Silas sat in the passenger seat of Stroud's boiler, watching Droswick's skyline sink beneath the horizon with the day's last wisps of light. Oscar was hunched in the backseat, bundled snugly under the mountain of supplies he had secured after last night's briefing. The thirty-mile journey to Coldspire Depot would take hours by boiler. Setting out at dusk ensured their arrival would coincide with dawn. Silas stared out the window, his eyes devouring the scenery. When Stroud's boiler chugged past a sign announcing their departure from Droswick's municipal lines, he excitedly craned his neck, cataloging this moment to memory. Soon, the long road stretching infinitely northward was the only evidence of human innovation. Tundra bordered either side of the road. Permafrost carved hexagonal crevices into the soil, the pattern blurring into texture as Silas's gaze followed the lines to the horizon. Ankle-high shrubs and grasses sprinkled the ground, providing a mottled brown-and-green mosaic. Silas was used to Droswick's great succulent forests. To him, these wimpy tundra plants felt pathetic in comparison.

  Stroud's boiler followed the ostentatious vehicle of Malrick Sorne. The boiler's sleek, polished exterior shone like a mirror. Silas sighed with relief when Dysol finally set, no longer needing to shield his eyes from its light reflecting off the reflective surface. Designer hubcaps, ornate patterns carved into fenders, and steam-powered hydraulic doors painted a clear picture. Silas wondered how the Empire could afford the Archarbiter's lofty salary.

  Ravelin rode with the Archarbiter to Silas's surprise and Stroud's frustration. There were also two new additions: Maris Calloway and her Senior, Renald Drascourt. Silas had met the bubbly young Junior yesterday at the canteen, but his first interaction with Arbiter Drascourt in Crownhold's boiler park left him unimpressed. The man was younger than he expected—Silas surmised he'd seen thirty syzygies. He accentuated his crimson-and-gold uniform with flamboyant accessories and cosmetics. He wore a gaudy mask that outlined his face and covered his eyes, leaving only his plump, lipstick-stained lips exposed. His shoulder-length hair was dyed a vivid magenta, a hue that matched his painted lips. But his sense of style was not what left a sour taste in Silas's mouth; it was his attitude. The man exuded confidence so thick it stank. He held himself tall, peering down his nose at Silas like the boy was a bug on his boot. Drascourt fluttered around the Archarbiter like a sycophant, buttering Sorne up with flattery and shallow praise. Silas hoped he never had to see the man again after today.

  "Silas, keep your ears open," Stroud said, breaking the silence in the cabin. "The majority of Unspoken sightings are reported in landscapes like this." Her gloved fingers tightened on the steering disc until they trembled.

  Silas nodded. He snuck a peek at Stroud's face before fixing his attention forward. Luckily, the dark rings she wore under her eyes yesterday were fading. It looked like she finally managed to steal a few hours of sleep last night.

  The rest of the journey passed in tense silence. The effervescent hum of the boiler's engine and the gentle darkness lulled Silas to sleep. He dozed with his cheek pressed against the cold window, waking when Stroud hit a pothole or his neck began to cramp. Shattered dreams played behind his eyelids. They showed him carrion wolves lunging out of the water, snarling and drooling, before they pounced. In one, the Archarbiter broke away from the group with Silas, spiriting him away into Coldspire's dark unknown. In another, Stroud handed Silas over to the Archarbiter herself, her face warped into the same sycophantic grin as Renald Drascourt.

  "Silas, wake up."

  Stroud's voice pulled him from the nightmare. Heart thudding in his chest, frantic eyes swiveling, he turned toward her. Her lips pressed into a tight, mirthless grin. Behind her, Dysol's rising light burned around her head like a corona.

  "We're here," she said.

  Silas peered out the windshield, watching Oscar struggle with a spool of rope and a starbloom lantern. Silas unbuckled his harness and climbed from the vehicle, coming to stand behind the Warden. Oscar glanced up and gave Silas a curt nod.

