Ashen Light

Chapter 3: Ripples

The bustling clamor of Clankal filled the air, a symphony of clinking metal, hissing steam, and voices raised in barter and banter. The town sprawled like a patchwork machine, its streets twisting through an array of stacked metal shacks, rickety platforms, and towering, gear-driven structures that loomed against the smoky horizon. Cyrus wove through the crowd, his footsteps light and unhurried, catching the occasional wave or nod from townsfolk who had come to recognize him over the past few months.

Up ahead, a cloud of steam hissed from the worn pipes of the engine repair shop, mingling with the earthy smell of oil and scrap. Cyrus paused, hands tucked into his pockets, taking in the lively chaos around him with a faint smile. He'd come to appreciate Clankal's rough edges and odd charm, and though it was a far cry from the desert's quiet, it offered a kind of reprieve he hadn't expected.

Cyrus rounded a corner near the town square, where a huddle of townsfolk gathered, voices low and tense. A scruffy, wide-eyed scavenger was recounting his recent travels, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke.

"...near the old steel yards, I swear I saw it. Tall as two men, and its eyes were like fire. No ordinary stray demon, this one—it even had armor. Took down three men before we could blink."

A younger man beside him frowned. "That's the third report like that this month, isn't it? And I heard tell of a similar beast out near the West Barrens."

Cyrus listened quietly as he passed, catching snippets of the conversation. Demon sightings had always been a distant rumor in Clankal, a warning to travelers and scavengers who strayed too far. But now, the murmurs and warnings had grown more frequent, spreading through the markets and workshops, as if the danger were creeping closer.

He pulled his collar up, glancing toward the distant hills outside the town, where the pale light caught the faint, shimmering edge of the desert beyond.

As he passed by the polished copper panes of a tinkerer's stall, Cyrus caught his reflection and paused, taking in the figure staring back at him. His sandy hair, once tidy and short, now brushed his collar, roughened by the dry, smoky air and darkened with the grime of long days. The streaks of darker tones near the back seemed more pronounced, framing his face like a shadow cast by the light.

His eyes were the same deep brown, but they held a steadiness that hadn't been there before—something tempered, hard-won in the months since Mirage. Dressed in Clankal's patched leathers and scavenged cloth, he looked every bit the part of the town's wandering refugees, a face that fit easily among the town's patchwork residents. A faint, pale scar marked his left cheekbone, a reminder of one of the scrapes he'd found himself in since his arrival. It was astonishing, truly, how such little time could change a man.

As Cyrus approached the outskirts, he spotted a familiar figure bent over a cluttered workbench, tangled in wires and pipes. Zack straightened up, a smirk tugging at his lips as he caught sight of Cyrus approaching.

"Look who decided to finally grace us with his presence," Zack called, eyes twinkling with his usual mischief. He brushed a stray lock of messy brown hair out of his face, the rest of it falling around his shoulders in wild disarray. "Thought maybe you'd forgotten about poor ol' me out here with this masterpiece."

Cyrus raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Masterpiece? You mean that heap of scrap you swore could outpump the whole town's water supply?"

Zack clutched his chest in mock offense, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "I'll have you know, this beauty here is a multitasking wonder. All it needs is a genius's touch, which, luckily for it, it has in spades." He flashed a cocky grin, stepping aside to reveal the rusty contraption.