Theo ran a hand through his unkempt hair, pacing. "And you think Mad-Eye gives a damn about your reasons? He doesn't even have time to deal with us himself, he'll just send his dogs after us."
Emil scoffed, cracking his knuckles. "Let them come."
"Let them come?" Theo gaped at him. "Are you trying to get us killed? This isn't some minor scuffle. You act like if you forget about this, he will too!"
"Are you going to keep reminding me that I messed up?" Emil shot back, irritation creeping into his voice.
Theo let out a frustrated sigh. "How many times do I have to tell you? You do have noble blood, but in the slums, that doesn't mean a damn thing. Keeping all your limbs intact is a blessing, no one here gives a shit about your birthright. And yet, you keep doing things that put a target on our backs!"
Emil was silent for a moment, then smirked. "Next time, I'll make sure to shut his mouth permanently."
They stared at each other for a beat before, inexplicably, both burst into laughter.
"You're a lunatic, you know that," Theo said between chuckles. "Next time, don't leave me out of it. It'd look awful if one of us lost a limb while the other walked away perfectly fine."
Emil leaned back against the wall, his gaze drifting to the tattered pictures plastered across it, fragments of a world far beyond their reach. "Haha, sure."
In the slums, Emil had a habit of scavenging through trash and scrap heaps, pulling out anything that caught his eye, illustrations of Zul'vharra's grand mansions, Echoes casting their magic, lavish feasts, and towering airships. It didn't matter what it was, as long as it painted a picture of a life beyond their own.
Duskwatch District – Beyond the City Walls
The sun had long vanished beyond the horizon, surrendering the sky to the creeping embrace of night. Darkness settled over the commoners' homes, their silhouettes barely visible beneath the pale silver glow of the moon.
Elrya ascended the narrow staircase to her room on the first floor, her footsteps echoing through the quiet streets. In her right arm, Aeliana slept soundly, her small frame cradled against her sister's warmth. With her free hand, Elrya turned the key and pushed open the door.
The room was steeped in shadow, the only light spilling in through the narrow window, a slanted square of moonlight stretching across the creaking floorboards. Navigating by the dim glow, she reached out and pressed her fingers to the rune etched into the base of the Aether lamp. With a soft hum, golden light flared to life, chasing away the dark.
The space was small and cramped, but alive. A single Aether lamp flickered atop a worn wooden desk, its golden light casting shadows over stacks of ink-stained papers, crumpled drafts, half-finished columns, smudged notes scrawled in haste. Amid the chaos, one name stood out, stamped across a sheet: The Midnight Lamp.
At the heart of the desk, an old mechanical typewriter rested, its brass keys dulled by years of use. The weight of countless words lingered in its frame. Outside, the city murmured in the distance, but here, in this small room, only the soft hum of steam pipes and the rhythmic breathing of a sleeping child filled the silence.
The single-paned window, its glass slightly fogged, framed a city bathed in moonlight and drifting haze. Beyond, the dim glow of distant Aether streetlamps flickered in mist-laden alleys, while the silhouettes of towering airships and iron bridges loomed like specters in the night.
Against the far wall, a makeshift cot, barely large enough for a child, rested beneath a patchwork blanket. Elrya lowered Aeliana onto it with care, tucking the fabric around her small frame. Then, with a weary sigh, she sank into her chair, exhaustion pressing down on her bones like lead.
A breath. Then another.
The air shifted as a crimson glow flared around her, the aura pulsing in time with the tremor in her chest. Tears welled, slipping down her cheeks, silent but heavy.
"It was real," she whispered, voice trembling. "All of it was real. I've done it. I've become an Echo, no, something even more. An Anchor."
"Levi Veryathis," she murmured, the name lingering on her lips like an unanswered question. "I don't know what you want from me. Why you help me. Why you risked everything, why you made the world your enemy just to share echo knowledge with a commoner like me."
Her fingers curled against the desk, knuckles white.
"For you, it might have been a small thing. But for me… it's my life."
"Now I can write my newspaper freely, without chains, without restrictions to the upper districts too."
She leaned back, eyes tracing the shadows that danced along the ceiling. Levi had his reasons. He always did. If he told her to keep quiet, there was a purpose behind it.
The Aether lamp flickered, its glow dimming.
"Oh… this crystal is nearly spent," she muttered. "I'll have to replace it soon."
Then her eyes shifted to the calendar on her desk.
"July 28th… so the events in the Dream Realm happened in just a single day? What a strange space. It was only my second time, yet it still felt entirely new.
But Levi… he can move freely through it, as if it were his own house. A Sovereign's power…The entire world feared the dream realm, yet for him, it was a mere extension of his will. Did all Sovereigns wield such terrifying strength?"
Her thoughts drifted back to Levi's trial, to the sheer agony she had witnessed. She shuddered, shaking her head.
"No… no, becoming a Sovereign isn't a child's game. To rise from utter powerlessness, to claw your way up while blind, broken, and in constant pain…"
She clenched her fists.
"If I had been in his place, blind and helpless, what could I have done? Nothing. I would have simply clung to life, waiting for death, considering mere survival a victory. But he… he endured the pain, honed his skills, and turned the entire city into his backyard. He planted informants everywhere, using them as his eyes, ears, and voice, all while trapped in a state of agony and blindness. And in the end, even in death, he chose his own fate, not as a blind man, but as a king, a leader.
A man like that, one who can rise above all, even when stripped of everything, is the kind of person worth following. If anyone could change the fate of commoners… perhaps it's him.
But why did he choose that wealthy noble? Was it only his wealth, or did he possess something more, something truly remarkable?To me, he looks like nothing more than a spoiled noble child born into wealth."
Then her eyes fell on the calendar once more.
"An entire month… I spent a whole month between the Dream Realm and that journey. I haven't sold a single newspaper. At this rate, I'll have nothing left."
Her hands found the typewriter, fingers hovering over the brass keys.
"No choice then. I'll write down everything I witnessed in the Dream Realm. 200 copies… I need to print at least 200 copies before sunrise."
She inhaled sharply.
"It's going to be a long, exhausting night."
Every day, after hours spent hammering away at her typewriter, Elrya printed exactly one hundred copies of The Midnight Lamp. No illustrations, no elaborate designs, just words, ink pressed onto plain paper. The common folk had little to spare, and few would waste their cogs on anything beyond necessities. But her readers… they were different.
She had spent years carving out her place in the city's shadows, building trust, earning loyalty. Her readers bought her press eagerly, not out of obligation but because they wanted to. And yet, she never took advantage of them. From the very first issue to now, the price remained the same, one cog per piece.Twenty-five cogs make one paleon, and twenty paleon make one Solari.
At the end of each month, her earnings amounted to three Solari. Not enough for luxuries, not enough for comfort, but enough to survive. Enough to pay the bills, keep food on the table, and cover her sister's academy fees.
In the upper districts, a single newspaper sold for a Paleon. But she could never demand such a price. The great publishing houses printed the latest world events in real-time, their papers overflowing with politics, finance, and aristocratic affairs. The Midnight Lamp was something else entirely.
She wrote about the past, stories that had already happened, struggles that had already been endured. She chronicled the lives of those the grand papers ignored. She wrote opinions, reflections, the quiet tragedies buried beneath the weight of history.
Elrya didn't write for profit. She wrote because she had to. Because words were the only way she knew to transform pain into something real. And for her readers, that was enough.