The Secrets of The Forgotten City - Part 1

Chapter 1: Whispers of Rust

The wind carried dust and the metallic tang of long-dead machinery across the Blasted Lands, stinging Anya’s eyes as she wrestled with the broken water pump. Each groan of the rusted gears was a lament, a faded echo of Aerilon, the clockwork city slumbering beneath their feet. She tightened a bolt, the metal cold against her grease-stained fingers, listening. Not just to the pump’s struggling rhythm, but to the whispers beneath, the faint, fractal symphony of the city’s slumbering heart.

Anya wasn’t like the others in Oakhaven. They saw the dust, the scarcity, the broken world. She felt the world, its buried history thrumming through her bones. They called it a gift, a curse, madness inherited from her grandmother, Elara, the village’s last true tinkerer. Elara had understood the whispers, the language of gears and cogs, the silent pleas of forgotten mechanisms. After Elara's death, Anya was alone, the village elders regarding her with suspicion, her dreams dismissed as the ramblings of a tainted mind.

"Anya." Old Man Hemlock’s voice, raspy as a dry leaf, broke through her concentration. He shuffled towards her, his gaze darting nervously towards the horizon.

Anya didn’t look up. "Hemlock. Needs water, does it? Figured it would. Heard the pin groaning for days." She spoke without warmth. The village only sought her out when they needed something fixed. Otherwise, she was a ghost, a reminder of the world they preferred to forget.

Hemlock cleared his throat, the sound swallowed by the wind. "Aye, the water. Good that you… fix it. But…" He paused, wringing his gnarled hands. "People are talking."

Anya scoffed, finally looking up, her copper eyes sharp in the fading light. "Always are. Saying what? That I'm conjuring gears out of thin air? That I'm speaking to the metal itself?" She felt the familiar sting of their disapproval, the weight of their fear.

"They're saying… it ain't natural. This… gift of yours. Especially now... with this stranger arriving." Hemlock’s voice was barely a whisper, as if afraid the wind itself would carry his words to the wrong ears.

Anya turned back to the pump, hammering a gear into place with practiced ease. "A stranger who wants what? A decent night's sleep in a village that whispers about madness behind his back? He’ll learn quick enough we got little to offer." The truth was, the village did have something to offer. Her.

"He has coin, Anya." Hemlock's voice was lower, almost pleading. "And stories… of places beyond the Blasted Lands. He speaks of Aerilon…"

Anya froze, her hammer falling silent, the metallic clang echoing in the still air. Her breath hitched, a cold dread seeping into her bones. "Don’t speak that name, old man. You know what it brings." Aerilon. Even the sound of the name sent tremors through her, a ripple through the city’s slumbering consciousness.

Hemlock took a step back, fear clouding his watery eyes. "But maybe… maybe he can take you away. Away from the village, away from… this."

The idea, once a desperate longing, now felt like a betrayal. This blighted land, this fearful village, was all she knew. "Away?!" Anya grabbed Hemlock's arm, her grip surprisingly strong, her fingers leaving smudges of oil on his weathered skin. "Do you think I want to be away? This is my home, old man! But what good is home if you’re blind to the shaking ground beneath your feet?"

Hemlock pulled his arm away, his face etched with a mixture of pity and fear. "The ground is always shaking for you, Anya. Always whispering. We can't live in fear of shadows."

"It's not a shadow!" Anya’s voice trembled, her grip tightening on the pump’s cold metal. "It's coming! I see it! The machine… burning with Lumina… it will devour everything!" The vision flashed in her mind, vivid and terrifying: a towering machine, powered by a sickly green light, its gears grinding flesh and bone into dust.

Hemlock shook his head sadly, his eyes filled with a weary resignation. "Just like your grandmother, whispering of doom until her last breath."

Anya’s face fell, the fight draining from her eyes. "She understood…" Elara, who had listened to her dreams, who had taught her the secrets of the gears.

Hemlock softened his tone, a flicker of something akin to compassion in his gaze. "She was… troubled. And you, Anya, you need help. Maybe this stranger… maybe he can provide it."

Anya turned away, defeated. "Or maybe he’ll just use me. Like everyone else." She could already feel the gears of fate turning, a familiar grinding that promised only pain.

Later that evening, as the moon cast long, skeletal shadows across the village, Anya found herself drawn to the edge of the settlement. The stranger, she learned his name was Silas Blackwood, stood by the decrepit watchtower, silhouetted against the starlit sky. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his face etched with the lines of hard travel and harder bargains. He exuded an air of quiet competence, a stillness that both intrigued and unnerved her.

He stood before the village elders in the common, his voice smooth, confident, but with a hint of impatience. "So, to summarize, I am looking for someone familiar with the lands surrounding the Geode. Someone who can guide me safely to... a specific location within."