  "Take this," he said, handing Silas the lantern. "We'll be paired as a team down there. Your job will be to light the way. I'll be close by." Oscar stopped fumbling with the rope and shoved it into his backpack. He gripped the phlogiston rifle wrapped around his torso by a leather strap. "Alert me to any danger with your sign. I'll make sure to take care of it."

  "Look at you, being all courageous and valiant," Stroud teased. She glanced down at Silas and slid her hand into a pocket. "Before I forget, put these on."

  Stroud pressed something warm and soft into Silas's palms. He looked down to find a new pair of gloves resting in his hands.

  "What?" she said, chuckling at Silas's incredulous expression. "I noticed that you didn't have a pair. You can't sign with frostbitten fingers, now can you?" She turned to watch the Archarbiter and his entourage march over. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. "I need you to be of able body and mind for this next adventure of ours."

  "Good morning, Arbiter Stroud," sang Drascourt, smiling with his teeth. "You look as dashing as ever in this” —he spun around and held his hands to the sky, palms outstretched— “this wonderfully dreadful, frighteningly barren place." He turned back, his smile stretched to the point of fracture. "Maris!" he shouted so loud that Silas winced.

  "Yes, Senior Arbiter Drascourt?" Maris said politely, stepping forward from behind Ravelin.

  Drascourt waved his hand, his throat clearing impatiently. Maris nodded and reached into a satchel hanging against her hip. She procured a shiny black box and handed it to her Senior. Silas recognized the design embellished on its case; it belonged to a popular cosmetics company.

  "Ah! I knew it!" Drascourt cried, powdering his nose as he scrutinized his reflection in the compact's mirror. "I can't believe I dared to show my face with such a blemish." Finished, he snapped the compact shut and thrust it back at his Junior. She took it and deposited it into her satchel. "Malrick, how do I look?"

  The Archarbiter—whose attention had been fixed squarely on Silas until now—blinked lazily. When his eyes reopened, he was staring at Drascourt. "You look beautiful, Renald, but let's not get distracted." He blinked again, returning his gaze to Silas. He paused, staring with unblinking eyes until Silas squirmed and ducked his head. The Archarbiter's lips twitched. He pivoted, his black cape billowing. "Let us begin."

  As Sorne walked, Drascourt made a tittering sound and strutted to catch up. Maris soon fell in line behind them. Ravelin lingered a second longer. Silas watched Stroud from the corner of his eye. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Ravelin turned and walked away.

  Stroud exhaled, the air huffing from her mouth. "Let's get this over with." She nodded at Silas and Oscar in turn before following the other Arbiters.

  Silas pulled on his new gloves, a contented sigh escaping his throat as the blood rushed back into his frozen fingers. He followed Stroud, Oscar trailing close behind.

  As they walked, Silas searched for flowing water. Where were the Great Canals? Stroud mentioned that Coldspire was largely abandoned now, but she said a few barges still ran to carry ore between the mines and mills. He spied deep crevices in the ground, but their beds were empty. Glancing over the edge, he could see water frozen in puddles at the bottom. He shivered, thrusting his gloved fingers into the pockets of his coat. At least this way I can see nothing is hiding below the surface, Silas thought, remembering Maris's notepad.

  Ahead, the Archarbiter's entourage stood in a huddle. Silas craned his neck to peer around Stroud's back. Nestled in the middle was a tall, burly man with a long beard that hung to his belly. He was speaking, but Silas was too far away to hear his words. The man's gaze flitted around, landing most often on the drained canals. His thumbs were hooked under the straps of his coveralls. He fiddled with the fabric, pinching and unpinching it between gloved fingers. Stroud sped up, her power walk kicking up frozen dust. Silas and Oscar hurried after her.

  "—scaring my men. Before you shut down the waterways for today, Archarbiter, I worried my entire crew would mutiny."

  Silas finally got close enough to hear what the burly man was saying, but his ears couldn't make out the first part. From this new proximity, Silas could see that the man wore a flat-topped cap imprinted with the Empire's star and crown motif.

  "It's nice of you to finally join us, Vera," the Archarbiter said coolly without looking. "Elsbeth, could you catch the newcomers up to speed?"

