for the route back to Central Communications, but paused when he noticed another marker on the screen—a small red dot labeled "Points of Interest." Curious, he tapped it.
A menu appeared listing various locations throughout the city. Most were mundane—markets, entertainment districts, municipal buildings. But one caught his attention: "Disputed Zone Monitoring Station—Southeastern District."
His heart rate picked up. The Disputed Zones. Where Arthur supposedly operated.
August glanced around, then tapped the monitoring station marker. The navigator immediately plotted a route—forty-five minutes on foot, assuming no delays.
He checked the time. His first delivery had taken thirty minutes. If he was quick, he could detour to the monitoring station and still be back to Central Communications within a reasonable timeframe.
"Just a quick look," he told himself. "I'm not going to do anything stupid."
The route to the Southeastern District took him through parts of the city he hadn't seen before. Industrial areas where massive factories processed resources August couldn't identify. Residential blocks where the buildings seemed to shift and change when he wasn't looking directly at them. A market district specializing in what appeared to be weapons designed for fighting things that shouldn't exist.
The Disputed Zone Monitoring Station was smaller than he'd expected—a fortified building surrounded by sensor arrays and communication equipment. Guards stood at the entrance, alert but not hostile.
August approached the front desk, trying to project casual confidence.
"Excuse me," he said to the receptionist. "I'm with Central Communications. Is there any outgoing correspondence that needs to be delivered?"
The receptionist—a young woman with silver eyes and hands that occasionally flickered translucent—checked a logbook.
"Nothing scheduled for pickup today," she said. "Are you the new runner? Kellan mentioned they'd hired someone."
"That's me. August Philistine."
"Maya Thorne. I handle communications coordination for the southeastern quadrant." She gestured toward a wall covered in maps and status displays. "Quiet day today. No major incursions, no distress calls from the outer settlements."
August followed her gaze to the maps. The Disputed Zones were marked in red—vast areas beyond the city's protection where, according to the legend, "Authority is contested and travel is inadvisable."
"Do people actually live out there?" he asked.
"A few. Mostly researchers, hermits, and…" Maya paused. "Well, people who don't fit well in civilized society."
"Like Arthur Solvain?"
Maya's expression shifted to something more guarded. "Why do you ask about Arthur?"
August realized he was treading on dangerous ground again. "Just curious. People mention him sometimes. Mysterious figure, operates in the zones, fights Forsaken—sounds like something out of a story."
"Arthur Solvain is very real," Maya said quietly. "And very dangerous. We monitor his activities when possible, but he moves through the zones like he owns them. Which, in a way, I suppose he does."
"Have you ever seen him?"
"Once. From a distance." Maya shuddered slightly. "There was a major Forsaken incursion about six months ago. Hundreds of them, moving toward one of the outer settlements. We were preparing for evacuation when Arthur appeared."
"What happened?"
"He ended it. All of it. In about ten minutes." Maya's voice was barely above a whisper. "I've never seen anything like it. The air itself seemed to bend around him. Reality kept… shifting. When it was over, there was just empty ground where the Forsaken had been. Like they'd never existed."
August felt cold. "And Arthur?"
"Gone. Like he'd never been there either, except for the reports and the fact that three hundred people were still alive." Maya looked at August directly. "Why the interest? Most people prefer not to think about Arthur Solvain too hard."
"I'm just trying to understand this world," August said. "Where I come from, we didn't have Foundations or Forsaken or people who could rewrite reality."
"Where do you come from?"
August realized he'd painted himself into a corner. "Very far north," he said. "Different situation there."
Maya nodded, apparently accepting this non-explanation. "Well, here's some advice: don't go looking for Arthur Solvain. People who go into the Disputed Zones looking for him tend not to come back. And the ones who do come back… they're changed."
"Changed how?"
"That's classified information," Maya said, but her expression suggested it wasn't good.
August checked his navigator. He'd been here twenty minutes, and it would take another forty-five to get back to Central Communications. Time to go.
"Thank you for the information," he said. "If any messages need delivery from this station, I'm usually available."
"I'll keep that in mind," Maya said. "And Philistine? Be careful who you ask about Arthur. Some people don't like discussing him."
August nodded and headed back toward the city center, his mind racing. Arthur was real, powerful beyond belief, and apparently not the straightforward hero August had written. He was something else—something that made even trained professionals nervous.
But he was also alone out there, dealing with threats that could destroy entire settlements. And if August's story was any indication, Arthur was heading toward a tragic end.
The question was: what could August possibly do about it?
He was so lost in thought that he almost missed the priority message alert on his navigator. A red cylinder had been loaded into the system while he was gone, marked for immediate delivery to the Foundation Registry.
August quickened his pace. Priority messages meant urgent, and urgent messages meant Supervisor Kellan would be very unhappy if there were delays.
But as he hurried through the city streets, one thought kept echoing in his mind: People who go looking for Arthur Solvain tend not to come back.
"Good thing I'm not people," August muttered to himself. "I'm the idiot who wrote him in the first place."
Whether that made him more qualified or less qualified to survive meeting Arthur remained to be seen.