"A specific location? Within the Geode, you say?" Hemlock, the village elder asked, "What business could a merchant like you have with such a… tainted place?"

"Let's just say I have a… family matter to resolve. An item of considerable sentimental value was… misplaced during the Unmaking." Silas Blackwood, the merchant responded.

"Misplaced?" Elder Cora, a raspy voiced woman replied. "You mean stolen. Everyone knows what happened at Aerilon!"

Silas's smile faltered slightly, "Words matter, Elder Cora. Let's just say it was… acquired during a time of considerable… chaos. And now, I wish to retrieve it."

"And what is this "item" of yours?" Hemlock queried.

Silas hesitated for a beat, before saying "A… clockwork mechanism. Of intricate design. Irreplaceable, really. My family set a great deal of store by it."

"And what will you offer in return for such a guide? Aerilon is not a place any sane person willingly enters." Elder Barton questioned skeptically.

Silas gestured to his satchel, "I have goods from beyond the Blasted Lands. Spices, medicines, tools. Things your village has likely not seen in a generation. Enough to keep you well-supplied through the winter."

Hemlock's eyes widened slightly, "And you would give this… for a guide to Aerilon?"

Silas nodded slowly "A reliable guide. Someone who knows the lay of the land. Someone who isn't afraid of… a few gears and rusty cogs. And preferably… someone the village is willing to part with."

Hemlock gave a knowing look to the other elders before confirming, "There is someone…"

Silas raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "I'm listening."

Anya watched from the shadows as Silas and the elders bartered for her fate, a cold knot tightening in her stomach. She was nothing more than a pawn, a tool to be used and discarded. Yet, even as resentment burned within her, a flicker of something else sparked – a desperate hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this journey into the heart of Aerilon might be her only chance to understand the visions that plagued her, to silence the whispers that threatened to consume her.

The next morning, Silas found her at the water pump, the newly-repaired mechanism glinting in the early morning light.

"Miss Petrova, I presume?" He approached, his voice calm and measured.

Anya didn’t turn, continuing to adjust a valve. "And I presume you're the one offering trinkets for a trip to hell?"

Silas chuckled softly. "An interesting way to put it. But I assure you, my intentions are… less dramatic. I simply require a guide."

Anya finally turned, her copper eyes piercing. "A guide to Aerilon. And what makes you think I'd help you?"

Silas smiled faintly. "I've heard… whispers. About your… unique talents. Your understanding of the… intricate workings of things."

Anya scoffed. "So you think I'm a machine whisperer, do you? A freak who talks to gears?" The anger was a shield, a desperate attempt to push him away before he could get too close.

Silas's expression remained neutral. "I think you possess a valuable skill. One that could be… mutually beneficial."

Anya stepped closer, her voice low and challenging. "Beneficial to you. What about me? What do I get out of leading you to a city that eats men alive?"

Silas took a step closer, meeting her gaze. "You get a chance to see it. To understand it. To perhaps… silence the whispers that plague you."

Anya's eyes widened slightly, surprised. "You know about the dreams?" She hadn't told anyone, not even Hemlock, about the increasing intensity of the nightmare visions.

Silas was noncommittal, "I know that Aerilon holds secrets. And that you are the key to unlocking them."

Anya turned away, pacing. "It's not just secrets. It's a warning! I told Hemlock, it's a catastrophe. A machine, powered by Lumina, that will rip this land apart."

Silas sighed, a hint of weariness in his voice. "I'm going to Aerilon, Miss Petrova, regardless. You can help me get there safely. Maybe even help to understand what happened to the city."

Anya challenged, "Or I can not?"

Silas countered, "Or I can leave you here, letting the village elders use the coin I gave them to build their storehouses, while Aerilon's secrets remain buried, and the machine in your dreams… continues to build." His words were a veiled threat, but also an undeniable truth. She was trapped, caught between the fear of the village and the ominous pull of the city below.

Anya looked at him, a mixture of fear and defiance in her eyes. "You don’t understand anything."

Silas softened his tone slightly. "Perhaps not. But I'm willing to learn. Are you willing to teach me?"

The wind whipped around them, carrying the scent of rust and decay. Anya closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the whispers of Aerilon, the faintest pulse of its forgotten heart. She saw the machine in her dreams, its Lumina-fueled gears grinding ever closer to disaster. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that she had no choice.

"Fine," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll take you to Aerilon. But don't think for a moment that I'm doing this for you."

The ghost of a smile touched Silas’ lips. "Of course not, Miss Petrova. Of course not."

The journey had begun. And Anya, the girl who whispered to gears, was about to lead them into the heart of a sleeping giant, unaware of the awakening that awaited them within.