Still Finch of Serth

The wind howled across the ridge, carrying the scents of salt and smoke. The hum of a world that never stopped moving. Below, Finch sprawled against the coast, its expanse bleeding into the horizon where sky met sea.

Leon stood motionless, eyes trailing the city's arteries—the thick metal and concrete walls that rose like a fortress, the crisscrossing veins of docks, and the towering ships anchored like mountains on water.

A storm loomed far beyond the waves, its edges faint, but the city itself was unmoved. Finch was built for storms. As a city directly facing the seas, it was forged in the cold crucible of Kaelar's fury.

Even from here, the distant clang of machinery and the rhythmic calls of traders reached them. Nyssa shifted beside him, uneasy.

Leon said nothing. He simply observed.

Soot, coiled loosely around his arm, lifted its head slightly, tongue flicking against the breeze. A faint, almost inaudible hum escaped the grey serpent—its reaction to the saturation of altered Laws in the air.

The gates were reinforced iron, not just to keep people out, but to protect the city from what lay beyond. The world outside Finch was wild—riddled with storms, shifting coasts, and creatures bound by chaotic Laws. But within these walls, Order reigned.

Even the air felt different.

Amalgams moved along the outskirts, massive figures molded from flesh and metal, bound by Arbiters to serve the city's endless labor.

Some carried crates the size of wagons, their arms reinforced with carved sigils that pulsed with controlled power. Others hauled entire sections of ships, guided by a team of workers shouting commands. The presence of Law manipulation was not an anomaly here—it was the very foundation of Finch.

At the heart of it all was the Navy.

Even from the ridge, Leon could see the central tower rising above the docks, a stark silhouette against the sky.

Flags bearing Serth's insignia rippled in the wind, marking it as a command post. Ships beneath it were not mere merchant vessels—they were warships, their hulls layered with ironwood, their figureheads etched with enchantments.

'It dwarfs even the Institute.' Leon silently marveled at the stationary behemoth.

Nyssa inhaled sharply, pulling him from his thoughts.

"…We should go," she muttered.

Leon glanced at her. She had been silent for most of their trek, but now her expression was drawn, her dark eyes flicking toward Finch's entrance.

Something told him that she was worrying over someone.

*

Nyssa had been thinking about her since the day she was kidnapped.

She had heard nothing since she fled. She did not know if her mother was imprisoned, executed, or simply waiting for judgment. And that uncertainty gnawed at her.

But Finch was not a place to linger.

So she turned, beginning the descent. And he followed.

* * *

The road into Finch sloped downward, carved from stone, its edges worn by time and wind. The closer they came, the more the world expanded around them.

The walls loomed overhead—seamless iron reinforced by sigils that kept them firm against time and assault. The city gates were open, but only just, with lines of travelers and traders passing through under the scrutiny of armed guards.

They wore Serth's colors, but among them were others—Oran officers in their mostly black coats, their presence unmistakable.

The Navy did not need to bark orders. Their authority was woven into the air itself.

Leon's gaze flicked to the weapons they carried—steel bound with embedded Laws, humming with contained force. These were not the desperate defenders of inland towns. These were men and women forged by the sea, hardened by constant war against its tempests.

Nyssa's shoulders tightened.

Leon barely reacted.

They moved through the entrance without a word. Even as Nyssa lowered her gaze, even as she flinched at the sight of a soldier pausing nearby, Leon walked as if unseen. His presence never caught, never lingered.

He didn't activate his Will. But his past uses of the Will, and experience with death gave him insights. Insights into the unknown.

He was emulating its effects through sheer bodily movement—or lack thereof.

Nyssa had to focus on his existence. Of her memories of Leon to not lose him among the crowd.

And before she knew it—they were inside.

* * *

Finch breathed.

The streets pulsed with movement, layered with sound—the clang of iron on wood, the low hum of Amalgams shifting under weight, the endless murmur of trade. The scent of salt and oil mixed with the sharper bite of something metallic, something unnatural.

This was a city that had grown without pause, layering itself upon old foundations. Buildings rose in stacked levels, bridges arching between them, each structure reinforced by a blend of steel and storm-hardened wood. Pulleys and chains stretched across streets, carrying crates between warehouses without the need for ground passage.

Leon thought it was strange. 'Why do they build towers and tall buildings? The bridges as well.'

He has doubts. 'They won't last long inland, much less before the ocean.'

But he found the answer almost immediately.