  Ravelin stepped forward, turning to face Stroud. She held out her arm to indicate the man and said, "This is Captain Harlowe Bragg—bargemaster of Coldspire Depot. He will be guiding us through the facility."

  The man lifted his cap and bowed. "Harlowe is fine, Arbiters." His eyes drifted down to Silas, narrowing when they landed on him. "Who is this child?"

  Stroud rested her hand on Silas's shoulder. "This is—"

  "Young Silas Carrow is our honored guest today, Captain Harlowe," the Archarbiter interrupted.

  Silas tensed as Stroud's fingers dug into his shoulder.

  "Honored guest?" echoed Harlowe, frowning. "I'm not sure it's safe to bring him—"

  "I assure you he will be perfectly fine, Captain Harlowe," the Archarbiter cut in. His hand drifted to the hilt of his ceremonial sword. "In fact, I believe you will find his presence highly essential to our purpose here." Sorne finally turned away from Harlowe. His grey eyes pierced through Silas, colder than the permafrost beneath his feet.

  Silas took a deep breath to steady himself and glared back defiantly. The Archarbiter grinned, the expression alien on his usually blank face.

  "Now, back to what you were saying, Harlowe." Sorne's gaze left Silas, who continued to glare, teeth grinding. Sorne waved—the motion twirling his wrist. "Before we were interrupted."

  "Y-yes, of course." Harlowe cleared his throat, the air ruffling through his mustache. "To recapitulate, the squatters were not the only ones seeing things in and around the waters." Harlowe flicked his chin at the empty canal. "We've sealed the sluice gates and drained the water so you can poke around and look, but I haven't personally seen anything, neither today nor at any other point. But starting about an eclipse ago, my men have been growing increasingly paranoid." He shook his head and mumbled something into his beard. "They've been ranting and raving about seeing shadows watching them through the mist. They've been terrorized by flying beasts that swooped for their eyes. One was pulled from the barge a fortnight ago. We found him on the bank a few hours later, half-dead from hypothermia and delirious." Harlowe snapped his suspenders and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "When he was well enough to talk, he said something with huge claws grabbed onto his leg and dragged him below the surface."

  Silas's heart froze, his chest clenched in fear. This does not sound like carrion wolves, he thought, his eyes darting around to scan every surface for lurking predators. Wolves do not hunt from the air. He tilted his head back, meeting Stroud's gaze pleadingly. All the color had drained from her face. When her eyes met his, Silas found his fear reflected back at him. Stroud reached down and wound her fingers through Silas's. She gave his hand a weak squeeze before letting go.

  "Were any of these incidents reported?" asked Stroud through clenched teeth. She looked between Maris and Drascourt.

  "I did report the event a fortnight ago," answered Harlowe with a frown. "The deckhand who fell overboard needed medical attention. When we brought him in, we reported what happened." He shrugged at Drascourt. "The next day, Arbiter Drascourt spoke with me to hear my testimony."

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Stroud shifted to address the other Arbiter. "I take it you investigated this? What were your findings?"

  Drascourt scoffed. When he spoke, his voice oozed with ridicule. "Of course I investigated, Vera. Investigating is what Arbiters do, in case you have forgotten." He jeered at her. "Naturally, I found nothing exciting. Harlowe's men probably got drunk and rowdy, their imaginations conjuring nightmares from sightings of wildlife."

  Stroud trembled with anger but held her tongue. Instead, she addressed Harlowe. "I have splendid news for you, good Captain. My colleague's impetuousness will be remedied by today's adventure. By the end of the day, I trust you will have the solution to your 'wildlife' problem."

  Harlowe blinked at her. Drascourt opened his mouth to rebuke, but the Archarbiter cleared his throat authoritatively. Everyone fell silent and found sudden interest in the dirt below their feet.

  "We've wasted enough time with idle chatter." Sorne extended his arm, throwing out his cape behind him. "How about you show us around, Captain?"

  "Y-yes, Archarbiter. I'd love to." Harlowe bowed and extricated himself from the center of the group. He tugged at the end of his beard absentmindedly while he walked.

