Most nights on the Evernight Continent were veiled in perpetual dusk. Come the Dark Season, when the upper lands' orbit blotted out the sun, daylight shrank to but a few short hours.
This eve, the twin star Alpha had drifted into a low orbit—rare luck, for it meant a moon would hang in the sky.
That moon loomed so large it swallowed half the heavens, as though it might crash down upon their heads at any moment. Even a common soul, unblessed by power, could trace the great basins and jagged mountain ranges etched across its face.
Yet those still awake did not marvel. They cowered.
For the moon was the color of fresh blood. Its light spilled over the earth like a living shroud, creeping across the rugged, broken land to stain the gray-black shadows a deep, lurid red—great, gaping scars that glinted now and then with the cold sheen of metal.
From the distance came the long, hungry howl of wolves, and the roar of beasts unnameable, echoing back and forth, thick with savagery.
Legends of the Evernight Continent called this the Crimson Moon: a portent of ill, so rare it was spoken of only in whispers. But when the moon bled, the hosts of the dark world threw open the Gates of Woe, and rage and ruin were loosed upon the earth.
The tales held truth. Beneath that crimson glow, every creature grew wilder, bloodthirstier, quicker to rage.
Against the scarlet sky, a tiny black dot appeared. It drifted from the far reaches of the heavens, creeping across the firmament, swelling larger by the moment. It was an airship—one of the great floating vessels, stretching thousands of paces long.
It was a wreck. Its vast envelope was patched a hundred times over; its metal bones were crusted with rust, their seams splitting so wide one feared the whole thing might tear apart.
As if to confirm their dread, the airship shuddered violently. Pieces of it broke free—rivets, plates, a metal beam ten paces long—tumbling toward the ground to strike with a deafening crash.
The ship fought to stay aloft. Its brass pipes rattled in their casings; great clouds of steam billowed from its rear machinery. Eight sets of propellers shrieked in protest, spinning madly, barely keeping the hull steady.
Dozens of frayed ropes hung from its belly, slung with rusted cargo holds. Through the gaps in their doors, one could see they brimmed with refuse.
Like a dying beast, the ancient airship dragged itself the last league, until at last it reached its destination. Below, hundreds of paces down, lay a vast graveyard of such wrecks.
Tens of thousands of people poured from their hiding places, their fear of the Crimson Moon forgotten. They waved frantically at the ship, shouting with a desperate, fevered joy.
On this land, all but abandoned by the Empire, they were the lowest of the low—ants, scrabbling each day just to breathe.
This was where the great floating leviathans came to die. The broken ships of the upper lands carried mountains of trash, and over time, the graveyard had become a junkyard of all things. The folk who dwelled here lived on the scraps the upper lands cast away.
If the garbage ships did not come for too long, the graveyard starved. To them, the refuse of the highborn was their only hope.
Their companions fell around them—crushed by falling debris, trampled in the rush—but they did not stop. They ran, blind to peril, only desperate to reach the wreck first.
Men, women, elders, children: age and sex meant nothing here. Power and size were the only law, the only way to claim a piece of the wreck.
The strongest men reached the hull first. Then the weaker men and sturdy women. Then the frail women. The old and the young huddled at the very edge.
They formed concentric circles around the fallen ship, each ring separated by an invisible, uncrossable line.
At the outermost circle, the children picked through the heaps: hundreds of them, scrabbling for crumbs that barely existed.
One among them was a small, thin boy.
He was seven or eight, his face caked in grime so thick his true features were lost. His clothes were an adult's shirt, draped over him like a tattered robe, its fabric split to rags and bound to his body with frayed strips of cloth.
He dug at the cold trash with his hands—hands covered in cuts, some festering and raw. But he did not flinch. He tore at the unrecognizable mounds before him, frantic.
He had not eaten in three days. If he found nothing today, he would not live to see the next airship.
But no matter how he dug, his hands came up empty.
This patch had been picked clean a hundred times over, then left to the children—ten and younger, the weakest of the graveyard's folk. When the strong grew desperate, their hungry eyes turned to the old… and the small.
This was a place of castaways. A graveyard of ships, and of men. Here, to live was to be less than beast—for even the wild things had more pride.
