The Mall

"You know, I was wondering what that Leonardo boy is doing now," Aymara mused, her thoughts drifting from their discussion about new doll models and action figures of her favorite hero, Miss Artrix.

The products glittered in nearby shop windows, a sharp contrast to the grim reality Aether was facing.

Xaltal's brow furrowed slightly. "That short-looking fellow?" he asked, thoughtful. Then, after a moment, recognition dawned. "Ah, yes. I remember. He was kind... even Marquis."

Aymara's expression soured. "Yeah, but he called me weird," she huffed. Her hand rose unconsciously, fingers brushing the corner of her eye.

"He apologized, didn't he?" Xaltal asked gently.

"Yes, but it still hurt," Aymara admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned to him, vulnerability in her eyes. "Are my eyes really that big?"

Xaltal was quick to reassure her. "They're not! Actually, they're smaller than mine."

Aymara giggled, the tension easing. "No way! Yours are slanted like..." She made an exaggerated face, tugging at the corners of her eyes.

Their laughter was abruptly cut short by the sight of an imposing figure moving through the crowd. A man with long, flowing white hair and armor that shimmered with an otherworldly light stood out like a beacon amidst the mall's bustle.

"That guy is tall," Aymara whispered, eyes wide with awe. "He looks like a dragon, with that armor and hair!"

Xaltal's hand gently landed on her shoulder. His voice lowered. "He is a dragon. Your dad has files on people like him. Being top of the pyramid has its advantages..." His grip tightened slightly. "Don't engage—especially not him."

As if sensing their gaze, the dragon-man—Altan—turned to look at them. His eyes met theirs.

"He's looking at us," Aymara breathed, tugging at Xaltal's black cloth.

"I know. Move that way," he instructed calmly. His hand reached for the chained cross at his neck. Pressing it to his lips, he murmured, "Have mercy on me, a sinner."

With a firm hand on his sword's hilt, Xaltal guided Aymara into a nearby store. The weight of the weapon offered some comfort—a reminder of his readiness to protect.

Behind them, the mall buzzed on, unaware of the undercurrents of danger. And somewhere in the crowd...

"Hmm, I have more things to do," Altan said quietly, resuming his walk.

Inside the store, the air was thick with the scent of old wood and fading roses. The dim light gave the space a warm, nostalgic feel. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with dolls, trinkets, and figurines. Some were dusty, others gleamed as if just polished. The narrow aisles twisted into a minor labyrinth of delicate items.

Behind the counter, a TV perched on a high shelf flickered quietly. A news broadcast covered the latest crisis in the Beacon District. The clerk, a woman in her late twenties with cropped hair and tired eyes, watched with detached interest.

"Ever since the—" a man on-screen struggled to speak. A reporter shoved a microphone toward him. He paused, fear in his eyes. The camera zoomed in on the sweat beading his bald head.

The man wiped his brow with a handkerchief. His voice trembled. "Yeah... it's been tough since no one's protecting anyone anymore..."

His breathing grew heavy, chest rising and falling under invisible weight. He glanced nervously around, eyes darting between the reporter and the towering structures behind her.

"As you can see," he continued, gesturing vaguely, "we're basically a soft ground for the people coming down from the Sky District... that's why we have so many lighthouses and beacons."

The camera panned to show the towering lighthouses—far smaller than the Stem, but impressive nonetheless. Their beams cut through rolling clouds. The sky was a swirling mess of dark grays, giving the district a suffocating, storm-like atmosphere.

"Breathing's harder nowadays," the man muttered, staring upward. "Or maybe I'm just getting old."

The reporter pressed on, desperation in her eyes. "Do you have anything to say to the other districts—or your president?"

The man's face twisted in frustration. He hesitated. Unlike the Sage, who would execute dissenters instantly, the president allowed vague freedom of speech. But that didn't mean there weren't consequences.

"Yeah... I'd tell anyone: run away from Deacon," he said, then added under his breath, "And tell Ganjur to s%#k my ass."

The feed cut abruptly to a lighthouse's beam stretching skyward, streaks of stars trailing behind like fleeing spirits.

"To summarize," the reporter resumed, "a revolution brews in Deacon. President Ganjur focuses more on upper districts than his own people. A new slogan circulates among citizens: 'Be a Sky Man, so leave Beacon.' It essentially calls for—"

The TV flickered off. Silence settled, broken only by the low hum of the lights.

"Stupid people," muttered the clerk, shaking her head. She turned toward them, voice lifting. "Oh! Welcome, welcome to Doll Imports from Clouds!"

The sign outside, crooked and weathered, bore the same name.

"We're a new store," she continued, forcing a smile, fingers twitching nervously. "But we uphold the highest standard of—"

"What's the most expensive?" Xaltal cut in, voice sharp.

He didn't look at her. His gaze stayed fixed on the mall through the window. Behind him, Aymara zipped from shelf to shelf, wide-eyed with excitement.

Each shelf held rows of dolls—some clothed in fine silk, others in simpler fabric. The expensive ones sat high up in glass cases, their embroidery and lifelike features unmistakable. Ornate dolls rested in drawers along the bottom, which Aymara eagerly explored.

"Eeee! There's so many!" she squealed. She dashed from aisle to aisle, eyes gleaming. "I can't pick!"

Xaltal sighed. "Take your time," he muttered, his eyes still scanning the crowd. Altan was gone.

The clerk, trying to make conversation, asked, "So... are you her father?"

"I'm not," Xaltal replied flatly. "I'm her guide."

His voice was cold. The maille beneath his cloak shimmered slightly, and his stance—rigid and watchful—made it clear he was more than a babysitter.

The clerk's throat went dry. "Oh. Guide. Right," she murmured, as if unsure what that truly meant. She reached for the TV remote and turned it back on.

More footage from Deacon District filled the screen. Xaltal watched, arms crossed.

The desk the clerk leaned on was cluttered with receipts and paperwork, the television buzzing above it. The scene showed a crumbling building, graffiti-covered and partially collapsed. Smoke drifted through the air.

"The situation in Deacon continues to worsen," the reporter said. "The president remains silent. Reports of violence are increasing. Gangs have begun to rise, filling the power vacuum."

Footage of masked protestors played, their signs reading Deacon for Deacons and No More Sky Tyranny. Shouts echoed over distant explosions. Armed figures moved through the haze.

"We urge all who can to flee Deacon," the reporter said. "The lighthouses, once symbols of hope, now stand as markers of neglect. The president's obsession with the upper districts leaves the people below betrayed."

Xaltal's jaw tightened. The room felt heavier. The clerk glanced at him, nervous.

"Is it really that bad?" she whispered.

"It is," Xaltal muttered.

For some reason, despite his cold exterior, he felt something stir—something like sympathy—for the Deacons.

That useless so-called president.

After a minute of searching, Aymara found her doll, and she exited with Xaltal.