  Everyone fell in line behind him. Silas cradled the lantern to his chest for comfort, his head constantly swiveling as he searched for danger. Stroud noticed and moved her hands.

  "Voices?" she signed, her brow creased with worry.

  Silas's face brightened into a proud smile. He shook his head. When Stroud didn't look convinced, he offered her a double thumbs-up. She shrugged, the right corner of her lip tugging into a half-grin. Sorne watched this interaction over his shoulder with narrow-eyed scrutiny. Silas didn't notice. He was too busy trying to hide the smile that refused to fall from his face.

  They came to a stop before a short, square building of white stone. If Silas unfocused his eyes, the structure looked like a giant ice cube floating in the middle of the canal. The building sat in a moat, a lone bridge connecting the frozen ground to its underwater foundation. Here, the water flowed with a gentle current swirling from below. Silas followed the water's flow until it stopped suddenly at a sluice gate. The gate dammed the water from flowing past, preventing it from entering the drained canal.

  A barge sat in the dry canal. Great icicles hung from its bow, jutting out like frozen splinters. Freight was stacked on the barge's deck in large shipping containers. Silas squinted at the containers, straining to read the words printed on their sides. He could just make out the letters for Brinestone Quarry. Most likely ore, then, he surmised.

  Rusted metal benches lined the canalway. Decrepit ticket booths sat adjacent to the benches, their windows cracked, shattered, or missing. According to Stroud, Coldspire used to ferry people from place to place, but lost this function when boilers gained popularity. Silas imagined what it used to look like in its heyday, with people queueing before the ticket booths and lounging on benches as they awaited their barge. The once bustling waystation was now an abandoned relic. Silas's heart sank, sad for how far Coldspire had fallen.

  Harlowe led them over the bridge. He stopped and groped along the wall for the handle to the metal door that marked the building's entrance. He grunted and pulled, the veins in his neck bulging with the effort as the door's rusted hinges groaned in protest. The door yawned wide, revealing a pitch-black hole that led inside. Harlowe held the door with his big body, his heavy breaths puffing from his nose in frozen mist.

  Silas walked in the center of the bridge, afraid of falling over the edge into the frigid water below. He couldn't swim; he would be easy prey for anything that lurked beneath the surface. Stroud pulled ahead and entered before him. Her form melted into the dark hole as she crossed the threshold. Silas switched on his lantern and followed after her.

  "Before the squatters left, where did they set up camp here?" Stroud asked, blinking against the darkness.

  Silas blindly stumbled forward and bumped into her back. She turned, her face eerily gaunt in the lambent glow of Silas's lantern.

  "Oh, pretty much everywhere," Harlowe answered. Once everyone was inside, he pulled the door closed after him. It slammed shut, the sound echoing back in deafening reverberations. "They got cleverer and cleverer each time Arbiter Drascourt displaced them. Watch your eyes."

  There was a soft click followed by a flicker of light from above. Starbloom bulbs hung from limp wires tangled around the ceiling's rafters. The light they provided was weak, but better than the opaque darkness without them. Silas switched off his lantern to preserve it. He turned in a slow circle, taking everything in.

  The ground in here matched the ground outside. Silas's boots crunched over the frozen dirt. It seemed to him like the walls and ceiling were plunked down without care to build a floor to match them. He strayed from Stroud's side, wandering farther in. To his shock, there was no floor at all in the center of the space. Instead, a bottomless pit opened into the abyss below. Silas peered over the thin railing, leaning his weight over the edge to get a better view. A hand seized his hood and yanked. The choke made him gag, staggering back—then he was released. Silas spun around, anger heating his cheeks. He froze, coming face-to-face with Stroud.

  "Are you trying to fall to your death, mouse boy?" Stroud asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  Silas shook his head, his eyes wide and fearful.

  Stroud clicked her tongue. "Well then, perhaps make an effort to avoid such precarious vantage points."

  Oscar hurried up beside Stroud, his rifle slapping against his hip.

