Die. Respawn. Repeat. - Chapter 73— Book 2: Isthanok, the City of Broken Glass

The Great Cities, Tarin explains, are a set of seven cities situated inside the Barricade, which is apparently their name for the massive wall that encircles this section of the planet. The cities are numbered one through seven, though the numbering is unofficial — officially, the city we’re headed to is called Isthanok. The City of Broken Glass, they apparently call themselves.

I can see why. As more and more of the city comes into view, I find myself squinting against the glare of the sun — Isthanok is practically a mirror of its name. Its architecture is a dizzying array of disconnected structures, some of which I’m certain are just floating in the air; while the material of each building is technically opaque, they’re reflective and built in such a way that they reflect the sky.

In other words, the buildings all look like transparent shards of glass, hanging in the air.

I have to give it to the architects of the city — they really know how to stick to a theme, even if that theme is painfully blinding at times.

“Use Firmament!” Tarin caws at me, and I glance over at him. There’s a thin layer of protective Firmament packed over his eyes.

“Right,” I say. I follow suit with Firmament Manipulation, and immediately the glare of the city eases. This must be how anyone else is able to navigate in the city.

There are no further walls or guards we have to pass through to enter Isthanok; apparently, as long as you’re past the Barricade, security between cities isn’t a concern. Considering what Rotar’s told me about how much they spy and steal from one another, I find this strange. Surely they’d bother to have a little more security?

It doesn’t matter, I suppose. I’m content with being mostly ignored save for the strange looks that Isthanok’s residents occasionally toss at us. We make an odd trio, so I’m not surprised. For my part, I find myself fascinated — this is the first time I’ve been in a fully developed city on Hestia, and I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s almost enough to make me forget about my concerns.

You know, almost.

The residents of Isthanok — for the most part — wear sleek, light-gray outfits that catch on the light and shimmer with a pearlescent sheen. High collars outlined by dark-black fabric stand out against the otherwise pastel tones of the city, lending a sharper, formal note to the overall look. It makes me feel underdressed, and I make a face; Tarin, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care.

He’s leading me through the streets with purpose, so I assume he knows where he’s going. I turn my attention to further observation instead, trying to note down everything I might need to know in future loops.

Most of the people that live here are of a singular species. I have to blink a few times before I accept that their appearance isn’t an illusion — every member of their species looks to be made out of silver-gray smoke. That smoke fills out an otherwise humanoid shape, and they appear to express themselves with little screen-collars that display their emotions.

The ones walking alone have those screen-collars turned off. The ones talking to one another have their screens flickering between a rapid array of different emotions, merchants calling for people to purchase their strange, bell-looking items have happy faces plastered onto their collars, in what I assume is an attempt to look friendly.

“Silverwisps!” Tarin explains when I glance at him. “They build city.”

It makes sense. Isthanok reflects their apparent aesthetic. It’s beautiful in a one-note, one-color sort of way, as long as I’m standing still — but when I look around, light catches on the edges of buildings and clothing and on the crystalline plants that litter the streets, and the city bursts into iridescent color just on the edges of my vision.

For all the ethereal beauty of the city itself, though, it sounds just like any other city I’ve been to. No cars or buses or obnoxiously loud engines, certainly, but the hustle and bustle is ever-present; the silverwisps’ voices are light and airy, but they fill the air, and the few non-silverwisp species here make up for the rest of the auditory spectrum.

“Ethan!” Tarin calls, and I speed up my steps; I’ve seen so lost taking in the city that I’ve fallen behind.

Ahkelios grips at my hair, insectoid hands grasping tight and almost hard enough to pull them out by the root. I wince and stop, and after a few more steps, so does Tarin, who’s frowning. “Ahkelios?” I ask. “You okay?”

“I just…” the mantis takes a shivering breath, then holds it, even though he doesn’t need to breathe. I don’t say anything. “Give me a moment.”

“Sure,” I say, glancing at Tarin. “You want a better seat?”

“Y-yeah.” Ahkelios clambers off my head and onto my proffered hand, where he curls his knees up to his chest and stares at the city in a remarkably human gesture. “This place is beautiful. I never saw it when I was…”

Alive, is the implied word there. A few nearby silverwisps stare at us and mutter amongst themselves, but I pay them no mind; they’re hardly the first to have stared since our entry to this city. We’re an unusual trio. I’m surprised no one has approached us yet.

“Where are we headed, Tarin?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence while Ahkelios drinks in the sight. I probably should have asked earlier, anyway.

