Chapter V -Shores of Asphalt
The island they reached was unlike any they had known.The sand was gone — buried beneath a black, unyielding crust. The air vibrated with a constant hum, a deep mechanical pulse that made even silence feel artificial. Everywhere they turned, the ground hissed, the walls muttered, and strange boxes on wheels roared like caged beasts set loose between narrow stone rivers.
Tempest squinted through the haze, her expression tight. “Is this… a village?” she asked, though the word felt too small for what surrounded them.
Azazel didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the skyline — towers of glass and metal that clawed upward, vanishing into smog. The people below moved in rigid lines, not unlike soldiers, but their faces were hollow. They hurried across the black ridges of the streets, holding glowing stones in their palms and speaking into them as if trapped inside private prayers.
Alai clutched Tempest’s hand, her small eyes wide. The child had barely spoken since the river crossing, and now her gaze darted from one passerby to the next — as if the endless tide of faces were more frightening than the war they had left behind.
The smell was unbearable — oil, smoke, and something that might once have been food. They passed an open restaurant, if the word still fit, its walls made of glass so that diners could be watched as they performed their rituals of consumption. Inside, people laughed — sharp, brittle sounds that echoed like clinking metal. They tore at bright-colored meals, sipping fizzing liquids while, just outside the door, a boy with a dirty face and sunken eyes sat watching, unmoving.
No one noticed him.
“This place…” Tempest murmured. “It’s like everyone’s pretending not to see each other.”
Azazel’s reply came slow, distracted. “Maybe they don’t know how to anymore.”
They kept walking. No direction, no purpose — just the ache of motion. The noise became their companion, drowning thought, dulling their anger but never soothing it.
It was then that Azazel began to see the pattern.
The sameness. The way every person wore the same colorless garments, like a uniform of apathy. The way they moved — rehearsed, mechanical — as if all were following some silent choreography. It felt like wandering through a masquerade where everyone had forgotten the reason for the dance.
But beyond the symmetry of streets and machines, something broke the rhythm.
From an alley choked with debris and graffiti, came the sound of laughter — real laughter, deep and unrestrained. Light flickered there, not from machines but from fire.
Azazel turned toward it.
In the heart of the ruins, a small group of people spun bright chains of flame — poi, twirling arcs of color that painted the soot-black walls in streaks of gold and crimson. The dancers’ clothes were torn, their faces smeared with soot and joy alike. Around them, others clapped and played makeshift drums made from discarded metal. The music was raw and alive, breaking through the dull hum of the city like a heartbeat.
Tempest watched, almost smiling. “They don’t belong here,” she said quietly.
“Maybe,” Azazel replied, his eyes narrowing. “Or maybe this place forgot it belonged to them.”
The wind carried the smell of smoke and oil and something else — freedom, fleeting and fragile.
And for the first time since they had come ashore, Azazel felt something stir within his chest that wasn’t anger.
The hum of the city receded as they walked deeper into the maze of broken streets. The towers of glass and steel gave way to hollow shells of buildings—walls scorched, windows boarded, and the black asphalt fractured like an old scar. Here, the noise was different. Louder. Harsher. Fear walked the Asphalt freely. Roaring beast careened down the Asphalt, with men who were frowns and adorned shields on their brest controlling them.
Alai had fallen asleep not long after they entered this part of the city, her small frame rising and falling gently against Azazel’s back. Every now and then, her hand twitched in dream. He carried her carefully, one arm looped beneath her legs.
Tempest’s eyes caught the dancing lights first—the flicker of orange and gold threading through the dark. “Over there,” she said, pointing toward the glow.
Azazel followed her gaze and frowned. “No. Too exposed.”
“They’re just dancers,” she said. “We’ve seen worse than fire.”
He hesitated. “We’ve also seen what happens when you trust strangers.”
Tempest turned to him, her voice soft but carrying the weight of exhaustion. “I haven’t had a good dance in ages, Azazel. Let me breathe a little before the next fight finds us.”
She didn’t wait for permission. Her feet carried her toward the sound of drums.
The clearing opened like a wound between the ruins—half-collapsed walls framing a small circle of firelight. Three figures moved within it, their bodies alive with rhythm. Their clothes were a startling contrast to the world outside: flowing fabrics dyed in colors that the city itself seemed to have forgotten—sunset orange, ocean teal, a deep plum that shimmered whenever the firelight touched it. Their garments clung and drifted all at once, exposing arms and legs to the open air, as if their bodies were reclaiming the right to feel sunlight and wind.
When Tempest stepped into the light, the dancers froze mid-motion. The drums faltered.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Their faces—one man, two women—were taut with fear. The man’s hand hovered protectively near a metal rod, while one of the women took a cautious step back, eyes darting to Azazel’s strange, smoldering presence at the edge of the fire.
Azazel shifted slightly, just enough for the glow of his eyes to meet theirs. That was enough—their tension snapped taut. The air felt brittle with distrust.
Tempest raised both hands, palms open, smiling faintly. “Easy,” she said. “I came to dance, not to burn.”
Her tone disarmed them more than any magic could. Slowly, she stepped closer to the flames and began to move.
At first, her motions were small—testing, teasing the rhythm. But soon the wind began to follow her. It wrapped around her ankles and wrists, catching the edges of her tattered cloak and turning it into a living current. Her movements became the storm she carried—grace woven through defiance. The fire bent toward her, drawn as if to an old friend.
The three dancers watched in awe. Then, one by one, they joined in. The drums picked up again—uneven at first, then steady. Their feet struck the earth in time with hers, their colors and movements bleeding together into something wild and free.
Azazel watched from the shadows, half-hidden behind the glow. He hadn’t seen Tempest like this before—unguarded, laughing under the breath of her own storm.
When the song ended, one of the women—a short, copper-skinned dancer with streaks of blue paint across her cheeks—laughed breathlessly. “No oinker could move like that,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow.
The others laughed too, but the tension in their eyes hadn’t fully gone.
Azazel tilted his head. “Oinker?”
The dancer grinned, though her smile carried a hint of bitterness. “City folk. The ones who live fat off the system’s while we get its scraps. You’ll see them everywhere up there.” She nodded toward the high towers that loomed over the ruins like watchful idols. “They don’t come down here. Not unless they’re up to no good."
The team