The sun sat high and heavy over Port Kavra when Ikarus arrived. It was a sprawling hive of merchants, the busiest harbor outside the Capital, smelling of salt-crust and cheap coal.
He felt a grim satisfaction for the fire he'd left behind; the smoke of the Capital was a distant ghost now. Normally, the crawl from the midlands took a full day, but the coachman had been coiled tight with panic. He pushed the steam car as if there was no tomorrow, and Ikarus didn't even have to pay an extra zenny for that.
Ikarus looked down at the bustling stalls.
The shouts of jubilant merchants filled the square, a noise that bled all the way to the coastline. Buyers bluffed with blatant lies, claiming the next stall over was cheaper, while ruthless housewives made a show of walking away—their eyes cutting back, waiting for the price to drop. At the edges of the crowd, the desperate didn't haggle; they just begged for a blessing they could swallow.
Ikarus sat with a faint, weary smile, sipping chai tea on a balcony overlooking the square.
The cafe was a local staple run by an Eastern couple; the husband, a man who lived and breathed coffee, had already tried to push their prized Luwak roast on him. Ikarus had declined, muttering something about a sour stomach and a prone ulcer. He wasn't about to be baited into overpaying for a luxury he didn't need.
I should still have some time, Ikarus thought, glancing at his watch.
He flipped the newspaper. He'd already scanned the cover, and the headlines were exactly what he expected: the Capital ablaze, a terrorist strike, and the Empire triumphed. His gaze stalled on the photograph dominating the second page—the skeletal remains of the collapsed clock tower.
That faint, weary smile sharpened into a sneer as he read the lead: The Legendary Artificer, Master Ikarus, Perished in Terrorist Attack.
He felt like applauding. The Empire was efficient with its lies, scrubbing the truth before the ashes were even cold. All it took was a flash of his aurora—the toxic emerald light was enough for them to rebrand a revolution as a mindless tragedy.
Everything had gone according to his design; the "Master Artificer" was dead. Ikarus needed to vanish. Three years, maybe five; long enough to pull his neglected research from the ashes and rebuild his strength far beyond the Empire's reach. The god-forsaken island in the south was the perfect blind spot for a dead man's plans.
Is this how I repay him?
The thought cut through him, followed by a sharp, rhythmic tightening in his chest. He was supposed to be as dead as the newsprint staining his fingers. Yet, here he sat, already calculating the next revolt while nursing a cup of spiced tea.
A debt remained. He owed it to the old man for the childhood he'd sheltered, for the letter that had reached his hand last night, and for the years of silence Ikarus had offered in return for his grandfather's love. At the very least, he could tend to what was left. He found himself wondering if the cow was even still alive.
"Alright, old man. Three years for the farm, and three for me. That's the deal," Ikarus whispered. His right hand pressed flat against the newspaper while his left traced the crinkle of the letter through his pocket.
Ikarus narrowed his eyes against the sun's leaden glare; he hadn't expected the southern heat to be this oppressive so early in the spring. He draped his gray jacket over the back of the chair. Today he was just another scholar apprentice in a crisp white shirt, sipping tea with academic poise.
Tap. Tap.
Soft footsteps broke his focus. Ikarus tracked the reflection in the balcony glass—the husband was approaching, balancing a tray with a cup twice the size of his own delicate china. He'd hoped the man wouldn't bother him again; the cafe was packed inside, and a busy shop usually meant an academic loner could sit in peace. But the footsteps didn't falter; they stopped right at his elbow.
"Please have a taste, Sir," the man said, setting the cup down. A heavy, musky steam rose from the dark liquid—the scent of damp earth and fermented berries from somewhere deep in the East.
"I didn't order this," Ikarus said, his voice flat. He wasn't about to be cornered into another transaction.
"It's on the house, Sir." The man's smile remained fixed as he lowered the tray. "It would be a pity for a man of your standing to leave without tasting the wonders of this roast. It's a rare thing."
Ikarus watched the man's practiced grace, a cold spike of suspicion blooming in his gut. His mind, wired for survival and thorned with paranoia, immediately began to dissect the threat.
An Imperial hound? An assassin? He tracked the man's hands—they were soft, the fingers marked with fresh, angry red burns from a steam wand.
Unlikely. He dismissed the suspicion before it could take root. No agent of the Empire could match his mastery of disguise. They wouldn't find him here, and certainly not through the eyes of a simple barista who was clearly still fighting with his own roaster.
"You must not be from around here, Sir."
"Is it that obvious?"
"I meant no offense," the man said, his eyes crinkling into thin, cheerful slits. "But no one is brave enough to sit out on a Port Kavra balcony in the heat of the afternoon."
"You're right. I'm down here on a pilgrimage research," Ikarus replied, returning the practiced smile. "I've heard the southern reaches hold wonders you can't find in the midlands."
"As I thought! A scholar. My eyes never fail me," the man chuckled, leaning in. "It is an honor to have you here, Sir."
Without warning, the man reached out and snatched Ikarus's hand, shaking it with a sudden, needy energy. He began to ramble, his words tumbling over one another as he talked of the southern archipelago—of islands where the seasons seemed to bleed into one another and the tides moved like clockwork.
When his mouth finally stopped moving, he seemed to wake up to the uncomfortable silence and the white-knuckled grip he still held. He stammered an apology and bowed so low that Ikarus heard a dry, audible pop from the man's spine.