Artifacts lined the walkways—stone markers embedded with faintly glowing sigils, their presence suppressing the effects of the Laws that ran rampant beyond the city's walls. Without them, the very air would shift unpredictably.

And that could not be their primary feature. 'Such intricate work. It's these that prevent the winds from leveling the city.'

His cloudy eyes dimmed, and he looked at his hands.

'Bend.' He commanded the winds, waving his hand stiffly.

Nothing happened.

He looked at the works of Crafters once again, lamenting.

Nyssa did not stop to marvel. But Leon did.

Soot shifted on his arm, its small form coiling slightly tighter. The snake did not like this place. Not out of fear, but of something else.

Leon watched its tongue flick rapidly. "You sense something?" he muttered.

Soot's body tensed—just for a moment—then settled.

Leon exhaled through his nose. A presence beyond his senses. A weight in the air that not even the sigils could completely suppress.

Elves? Enlightened? It seemed to Leon that not even he could match Soot's senses.

'Elves…' He had encountered whispers of them before. Of people who lived on the Skyspires of Avarin.

A slight grimace found its way on his face. 'I can't remember.'

The details of how he came to know about their existences—weren't there. 'I never forget.'

His hands tightened into fists. Nyssa grew tense at his strange reaction. 'At first, he acted like it was his first time here…' She noted.

'But now—has he recalled a bad memory?'

Leon calmed down, and just thought about the elves and what he remembered.

The elves come from beyond Fenros, and some have found their way to the wild mountains of Avarin.

Nyssa whispered, "How old are you, if you do not mind my asking?"

It brought Leon out of his thoughts, now walking.

He hesitated to answer the question.

"Six." He lied.

She blinked, stepping quickly to match his pace. 'I see.' Her eyes lingered on him for a few seconds.

Leon kept his eyes on the integrity of Finch, the dock-city of Serth.

'I won't be able to leave like this.'

The further they moved into the city, the more apparent the tension grew. Guards patrolled in increased numbers. Checkpoints had been set up at key intersections. People spoke in hushed tones when soldiers passed, and certain alleyways seemed abandoned, despite the city's usual density.

They were searching.

Leon knew it before they reached the docks.

And Nyssa must have realized it too, because her steps faltered.

She tugged at his sleeve. "They're looking for something."

Leon didn't answer.

Because he had already seen it. His soft eyes seemed as if they could look past the world.

At the main pier, past the cranes and loading bays, a woman stood speaking to a group of officers.

She was not Navy—her coat lacked their insignia—but she held authority all the same.

'Persona.' Leon guessed. Her presence was more pronounced than Hallen's.

Her voice was calm, but sharp. "Any Tipun arrivals?"

A dockworker hesitated. "Few traders."

"And a girl?"

Nyssa stiffened.

Leon did not wait. He turned, guiding them back into the maze of pathways before the conversation could continue.

* * *

When they finally stopped, they were in the shadow of an old warehouse, its exterior worn by salt and time.

Nyssa leaned against the wall, catching her breath. "They're looking for me."

Leon nodded.

Her fingers curled. "They must already have my mother, yes?"

Leon didn't reply.

Because he had nothing to offer.

But now, at least, he understood.

Soot remained still. Watching.

No ship would depart soon—not unless Tipun and Fenros either commence war, or make peace—a possibility Leon disregarded.

He glanced at the nervous Nyssa.

She leaned against the wall, catching her breath.

Leon stood before her. "Tipun is deciding whether to condemn your mother," He said plainly.

Leon already concluded that Tipun needed a scapegoat. Malrik had betrayed his people, and now their chances of migration are slim.

Silence stretched between them.

Nyssa's hands clenched. "I cannot leave their questions unanswered, can I? Fath–" she stopped herself.

Inhaling, she continued. "That man must have died. So I will inform them, that he was forced to by a native."

It was false. Malrik was not forced, he went with it.

She scowled as she slid into a sitting position. She knew that they won't believe her.

Her fellow tribesmen were searching for her, assuming that she was in hiding. Had they known that Nyssa was taken hostage, they would have approached Fenros differently.

Resolving herself, she sat erect, head raised as her black eyes were glued on Leon's.

A passing breeze blew past their faces, and she asked—her voice hushed in shame—"Will you help me?"

Once again, she sat in that position. At first cross legged, and then raised one knee, clutching it with both hands.

Leon regarded her in silence, he looked at the pier. 'The invasion, the growing tension. Is Serth unable to control this?'

And in the quiet, Leon made his decision.