  "Perfect timing, Warden," said Stroud, glaring at Silas. "Try to keep the boy alive, would you?"

  "Only if the boy doesn't make my job impossible," Oscar quipped, monitoring Silas like he might fling himself into the pit at any moment.

  "I'll ask again," Harlowe said, still hovering by the door. "Is everyone certain we should bring the child?" He surveyed the room, considering each person in turn. When his attention finally landed on Silas, he scrunched up his face in confusion. "I fail to see the purpose he serves." His volume dropped. "Other than being a nuisance, that is."

  Silas hung his head in shame. He growled low in his throat, voicing his frustration.

  Sorne marched over to the railing. He made a big show of leaning over the edge, his torso pressed into the thin metal bar. He then turned and propped his rear against it—half-leaning, half-sitting.

  "I've judged the infrastructure to be of sufficient quality," he said monotonously. "May we continue now?"

  Harlowe said nothing, his dubious eyes glued to Silas. Oscar grabbed Silas by the shoulder and pulled him close. Silas stiffened but relented, swallowing down his pride.

  Harlowe sighed, his big belly expanding at the top of the inhale. "Suit yourselves," he grumbled and ambled away from the door.

  The bargemaster circled the pit. When he completed his orbit, he went around again. Silas stared, confused. Why was he aimlessly walking in circles? But then he noticed that the longer the bargemaster walked, the shorter he became. Silas inhaled sharply, realizing what was happening. The floor at the circumference of the hole slanted downward. A narrow path spiraled into the dark below, going round and round as it descended. The Archarbiter fell in line behind the bargemaster, and the others followed suit.

  Stroud spoke over her shoulder as she walked. "Silas, stick close to the wall. Turn on your lantern and watch where you're going."

  Silas nodded to her back. He held his lantern low to guide his feet.

  "Oscar, keep your eyes on him at all times." She paused before adding, "Ready your reflexes to catch him when he inevitably trips."

  Silas harrumphed. If Stroud knew more sign, I'd tell her what for!

  Down they trudged, looping again and again around the pit. The darkness thickened the deeper they climbed until the meager ceiling lights could no longer penetrate the murk. Silas questioned the purpose of the pit. Why was it here? How did it form? A pressure began to build between his ears. It drew him onward, pulling him down deeper. He soon found their slow pace vexing and impatiently plowed ahead.

  "Slow down, Silas!" Oscar hissed behind him. He grabbed for Silas's hood, but the boy angrily swatted his hand away.

  Stroud stopped. Silas barreled past her, desperate to continue. He had to go farther. He needed to. It felt like he was missing an important part of himself, and he would recover it if he kept trudging downward. Stroud's hand shot out, her fingers clamping down on his wrist. He grunted and yanked forward, nearly dislocating his shoulder with the momentum.

  "Damn it, Silas, stop!" Stroud dug in her heels.

  Silas came to a halt begrudgingly. He spun and shoved Stroud hard, frantic to get away, to continue walking. She held firm, her fingers like a vise around his wrist. She studied him, lips parted, eyes sweeping him from head to toe. He panted like a caged beast, cold sweat speckling his brow, eyes darting back with restless longing.

  "What has gotten into you?" Stroud demanded. "Do you hear something? Voices?"

  Silas shook his head, his eyes wild. He tugged at his wrist, turning and pointing into the abyss.

  Let me go! He screamed the words into his mind.

  

  Stroud gasped, her head snapping aside as if struck. Her fingers relaxed. Silas pulled free and ran ahead as fast as his legs could carry him. He lost himself, allowing the pressure in his head to control his limbs.

  The next thing Silas knew, he was standing in a cavern. He couldn't recall how he'd gotten there. He no longer carried his lantern—he must have lost it somewhere along the way. The others were milling about, the glow of their lanterns the only light. Silas looked for Stroud and Oscar, but they were nowhere to be seen. He glanced up, gaping at the stalactites that dripped from the ceiling. Pipes as thick as a boiler roped along the ceiling and disappeared into the wall of the cavern. If he listened closely, Silas could hear water pumping through them. He felt claustrophobic, like he had found himself in the mouth of a monstrous beast. The pressure in his head had lessened; he no longer felt the pit's downward pull.