He could understand the man's sudden fervor. Scholars were almost exclusively plucked from high society—the "half-nobles," as the street-level gossip went. They served as the essential glue between the Empire, the Church, and the common folk. What truly kept them on their pedestals wasn't just a silver tongue or a library of facts, but their supposed ability to decipher the ancient tongue and wield the power called "Arts."
But Ikarus was neither.
"Please, tell me if you need anything at all, Sir Scholar." The man bowed one last time, his spine letting out another faint protest, and retreated with an apologetic smile.
Ikarus lingered over the final pages of the newspaper until the last drop of his tea was gone, leaving only the dregs of star anise and cinnamon at the bottom of the cup. He stopped reading and raised the paper, letting the city's chatter bleed through the headlines.
Eventually, the boredom outweighed his caution. He glanced at the dark liquid in the larger cup, which had been wafting a rich, fermented fruit aroma to his way for several minutes.
It's on the house, regardless, Ikarus thought.
He took a slow, tentative sip, letting the heat coat his tongue. He paused, the complex profile of the roast hitting his palate all at once.
"Hmn," he murmured to the empty balcony. "It tastes like a jungle."
*************
HOOOOONK.
A low, mournful blast shook the air—the horn of a departing steamer.
Ikarus stood in the salt-heavy air, squeezed into the queue. Behind the desk, the Kavra agent—neat in a black-trimmed uniform smiled as she admitted she'd never heard of any Dewdrop Island. But suggested he try the locals on Paradiso; they were the human map of the southern archipelago.
For a moment, he wondered if the island was nothing more than a hallucination—a ghost-memory born from the fumes of his failed experiment. But the weight of the letter in his pocket, crisp and real against his skin, anchored him. If the island truly wasn't there, he'd just keep moving.
"A single ticket for Paradiso Island, departing at sixteen-thirty. Can you confirm, Sir?" The Agent asked.
Her silky black bob grazed her shoulder line, revealing slanted eyes that reminded him of the man in the cafe. A beauty, nonetheless. He wondered if the Kavra Corporation curated its employees based on their looks first—selecting for symmetry and grace before skill.
Ikarus's gaze lingered a second too long on the fold of her double eyelids; she had a striking, wide-eyed look, rare for someone of her specific Eastern lineage. He caught himself and gave a short nod. "Confirmed," he said.
"Your identification, please?" she asked, her voice practiced and sweet.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. Before he could even set the ID on the polished wood of the desk, she reached for it with both hands open wide, as if she were receiving a holy relic. He watched the performance with a dry, internal applause. No wonder the Kavra Corporation dominated the commerce world.
"Sir Silas Vane. Destination: Paradiso Island. Departure: sixteen-thirty."
Her voice had the honeyed, melodic pull of a siren, and for a fleeting second, Ikarus felt the vibration of it in his chest. The agent looked up, her steady gaze locking onto his. He didn't look away as she compared his tired features to the likeness on the ID.
For the first time in weeks, the static of his paranoia stayed quiet. There was no cold spike of suspicion, no urge to reach for a concealed blade—only a sharp, human curiosity and the simple weight of attraction.
Is it Arts? Ikarus thought as he stared back at the agent.
Beneath the counter, she retrieved a heavy brass stamp and brought it down with a sharp thwack.
"Please proceed to Dock Six, Sir." She pointed toward a blue-hulled leviathan moored three berths down. She cut the moment short with a formal bow. "Have a safe and joyous trip, Sir Silas Vane," she said, her words humming against his ribs.
Must be Arts, Ikarus thought, nodding as he tucked the ticket and ID into his pocket. It was time to leave the Eastern siren behind. He turned on his heel to depart—
A sudden, violent gust slapped the docks. It brought the sharp sting of salt and wet rock, a harsh southern breeze that sent the loose papers on her desk dancing into the air. Before the first sheet could hit the ground, Ikarus's hand shot out. He caught the paper mid-flight with a sharp precision.
He froze for a heartbeat, realizing the slip, before forcing a sheepish, academic smile. Truly an enchanting siren, he cursed silently. He handed the page back, leaning in just enough to catch the glint of the brass nameplate pinned to her chest: Vivian.
She accepted the papers with that same Kavra hospitality, clutching them to her chest as she bowed a fraction lower than before. "Thank you, Sir Silas Vane. And my apologies for the inconvenience."
"You're welcome," Ikarus said, mirroring her gesture. He let his gaze drop to the brass plate again. "Vivian. It's a beautiful name." He spoke it slowly, letting the syllables hang in the salt-thick air as if the name belonged to him personally.
She looked startled, not to the flattery—she likely drowned in hollow compliments every shift.
"Thank you, Sir," she said, her smile faltering for a heartbeat before resetting. "Though we are rarely called by name here. Still...I appreciate the sentiment."
She looked at him, and for a second the "siren" mask slipped, revealing the exhausted girl beneath the mask. "I hope you find it, Sir. That Dewdrop Island."
Ikarus raised an eyebrow, a flicker of dark amusement crossing his face. He gave a final, short nod to the agent and turned away. He couldn't afford to let the line stall: eyes were already starting to wander and the man behind him kept letting out a wet, rattling cough.
Vivian. He let the name roll over his tongue, savoring the irony. Derived from the Old Tongue—Vivus. Alive. Bubbling with life.
He stole one last glance over his shoulder at the woman. She stood there, stiff and clockwork-perfect, her smile as fixed as a painted doll's. She didn't look like she was bubbling with anything except corporate exhaustion.
False advertising, he thought with a silent chuckle, and began the walk toward Dock Six.