The taxi hummed softly as it cut through the upper lanes of Helior Prime, its suspension barely reacting to the layered roads beneath. Transparent panels along the sides gave an uninterrupted view of the city, and Taren had his face practically pressed to the glass, eyes wide like this was his first time seeing the world rather than just passing through it.
"Okay," he said, pointing vaguely at everything at once, "this place is unfair."
Aerin glanced out the opposite side, posture straight but not rigid, taking in the sight with quieter focus. Towers of white alloy and sunlit glass rose in careful symmetry, banners of the kingdom drifting between them like slow-moving flames. Patrol routes were visible even to an untrained eye—clean, efficient, constant. Everything here moved with purpose.
Cyros sat between them, hands resting loosely on his knees, gaze forward. He didn't comment. He rarely did when Helior Prime was involved.
Taren noticed, of course. He always did.
"You grew up with this," Taren said, twisting around in his seat to look at Cyros. "That should be illegal. How are the rest of us supposed to compete?"
Cyros blinked once. "Compete with what?"
Taren scoffed. "With this." He waved at the skyline. "Military-grade architecture, tourist-level beauty, and somehow it's all running like a well-oiled machine. If my hometown tried this, half the bridges would collapse before lunch."
Aerin allowed herself a faint smile. "Helior Prime has always been structured."
"That's one word for it," Taren replied. "Terrifyingly competent is another."
Cyros said nothing.
The taxi curved upward, merging into a higher transit path, and the Sol came fully into view—massive, radiant, suspended above the city like an unblinking eye. Its artificial light bathed everything below in a steady, warm glow that never shifted, never dimmed.
Aerin felt it then. The quiet pressure in her chest. Not fear. Not awe exactly. More like standing beneath something ancient that didn't care whether you noticed it or not.
She glanced sideways.
Cyros was looking at the Sol too.
His expression didn't change, but his shoulders had gone still in a way she'd begun to recognize. Focused. Listening to something that wasn't sound.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
He looked away from the Sol and back to the city. "Yes."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either.
The taxi descended smoothly into the Skybridge District, and the atmosphere shifted almost immediately. Where the rest of Helior Prime felt disciplined, Skybridge felt curated. Elevated walkways arched between towers like ribbons of glass. Hanging gardens drifted slowly along suspended platforms, greenery catching the Sol's light and scattering it into soft reflections. People moved here without urgency—tourists, families, officials on brief respite.
"This," Taren said, sitting up straighter, "is where money goes to relax."
Aerin couldn't help the small breath of amusement that escaped her. "You sound impressed."
"I am impressed," he said. "And slightly offended. Why does everything here look like it belongs in a painting?"
Cyros finally spoke. "Because it's meant to."
They both looked at him.
He seemed to realise he'd said more than intended and added, "Skybridge is designed for visitors. It's supposed to feel unreal."
Aerin studied him for a moment. There it was again—that sense that Helior Prime wasn't just a place to him, but a weight. Something he carried rather than enjoyed.
The taxi came to a gentle stop near one of the district's main promenades.
They walked beneath arching bridges of glass and steel, sunlight filtering through in fractured patterns. Vendors lined the open concourse, selling crafted trinkets, food wrapped in fragrant steam, miniature replicas of the Sol suspended in crystal frames. Music drifted faintly from somewhere above, not loud enough to command attention, just enough to colour the air.
"So," Taren said, clapping his hands once, "movie's still a bit away. What do we do with ourselves?"
Cyros shrugged lightly. "Doesn't matter."
Aerin glanced at him. "You don't want to choose?"
"I don't mind observing."
Taren snorted. "Of course you don't."
He stopped walking suddenly, eyes lighting up as he pointed ahead. "Zenith Hall."
Aerin followed his gesture.
The building rose before them like a carved monument—massive, circular, its outer walls layered in transparent segments that revealed movement inside. Walkways spiralled upward along its exterior, leading into multiple elevated entrances. From within, warm light spilled outward, carrying echoes of voices, laughter, and something celebratory.
"That place is huge," she murmured.
"It's supposed to be," Taren said. "Zenith Hall's basically Skybridge's heart. Exhibitions, ceremonies, cultural exchanges, even political showcases when they want to pretend it's not political."
Cyros studied the structure quietly. The flow of people. The patrol placements. The rhythm of entry and exit.
"Crowded," he noted.
"Tourist season," Taren replied easily. "And there's a celebration today—something about trade accords or historical commemoration. Honestly, half the time I don't know what they're celebrating. They just are."
Aerin hesitated. "Is it safe?"
Taren grinned. "This is Helior Prime."
Cyros didn't comment.
They entered.
The interior of Zenith Hall was even more vast than it appeared outside. The central chamber opened upward through multiple levels, a hollow column of space ringed by balconies and platforms. Light poured down from a crystalline ceiling far above, refracted into soft hues that danced across the polished floor. Displays lined the walls—historical artifacts, interactive projections, living demonstrations of craftsmanship and sorcery working in harmony.
People moved freely, their voices blending into a steady hum of excitement and curiosity.
Taren let out a low whistle. "Still impressive."
Aerin found herself slowing, eyes tracing the architecture. Despite her discipline, despite her training, there was something grounding about the place—order without rigidity, beauty without excess.
Cyros walked beside her, hands relaxed at his sides, gaze scanning not the displays but the spaces between people.
"You've been here before," Aerin said quietly.
He nodded once. "A few times."
She waited, expecting more.
It didn't come.
Taren leaned back between them, walking backwards for a moment. "You know, Cyros, most people from Helior Prime get at least a little nostalgic when they come back."
Cyros stopped. Taren nearly walked into him.
"I don't get nostalgic," Cyros said calmly.
Cyros walked a few steps ahead, gaze scanning instinctively, not for danger exactly, but for patterns. He noted patrol placements—discrete but present. Guards at each major entrance. Sorcerer signatures faint but steady.
Everything was as it should be.
That unsettled him more than if it weren't.
"You're quiet again," Taren said, falling into step beside him. "Which means you're thinking."
"I always think," Cyros replied.
"Yeah, but sometimes you think think."
Aerin watched the exchange, amused.
They moved deeper into the hall, the crowd thickening slightly near a central display where a group of performers demonstrated controlled ember techniques, shaping light into brief illusions before letting it fade.
Aerin paused, watching. "That kind of control takes years."
Cyros nodded. "And discipline."
Taren tilted his head. "Or fear."
They both looked at him.
"What?" he said, shrugging. "People learn control faster when they're afraid of what happens if they don't."
Cyros didn't respond, but something in his gaze sharpened briefly.
They were near the centre now, the Sol's light pouring down through the open dome above, illuminating everything evenly. It was beautiful. Serene.
And then—
A deep, resonant sound echoed through the hall.
"What was that?" Taren asked, grin fading.
Before anyone could answer, a second sound followed—metal sliding against metal, multiplied dozens of times over.
The entrances.
All around the hall, the massive doors began to close.
Slowly at first, then faster, thick alloy panels sealing each access point with a heavy, definitive clang. The bridges connecting Zenith Hall to the surrounding platforms retracted with mechanical precision, glass walkways pulling back until empty space yawned where escape had been moments before.
The crowd stilled.
Confusion rippled outward as people turned toward the doors, murmurs rising in pitch and frequency.
The music cut out.
Conversation died mid-sentence.
Silence spread, thick and heavy.
Aerin's breath slowed, her body already shifting into readiness. "Cyros."
"I see it," he said quietly.
Taren swallowed. "Uh. Guys?"
The last entrance sealed shut with a sound that reverberated through the structure, echoing up into the ceiling and back down again.
Locked.