But the boy would not give up. He dug on, his wounds splitting again, blood seeping through his rags. He did not feel it.
Another shower of trash fell. A large bundle landed at his feet.
Its wrapping split. Amid the worthless scrap rolled an oiled paper packet—one that glistened with grease.
The boy pounced like a feral cat, snatching the packet and shoving it into his tattered shirt. He did not stop to look inside. He glanced warily left and right, then crawled toward the edge of the crowd, slow and silent.
Among the children, there was fighting too—snatching, biting, even killing. It was no less cruel than the world of men.
He was small, weak. If the bigger boys found he had hidden food, a beating would be the kindest fate.
By some grace, he slipped past their notice, escaping the crowd. He had a knack for it—an instinct, born of the graveyard, that let him avoid the older children, who were more fearsome than any beast.
Once clear of the wreck, he ran—all the way to the far side of a trash heap, where he squeezed into an empty iron pail.
This was his den: a space no larger than a man's arms, a shelter from wind and rain. To the boy, it was paradise.
He pulled out the oiled packet, his breath catching. With the reverence of a pilgrim, he opened it slowly.
Inside was bread. A round loaf, bitten only once.
The boy knew the word bread the moment he saw it. He had never held anything so whole in the graveyard, yet he could not say where or when he had learned its name.
It was a common thing, that loaf. In the upper lands, even the lowest serf might bite once and toss it aside—just as this one had been tossed. But here, in the graveyard, it was worth more than a dozen lives.
He leaned in, and the faint scent of grain wrapped around him. The pain of his wounds faded. He held the loaf gently, as though it were a treasure beyond price.
Was this a dream?
Tomorrow… Tomorrow was a word too fine for this place. No one dared to think of it.
The airship, now aligned with its mark, gave a final, groaning shudder. Its propellers slowed, then stopped. The great hull jolted, bouncing dozens of paces in the air, before its left side split open—spitting out a smaller, sleeker craft.
The little ship circled the graveyard once, then climbed, vanishing into the heavens.
The larger airship, now dead, began to shake. It tilted, then fell—faster and faster, until it crashed into the earth with a roar that split the sky. Trash, scrap, and metal flew in all directions, a storm of refuse over the graveyard.
The revelry began.
The graveyard's folk howled, rushing toward the wreck—some on all fours, like beasts.
Great metal beams fell. Those in their path could not run fast enough. They were crushed to paste.
A drop of blood seeped from the boy's hand, falling onto the bread. He cried out, rubbing his hand furiously on his rags, wiping away every trace of blood and sweat. His face crumpled. To see his sacred loaf so defiled was a agony.
His stomach rumbled—an agonizing, twisting pain. He tore off the bloodstained piece, his resolve hardening, and raised it to his mouth.
But his hand froze.
Outside the pail, a little girl stood.
She was four or five, her face streaked with grime, her true skin hidden. But her features were fine—sharp, delicate lines that promised a beauty beyond compare, when she was grown. Her eyes were large, bright, and fixed on the bread in his hand, unblinking.
The boy sat up, his left hand closing around a sharpened iron rod. It was the graveyard's law: when food was seen, it was fought for—until one lay dead.
The girl did not run. She stared at the bread, motionless.
Slowly, the boy set down the rod. He hesitated, his hand shaking, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. His stomach ached, his wounds throbbed—protesting, screaming. At last, he tore the loaf in two, and held out half to the girl.
She took it. For a moment, she stared, as though she could not believe her eyes. She rubbed them roughly, then stuffed the bread into her mouth—half a loaf, bigger than her fist, gone in three heartbeats.
When she had licked the crumbs from her hands, she looked up at the boy. She studied his face for a moment, then ran—faster than he had ever seen a child run.
The boy sank back, empty. He did not know why he had done it. Perhaps her eyes—so clear, so unspoiled—had touched something buried deep within him.
But what was feeling, anyway? A strange, useless thing. He leaned against the pail's wall, tearing off a crumb no bigger than his nail. He put it in his mouth, not swallowing, just letting the taste of grain linger on his tongue.
Then a high, childish voice called from outside: "He's got food! You promised me half!"
The boy's heart plummeted.
Outside the pail stood several older boys.