"A Leviathan..." Cohen whispered, his voice trembling with awe.
"What is that thing?" Dimitry asked flatly. His rational, pragmatic mind struggled to accept this biological absurdity.
"A sacred being," Cohen replied, unable to look away. "The Celestial Wanderers... Only the highest ranks of the Cult and the unimaginably wealthy travel upon them. I’ve only read about them; I’ve never seen one in the flesh."
"Then something ill has happened," Hans remarked, his gaze fixed on the sky.
Dimitry found himself in full agreement. When a "cortege" like that arrives in a gray backwater reeking of rot, it always signals change. And in this world, change never promised anything good.
"Time to move," Dimitry grunted, adjusting his rucksack. "We need to reach the gates before dark."
The parting with the guards was brief. They grabbed their gear and left the outpost, leaving behind the warmth of the hearth and the smell of thick stew. Their path lay across a gentle hill and a small grove, beyond which the destination of their journey was supposed to reveal itself.
When they finally emerged onto open ground, Dimitry froze—but not out of admiration. Nordcross didn't inspire awe. To him, it looked less like a bastion of civilization and more like a sprawling, neglected tumor on the earth’s surface. Gray wooden walls, rotted and encrusted with lichen, stood tired. Watchtowers leaned at awkward angles, like decrepit sentries forgotten by their commander. Beyond the fortifications, a chaotic jumble of red-tiled roofs and gray shingles crowded together.
The city was built so densely that the streets had turned into narrow, invisible slits from above. In some places, houses towered stories above the walls, defiantly showing off their peeling facades; elsewhere, only blackened chimneys stood orphaned above the crenelated edge of the fortifications. At the foot of the walls, like parasites, huddled wretched, low-slung hovels. Thatch-roofed and covered in damp sod, they seemed an extension of the filthy earth. Here, in the outskirts, life teemed in its most unsightly form.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
But over all this squalor, at the very center of the city, rose a cyclopean mass. A heavy, monolithic building whose spires pierced the low sky dominated the landscape. It was to this peak that the Leviathan docked, like a giant insect to a flower. The pulsating bubble of the living airship against this architectural chaos felt hallucinatory—a glitch in a dull, filthy reality.
Dimitry adjusted his grip on the Benelli. Nordcross didn't look welcoming. It looked like a trap, at the center of which sat something very rich, very powerful, and entirely alien.
"That's where we’re going," Dimitry nodded toward the central spire. "Let’s move."
The descent was a trial not for the nerves, but for the legs. As soon as they passed the grove, the solid ground gave way to a viscous, squelching mess. This wasn't just mud—it was a mixture of clay, sewage, and rotting straw that swallowed Dimitry’s tactical boots with a sickening slurp.
The slums clung to the city walls like a colony of gray fungus on an old stump. There were no streets here—only twisting, dark burrows between shacks. Built from the wreckage of river vessels, tar-soaked planks, and construction debris, the houses seemed alive. They breathed dampness, smoke, and the heavy, stagnant smell of unwashed bodies.
People. There were frighteningly many of them. Shadows detached from the walls, turning into human figures. Emaciated faces, empty eyes lacking both hope and malice—only endless, dull exhaustion. They followed the passing group with heavy stares, but no one dared take a step forward. Cohen walked with his cloak pulled tight, his aristocratic revulsion looking almost absurd here—his snow-white fur mantle was a bright target in this mire. Hans, by contrast, walked steadily, pressing his injured arm to his side, his eyes scanning the gaps between houses.
Inside the gates, the world changed again. The air became a thick, acrid suspension of peat smoke and rot. The cold forced people to keep fires burning round the clock, and the stench of cheap fuel—peat, damp wood, and god knows what else—was baked into every stone.
The streets were claustrophobically narrow, barely three meters wide. But the most oppressive part was the overhang: the upper stories of the buildings grew wider, leaning over the street until their roofs nearly met, turning the path into a dark, damp tunnel. The sky vanished, leaving only a jagged strip of leaden gray far above. Nordcross didn't welcome guests; it swallowed them.
"Where are we going, Hans?" Dimitry asked, struggling to keep pace.
"To a moneylender," Hans threw back over his shoulder. "Name’s Bruno. He’s rich as a demon but willing to deal with commoners. It’ll be easier than navigating the official guilds."
They reached a massive door of bog oak, reinforced with iron bands. Hans kicked the door with his boot—his right arm, immobilized by pine splints and paracord, hung as a dead weight.
A small window clicked open. "Who is it?" a bearded face growled from the darkness.
"Baron Cohen. Here for Bruno," Hans replied, unfazed.
The bolts shrieked, and the door groaned open. A mountain of a man stood in the threshold—a guard nearly two meters tall, his leather coat studded with metal plates. Dimitry glanced at the man's sheer bulk. One look at this guy is enough to inspire instant morality, humility, and sincere human kindness in anyone, he thought dryly.
Dimitry gripped his shotgun and stepped first into the cool, quiet interior of Bruno’s house.
Question for the readers: