Shadows of Valthera

The tram came to a jarring stop, metal grinding against metal in a sharp, painful squeal. A thin cloud of dust lifted into the dim underground station, where time had long since stopped caring. The terminal looked abandoned, like the bones of a forgotten part of the city. The soft flicker of dying neon buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on concrete columns marred by age and graffiti.

Ayla was the first to move. Ayla stepped off the tram. Her boots hit the platform with a faint echo that bounced along the tunnel walls. She reached into her jacket and held the shard, her fingers tightening around it. Around her, thick pipes lined the ceiling—some leaking slowly, their drops landing with soft splashes in murky puddles on the ground. The tram line behind them faded into darkness.

Silas stepped down beside her, his eyes scanning every corner. "Welcome to Valthera's nervous system," he muttered. "The part the world forgot."

Ayla took a breath. The air was damp and tasted faintly of metal and rot. "Are we close?"

"Close enough to smell it," he replied. "The Veil's always moving, shifting deeper when it needs to stay hidden. But this route gets us within reach."

As they walked through the terminal, their footsteps echoed—sharp, isolated sounds in an otherwise hollow silence. Faded posters clung to the walls like dying memories, advertising long-dead tech companies and corrupt politicians with forced smiles. Crates of scrap and broken drone parts were scattered across the floor, left like breadcrumbs by those who once passed through.

"What if she's gone?" Ayla asked quietly.

Silas looked over. "Lex?"

Ayla nodded.

"She's not the type to go down easy," he said. "She was the one who taught me how to vanish in the first place."

A beat of silence passed.

"She looked at my father like… they had history," Ayla said.

"They did," Silas said. "The kind that leaves marks you don't talk about. Lex doesn't trust easy—but if he gave her that shard, then she meant something to him."

Ayla slowed, her gaze lingering on a rusted service door. "He never looked that alive around me. In the photo, he looked… free."

"Maybe he thought keeping you away from it all was protecting you."

She gave a bitter smile. "And now I'm walking straight into it."

"Yeah," Silas said. "But not alone."

That pulled a look from her—wary, searching. Then a nod.

They turned a corner and headed down a narrow stairwell. A dim red light flickered along the wall, casting uneven shadows. The deeper they went, the louder the machines became. The heat built slowly, the air thick and restless—as if something was waiting just out of sight.

At the base of the stairs, a reinforced gate loomed ahead, scrawled with digital glyphs that flickered between languages and warnings. Beyond it was a tunnel lined with scavenged light panels and motion sensors half-swallowed by rust and grime.

"The Veil starts here," Silas said.

The gate creaked open under his handprint, revealing a long corridor that pulsed with low-frequency static. The space buzzed with a living tension—like the whole place was holding its breath.

Inside, Ayla could feel it: surveillance. Not the kind on cameras, but eyes—unseen, watching.

They passed a line of silent sentries, humanoid figures made from welded parts and repurposed tech. Their heads turned faintly as the two moved by, as if sensing flesh from metal.

A low voice crackled from a hidden speaker. "You bring trouble, Silas."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Trouble usually finds me."

A panel in the wall slid aside with a hiss. A figure stepped out—a woman with chrome-tinted goggles and a hood lined with copper thread. Her gloved fingers clicked against a curved data slate. She studied Ayla with thinly veiled curiosity.

"She's not registered," the woman said.

"She's not supposed to be," Silas replied. "We need a cold reader. Now."

The woman's brow arched. "That's not cheap."

"We have something better than credits," he said, motioning for Ayla.

Ayla pulled out the shard, its surface catching the flickering light. For a second, everything stilled.

The woman leaned closer, her voice lower now. "Where did you get that?"

Silas's tone dropped. "From a man who died for it. Can you open it or not?"

The woman hesitated—then turned sharply. "Follow me."

They stepped through the threshold into the deeper core of The Veil.

Here, the chaos was almost beautiful—walls layered with mismatched tech, endless stalls of contraband data, rogue coders plugged into neural rigs, and black-market surgeons working beneath tarps. The smell of soldered metal, ozone, and engine oil mixed into an electric cocktail of rebellion.

Ayla looked around, wide-eyed. "This is where your contacts live?"

"This is where ghosts trade secrets," Silas said.

Ayla's fingers brushed the shard again.

She didn't say it aloud—but the weight in her chest had changed. The fear was still there, yes, but something else had surfaced: purpose. Maybe this shard wasn't just a message. Maybe it was a map. A confession. A final gift from her father.

And she was ready to read it.