  "This is the first layer," Harlowe's voice echoed. The word "layer" bounced along the walls, repeating several times. When the echo quieted, Harlowe asked, "Remind me again how far you all intend to go?"

  "That depends," Sorne replied, "on whether he finds it first, or it finds him."

  Stroud and Oscar finally entered the cavern. Their breathing was ragged, like they were out of breath from running. Oscar held Silas's lantern loosely. The others turned to watch their arrival.

  "What is that supposed to mean?" Harlowe asked impatiently. "Why are you really here?"

  "Silas, a word," Stroud wheezed between heaving breaths.

  He stared at her dumbly, his mouth falling open.

  "Now," she enunciated, the word slamming into Silas like a hammer.

  Silas scurried over to her and Oscar, stealing a peek over his shoulder. The Archarbiter was conversing with Harlowe privately, standing a few paces from the others. Sorne looked relaxed, comfortable. Harlowe stood like a statue, his back muscles bulging with tension. Silas turned back to confront Stroud and Oscar.

  "What happened back there?" Stroud growled, barely above a whisper. "Why did you run off like that?"

  Silas wrapped his hands around his head and squeezed, trying to pantomime the pressure he felt.

  Stroud shook her head. "I don't understand, Silas."

  "Does your head hurt?" tried Oscar. Silas shook his head no. Oscar handed Silas his lantern back. "You must have dropped this on your way down. I found it lying on the ground a while back."

  Silas took it gratefully, frowning at the crack spidering along the glass. Had he thrown it down? He had no recollection of doing such a thing. He tried signing but stopped, frustrated when he realized neither Stroud nor Oscar would understand him.

  "Here," Stroud said. She reached into her breast pocket, pulling out a stylus and a folded-up piece of parchment. "I figured this might come in handy."

  Silas took the writing implements greedily. He scooted over to the wall of the cave and wrote, his scrawl bumpy and misshapen from the rough surface. "I don't hear Voices, and I don't feel any pain. It is hard to describe, but there is this mounting pressure in my head. It's drawing me in, deeper into Coldspire."

  Stroud fiddled with her gloves, tugging at the extra material hanging from her fingers. "Is that why you hit me with… whatever that was?" She refused to meet Silas's gaze. "It kind of hurt, you know."

  Silas froze, remembering his desperate stand against Stroud as she barred him from running ahead. He hiccuped and stumbled back, hands to his mouth. Stroud finally looked at him. Her face sagged. She reached out as if to stop him, then caught herself, her fingers grasping empty air.

  Silas turned and ran, blinking hard to stop the tears that threatened to fall. He felt like he was slowly losing control of himself. How much further did he have to fall before he hurt someone? Before he killed someone? The image of the dead Unspoken at 47 Brimthorne Lane surfaced in his mind. He slammed into something strong and sturdy. His balance failed, and he tottered backward. He landed on his rear, his breath forced from his lungs. He looked up to see Sorne towering over him. The pressure in his head suddenly returned full-force. Silas inhaled deeply, his eyes glazing over. He crawled unsteadily to his feet. He swayed there for a moment. His head ticked side to side like a metronome. Suddenly, it snapped back up. Silas turned in the direction of the pull. He put one foot forward, then the other—his body jerking awkwardly like a puppet on strings. Sorne watched this with rapt fascination.

  Silas was aware of what he was doing, but was unable to stop. He strained against the pull, trembling with the effort, to no avail. Eventually he gave in and succumbed, his mind a prisoner in his own body. He stumbled past the other Arbiters. They gaped at him in bafflement, their heads turning to watch as he lumbered past. Silas was soon plunged into darkness, the lantern light not reaching this far into the cavern.

  "What's he doing?"

  Silas heard Harlowe's voice echo from far away. The bargemaster must not have moved from where he had been standing. Silas could not turn his head to confirm if his hypothesis was true.

  "Great question," came Sorne's voice. "Let's follow him and find out."