“Old friend!” Tarin says, flapping his wings a little in emphasis. “Good friend! She help. She help last loop, too!”

“How is she going to help?” I ask, stifling a chuckle. Tarin’s communication could use a little work.

“She expert tracker.” Tarin nods to himself, satisfied with his explanation. “We find Rotar.”

That’s a pretty good start, honestly.

“I’d like to find out more about the Integrators, if there’s anything about them here,” I say. Some of the silverwisps nearby still and glance at us, and I abort the rest of the sentence — I’m not going to talk about researching the Interface in public. Not when Rotar made it very clear that information about the Interface is at a premium here.

Fortunately, they lose interest in us quickly enough, and Ahkelios clambers back up onto my head. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

I just nod. It’s the least I can do for him.

The place Tarin drags us to is some kind of shop. a more run-down section of Isthanok. Further to the north, past gleaming glass and pristine pillars, is a part of the city that isn’t quite so bright — I let the Firmament fade from my eyes, blinking away the strangeness of the sensation. It isn’t that this part of the city is completely abandoned — some of that ethereal beauty is still there. But there’s dust on the walls and cracks in the mirrored streets; whatever maintenance is done everywhere else, it’s not done here.

Tarin ducks through a hole in the fence that acts as a boundary here, yelping as it catches on his feathers. I follow him through, and almost as soon as I step past the hole, I’m blasted with noise.

There’s a thin barrier of Firmament layered around the fence that prevents sound from getting through, and I can guess why. The people here are far more lively. Silverwisps run around, dancing and playing with Firmament flames that bounce effortlessly between them; there are significantly more non-silverwisps here, too, either talking animatedly or sharing in brown-orange glop that I assume has to be a popular dish with how many people are ravenously consuming it.

Here and there, small figures dart around. They’re not silverwisps, I don’t think, and I wouldn’t spot them if not for Quicken Mind and my Firmament sense — there are a few people using a stealthy-feeling kind of Firmament to move around, flickering into existence only briefly between steps. I observe them for a moment, tense, but they don’t seem particularly interested in me; I’m not sure what they’re doing, really.

“This way!” Tarin calls, and I start after him again.

He leads me to what looks like a once-floating shard of Isthanok that has crashed onto the ground — it’s a spire of rusted metal erupting from the ground in jagged shapes, roughly piled together into what I think forms a shelter, although it’s not exactly encouraging. There isn’t even a door, and yet Tarin ducks happily into one of the gaps between the shards.

I follow behind him, albeit much more cautiously. The hole’s small enough that I have to be careful not to cut myself on the edges of the building. The interior is dark and musty; the dim light emitted by Ahkelios’ Firmament is the only thing that lights up the small tunnel ahead of me. Tarin’s a little further ahead, squeezing his way through and greeting someone enthusiastically.

“Miktik!” Tarin says enthusiastically. I emerge from the tunnel in the debris a little after him to find what looks like a jury-rigged workshop, filled with rusty tools and Firmament-powered machinery. I’m not sure half of it even works, from the feeling I’m getting from them; it feels like their imbuements are badly damaged in some way. Loose threads of Firmament trail out from them, dissipating into the air.

“Tarin?” a low, suspicious voice hisses, and I glance around for the source of the sound. It takes me a moment to see who’s talking, mostly because I’d dismissed her as a ball on the ground at first.

Miktik — I assume that’s her name — looks… well, she looks like a giant pill bug. Which is still small, to be clear; she barely comes up to Tarin’s hips, and Tarin’s small for a crow as it is.

Huh.

This is the first species with a non-humanoid body plan that I’ve encountered, I think. I suppose I should have expected it.

“Tarin!” Miktik says, suddenly sounding a lot more excited, and with a smooth ejection of Firmament she launches herself off the ground and onto her desk. “Hello! What brings you here? Are you visiting? Is Mari with you?”

“Mari not with me,” Tarin says, shaking his head. “She protecting village! I come for help. Crow go missing. You help find?”

“Happy to!” Miktik says, and then she pauses. “Usual payment, yes?”

“I not as good as Mari. I try?” Tarin offers. Miktik shrugs — that’s the best way I can describe the motion, because every chitinous segment of her body raises partially before settling back down again.

“Good enough for me!” she says cheerfully. “And your friend there — who’s he?”

“He Ethan!” Tarin says, and then before I can stop him, he leans in to whisper in an exaggerated, conspiratorial tone. “He Trialgoer.”